30 Day Movie Challenge - Day 4: Favorite Drama

Again, another toss up, particularly if you're talking about things with great rewatchability.

 Jesus, how do you pick from such great and wonderful films made over history? However, I have to confess my personal tastes tend toward hybrid movies. Still, do I choose from

Ace in the Hole

The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford

The Friends of Eddie Coyle

Thomas Edward Seymour's moving indie Everything Movies Alone

John Sayles' mystery/drama Lone Star

Sam Peckinpah's Straw Dogs

 Peter Medak directing Marat/Sade: (The Persecution and Assassination of Jean-Paul Marat As Performed by the Inmates of the Asylum of Charenton Under the Direction of The Marquis de Sade)

But I think it really comes down to John Huston's adaptation of Flannery O'Conner's Wise Blood

I seem to be very bad at this "One Favorite" thing.

30 Day Movie Challenge - Day 3: Favorite comedy

Day 3: Favorite comedy - Do I go with Bringing Up Baby (1938)? My mother's favorite movie, shown to me at a very young age: 

The Man With Two Brains (1983) - a movie I was probably too young to see when I did. Therefore, it delights me to this day.

The Bed Sitting Room (1969)? - which was high on my to-see list, but that I couldn't track down until three years ago. Practically every line of dialogue is a punchline.

 Or, most probably, His Girl Friday (1940). Which is still and hopefully will be one of the funniest scripts delivered by two master actors. This is the movie that infused all of my adult comedy writing.

30 Day Movie Challenge: Day 2: Least Favorite Film

This is an easy one. Loathsome egotist and suspected puppy-raper Frank Miller's vomitous cinematic-effluvia, The Spirit (2008) - Every frame of this film is a slap in the face to the character's creator, Will Eisner.

I've waxed ad nauseum about this creative holocaust Here (which was subsequently reprinted on Will Eisner's A Spirited Life blog Here). I'll not dignify this hate crime further with any trailer links.

30 Day Movie Challenge: Day 1 - Day 1: Favorite film

Because I apparently have a few more daily minutes to waste, I started the official 30 Day Movie Challenge over on Facebook. I almost didn’t take part until I realized that what the list was asking was not for your gut reactions, but for film addicts to really think about their choices.

At least, that’s how I choose to interpret it, anyway.

So yesterday, the questions began with: Day 1: Favorite Film.

Which is silly. How can you choose one favorite film out of over 100 years of movies. I need to list at least three.

Tied For First Place In My All-Time Favorites:

Raiders of the Lost Ark (1981, Stephen Spielberg)

Raiders of the Lost Ark, of course, was the highlight of the Summer of 1980. I already hero-worshiped Harrison Ford and Han Solo—what five-year-old didn’t, when Star Wars hit the screens in 1977? When Raiders was released, I saw it eight and a half times (that half-time was when my father stayed for the next show so we could watch the beginning again) in ten weeks. I lived and breathed Indiana Jones, dressed like him for Halloween, and experienced the first “uh oh” shudder of innocence lost when Temple of Doom followed it in 1984. Still, it’s a movie I cannot and will not turn off, when it pops up on television, commercials and all. It was the first Laserdisk I ever bought. So where the hell is our Blu-Ray? 

The Magnificent Seven (1960, John Sturges)

The Magnificent Seven was a staple in our house, in the years before cable. We’d gather as a family to watch it whenever it came on television, cut up, panned and scanned, didn’t matter. The first time I saw it letterboxed, many years later, on Laserdisk, I was happy to report that I finally understood why those four villagers were so afraid of Calvera and his six men, and why the Magnificent Never-On-Screen-All-At-The-Same-Time were hired for defense. I knew at a young age that I was watching something special. Not just a western, which I loved. Sure, it took me many, many years to appreciate Brad Dexter (or even pick him out of a line-up), but it turned me on as a kid to The Seven Samurai and the rest of Kurosawa’s oeuvre (I may have been the only second grader to have ever seen this landmark film, as a matter of fact!). 

Just for fun, here's the beautifully awful second trailer:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cnfvPbvWOYA

Miller’s Crossing (1990, Joel and Ethan Coen)

 Miller’s Crossing was my turning point, from film fan to film addict, first catching it at the Pittsburgh Playhouse during their repertory summer season, the year between my junior and senior year of high school. I lived in that cruddy theater, with its two carbon-stick projectors linked by an alarm to alert the projectionist. I had met up with my buddy John Bulevich to catch either Europa, Europa or Fantasia—regardless of memory-loss, I do know that whichever one it was had ended its run the day before. And Miller’s Crossing came as an unexpected delight. And while I had liked the Coen Brothers movies in the past (Blood Simple and Raising Arizona, so far), Miller’s Crossing came as a breakthrough because I understood it. I saw the Dashiell Hammet and Howard Hawks and John Huston influences. It was as if film history had revealed itself to me, through snappy dialogue and rich characters and, for the first time, I noticed direction. As well as editing, thanks to the wonderful tommy-gun scene with Albert Finney defending his life from would-be hit men. I knew I always wanted to write. With this movie alone, I understood that my life would be involved with movies, without question. 

There are a variety of reasons these three are in my top, my “Desert Island” movies, if you will. The first two I saw early enough in my life for them to make an indelible impact on my psyche, infusing my childhood, molding me into the man I am today.

CANNIBAL GIRLS (1973)

I guess I don’t have to tell you this but film fanatics have a mandate to find the most obscure movies they can. It’s like a genetic aberration, not dissimilar to those who haunt antique stores and garage sales. Everyone is looking for their own personal Holy Grail while at the same time keeping their eyes peeled for other gems along the way. For the hardboiled-to-the-core Master Film Geek, the search is for something even deeper: the Pure One. The one movie the Master is convinced only he has ever heard of. This is a delusion held in the very soul of every Film Geek since the beginning of Film Geekdom, whenever you’d like to place that all-important (or not-very-important) epochal genesis. Somewhere, there is a film so rare that even those who made it have not actually seen it. Such is the stuff that generates movie conventions and back-room autograph signings. Despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary—to be fair, this evidence has only become overwhelming after the invention of the internet—even the Master Uber Evil Overlord of Film Geekery is certain that he and he alone owns, on VHS or Bootleg DVD, the key to Geek Transcendence. The ONE MOVIE that no one has ever heard of.

For many delusional years, Cannibal Girls was my One Movie. Discovered by accident while working at Incredibly Strange Video, during the internet’s fledgling years, I was convinced that I had found the most obscure movie ever made. Since it was a bootleg, its existence was only made privy to the most elite of customers. It was marked with only its title and shelf number, and neither were that inticing. It had never once been rented. In our hastily-scrawled “catalog”, Bruce Lentz, the owner, had written only “weird comedy-horror film directed by Ivan Reitman and starring Eugene Levy” and “Deposit for Rental required.” Well, if that isn’t weapons-grade catnip for the film enthusiast, nothing is. The clear case seemed hermetically sealed, and when I opened it, long-imprisoned air puffed out. It was like opening a little plastic tomb. The plain black video tape. Offering wonders to be explored.

And, of course, after all that mystical bullshit buildup, the actual movie was a bit of a let down.

How could it not be? That’s precisely the reason that the morlocks on the internet stab out “best movie ever? I think NOT!” on listings for Citizen Kane. How could it be? It’s impossible for a mere film to live up to the hype, either borne by decades of praise or merely a few seconds of interior-monologue hyperbole. So back into the shelf it went, and into my memories the viewing was stuffed, tossed among the refuse of other movies I’d watched that day. Still, something about Cannibal Girls still struck me as special. Maybe it wasn’t all I’d built it up to be as I walked it from shelf to in-store VCR, but it was still obscure. Maybe deservedly so, some may argue. Even over the following internet-heavy years, there was still little to learn about Reitman’s embryonic career step. It certainly wasn’t available in any form officially. I had to be one in a mere number of those who had laid eyes upon it.

Until now, thanks to the saints over at Shout! Factory. Recently, they made available on Blu-Ray and DVD my One Movie, complete with extras and the film’s “original” soundtrack. The degraded 35mm image was scrubbed to sparkling. And now Cannibal Girls can finally be seen the way it was intended: by an audience.

Right out of film school, a larvae-stage Ivan Reitman, with his business partner Daniel Goldberg, decided to make a feature-length movie. He browbeat a local equipment warehouse into giving him any unused 35mm equipment, then struck a deal with the processing lab to come aboard as investors in exchange for his fees reduced by 50%. Finally, enlisting the help of many of his friends, in particular two theater-junkies named Eugene Levy and Andrea Martin—he felt sufficiently prepared to make a horror movie. You know, the most commercially-marketable genre around. At the time. In 1972.

Script? Who needs a script when you have talented improvers on your hands. All that was deemed necessary were scene outlines, get everyone from A to B without bumping in to anything. A-to-B in this case: in the quaint and quiet Canadian town of Farmhamville, a local legend has spread about a trio of nubile young lovelies (Anthea, Clarissa, and Leona) who enjoy nothing more than murdering—and then eating—passers-through and other strangers. First, they lure men into lustful security with their naked wiles, then they butcher their prey, devouring some, er, bits, raw and saving the rest to be cooked and served later. They all lived together in the town’s sole stately, comfy bed and breakfast. But since they’re not there any more, here are directions to the place.

All of this bloody exposition is delivered by Mrs. Wainwright (played by wealthy, upper-crust heir to the Jarvis Family fortune May Jarvis, who happened to own the film’s primary location) to young hippie couple, Gloria (Martin) and Clifford (Levy), whose car has unfortunately broken down and need a place to stay. Sent up to this stately bed and breakfast, the young couple meet their host, the suave and tuxedoed Rev. Alex St. John and his three wards, Anthea, Clarissa and Leona.

Of course, there would be no movie if the pair turned tail and caught the next bus, so instead they stay for the night, have a nice meat-based meal, attempt to get it on (if only Gloria would shut up), smoke cigarettes, and await their turn in the being-picked-off department. Because in the meantime, the three usually-naked lunatics are out sexing up and butchering local inhabitants, assisted by their standard-issue mute and inbred caretaker.

The Reverend’s thrall knows no borders, so of course the whole town, more or less, is in on it (six inhabitants, at least), including the local sheriff, who does his share of assisting in the slaughtering of man-flavored livestock.

After a very scary dream Gloria has of sacrificing a bound Cliff to some dark entity, she becomes much more clingy while Clifford grows distant. He doesn’t even take the time to sing her any ear-scraping awful folk songs on his guitar. All he cares about is devouring “steaks” at the various eateries.

Then, a twist occurs, then some circular logic, the possibility of a sequel and scene.

Okay, so… what? So Ivan Reitman, the guy who made Ghostbusters and Meatballs and a bunch of other awesome cornerstones of our childhood, went out and made the same movie that Ted V. Mikels, H.G. Lewis and lesser-knowns have been making for years. And then he turned around and sold it to Sam Arkoff, whose company AIP was infamous for this sort of film. The story and execution of Cannibals Girls was stale at the time and just got staler until it went past its own decomposition and found new life as the plot of countless micro-budgeted movies found on any nook and cranny website. And you just said that it wasn’t very good.

In my defense, I was not alone in that assessment. The first completed cut ran only 65 minutes, leading investors and even the principal filmmakers to say, “It’s too short and it’s not very good.” Opting for reshoots with less gore, Reitman and company begged and borrowed $5,000 and returned to Cannibal Girls and inserted the now-notorious “scissors mutilation” scene, the infamous “pick-axe” scene and the most wonderful “three naked girls eat a guy alive” scene. So there. Now we had that.

Okay, the joy of Cannibal Girls is not the movie itself. Those watching for the crystalline beginnings of Levy’s and Martin’s comic talents will only strain their eyes. Because much of the movie was adlibbed, the dialogue comes off as more natural but that doesn’t make what they’re saying interesting. The closest we get to funny is a daffy Gloria trying to get their car to start by talking nicely to it. And even for true Levy enthusiasts, you’ll be hard-pressed to even recognize him at the film’s start. Instead of Bobby Bittman, we get a Levy who looks more like one of Gilbert Shelton’s Fabulous Furry Freak Brothers (Phineas to be precise), with his face buried beneath a hippie afro, beard and thick glasses. While there is some comedy to be mined from that, it loses its novelty after about half an hour.  

Still, the gore is gory, the sets are nice and Canada is used to a decent purpose (though, while being a part of Canada that landed outside of Toronto, it still just looks like anyone’s backyard in the winter).

When Cannibal Girls was finally released to theaters, Arkoff added a gimmick in the “Warning Bell” (which sounds more like a “horror honk”) to warn viewers that a gore or nude scene is approaching, so one might avert one’s eyes. As dumb as this sounds on paper, it actually works to the movie’s advantage in that it creates suspense out of nothing. It turns a lull or a drag into actual anticipation. So this might have been a genius move on Sam’s part.

But you can overlook so much because of what the movie is. For many struggling independent filmmakers, Cannibal Girls is affirmation that you’re on the right track. No, of course the industry doesn’t work like this any more. You can’t just go out and shoot any piece of crap and hope that Sam Arkoff will rise from the dead and hand you an advance for $50K. What you can best hope for is that you go out and make a piece of crap and Lloyd Kaufman doesn’t punch you after you submit it to Troma.

This was a sell-it-quick movie made by amateurs with little expectation of the outcome. And the man behind it was the guy who made Ghostbusters. Starring two centerpieces from the magnificent SCTV. It’s “the little engine that could” scenario with the best possible outcome. The ultimate message to be gleaned from Cannibal Girls is not “a diet of human flesh will keep you young and beautiful if largely mute”, but “if as cool a director as Ivan Reitman can make a silly little trifle like this and then Ghostbusters and Stripes, and then have his silly little trifle become a highly-sought cult film, maybe there’s hope for the rest of us.”

As mentioned, Shout! Factory released two versions of this little gem, one on straight DVD and one to Blu-Ray (so far this is a Canadian release only) and the transfers on both are more gorgeous than they deserve to be and contain copious extras including an alternate soundtrack with that “warning bell”, which is the version most recommended to watch.

And if, in the end, this is no longer one of your Holy Grails, go back to your list. The thrill, after all, is the hunt.

UNCORKED (2011)

The phrase “tour de force” gets tossed around liberally in our word-obsessed culture…

Okay, it really isn’t. However, if it were, it would be most-appropriately applied to Phil Hall’s performance in the one-man short film “Uncorked”. At the risk of accusations of nepotism and/or ass-kissing, I’d like to heap great amounts of praise upon Film Threat’s own journalist/thespian, not for who he is but for what he achieves in this very funny little movie.

Hall’s character is the premise of “Uncorked”. An unseen and largely unobtrusive camera crew happens upon a chatty man sitting alone in a park, sipping from a bottle of cheap cognac and eager to talk to anyone willing to listen. His stream-of-consciousness monologue touches upon his relationship with his wife—opposed to his smoking, his drinking, the usual—his dream of achieving a career as either a gynecologist or a lounge pianist, his brief career as a “first story” burglar partnered with a dwarf and his disdain for his brother-in-law who claims to have been abducted by aliens. “These creatures come from millions of miles to get here and where do they go? Do they go to New York? Do they go to Rome? No—they go to King of Prussia, Pennsylvania. And they don’t even go to the mall there! And the first person they meet is my brother-in-law? Lemme tell you, I go to his house every year for the Fourth of July and I’m always disappointed. I can’t imagine how these creatures felt.”

Everyone, at some point in their lives, has met a person like the man Hall creates in “Uncorked”. Amiable and aimless, open-minded about some things, surprisingly bigoted about others, but above all eager to share his philosophies and observations and break up the tedium of the day. Hall’s portrayal of the unnamed protagonist is at once likable and disquieting, as a character like this would be, and at the same time both baffling and sympathetic. If you were to encounter this man in real life, you’d spend equal amounts of time, laughing, shaking your head in disbelief and checking your watch while trying to devise a graceful exit strategy.

Shot in crisp black and white for a mere $10 (the cost of the bottle of cognac) in more-or-less real time in Connecticut, filmmakers EM Schrader and Aaron Sandler hand the reins to Hall (who scripted the monologue beforehand). With Hall as the focus, the filmmakers only make their presence known in minor ways—passing the man a non-working lighter, allowing a boom to slip momentarily into frame. At its best, the camerawork becomes the perfect counterpart for the viewer when its attention wanders away to focus on a frolicking squirrel during the man’s rambling. It’s at its worst when it “participates” by nodding or shaking in response to inquiries. Fortunately, these latter missteps are utilized sparsely and only briefly. Because, wisely, they understand that this is Hall’s show from start to finish, and just as you would if encountering this character in real life, they almost have no choice but to just let him go.

Best of all, Schrader, Sandler and Hall know when enough is enough. “Uncorked” runs for just under 40 minutes. Any shorter and you might feel wanting for more of the oddball and, just as in real life, any longer and he’d have overstayed his welcome. As it is, “Uncorked” is a nearly perfect short.

BURIED (2010)

This may be a strange thing to say, but thank god for the creation of Two Guys, a Girl and a Pizza Place. Broadcast on ABC from 1998 to 2001 (retitled as the less-ponderous Two Guys and a Girl in the second season) seemingly run-of-the-mill sitcom was never a huge hit, but it was one of those in-offensive, young-white-and-mid-twenties best friends “making their way through the world” comedies that will dominate the airwaves until the cockroaches take over. It was pleasant and occasionally offered up out-loud laughter, but there wasn’t much to set it apart from the likes of Friends, Wings and whathaveyou. Today’s equivalent is likely How I Met Your Mother (which actually shares many of the same incidental traits with Two Guys and a Girl, what with both shows having indecisive architects in the forefront). What it had was a core cast of actors who had great chemistry together, playing people you more or less liked and rooted for, who took chances with their timing and characterization. Most importantly, Two Guys and a Girl introduced us to two hunky superheroes the world knows and loves today: Captain Malcolm Reynolds and our new Green Lantern, aka Nathan Fillion and Ryan Reynolds. At the time, neither of these two guys stood out particularly as “stars”, but their talent was obvious. And they were fun, self-effacing guys on and off screen (at least as far as Entertainment Tonight revealed), easy on the eyes and a big hit with the ladies. But even the biggest, diest-hardest fan of Two Guys and a Girl would have scoffed at the idea that one of these two could sustain an entire movie, all by themselves, for 90 minutes. And if scoffing hadn’t occurred, the smart money may have been on Fillion first, with Reynolds a distant second in the two-man race.

And yet, in 2010, after appealing turns in equally-disposable comedies like Van Wilder, The Proposal and a scene-stealing appearance in Wolverine (as fan-favorite “Merc with the Mouth” Deadpool), where tall, blonde wiseguy Reynolds proved beyond argument that he could hold his own against most competition, and, amazingly, could keep eyes glued to the screen all by himself in Buried.

Written by an under-the-radar screenwriter named Chris Sparling, produced by Peter Safran (a guy with as strange a resume as Bob Clark with such “classics”—but undeniable money-makers—as Scary Movie and Meet the Spartans under his belt) and directed by an award-winning but relatively unknown Spaniard named Rodrigo Cortés, Buried premiered in September, 2010, and starred Reynolds and Reynolds alone. His costars include various voices on a cell-phone, a pair of glow sticks and a very confused little snake, but for 90 minutes, it’s just “Berg” from Two Guys and a Girl. And not only does he hold our attention, he creates such sympathy for his character that we too, as the single organism known as “the audience”, are trapped right there with him, in a very small box, buried under the ground in very hostile land.

Reynolds plays a truck driver named Paul Conroy who takes a job with an American convoy to haul food and goods across Iraq. His employers are not affiliated with the military on either side and Paul has no particular political point of view. He just wants to earn enough money to provide a better life for his family. It may not have been the best of ideas, to state the obvious, but as he points out in an early phone conversation, with the economy “back home”, choices were few and hard to come by. But Paul’s convoy has been attacked and he wakes up in pitch black. After some panicked searching (which we hear but cannot view—no cheating on the part of Cortés), Paul finds his lighter and discovers himself bound hand and foot inside a crate that is only slightly larger than his own body. Sand trickling through the gaps in the slats tell him that he’s been buried alive. Then a cell phone rings. It’s not his—it’s been given to him by his abductors, who tell him that he’s being held for ransom. He argues; he’s not a soldier, he’s never done harm to the people who are holding him, but it doesn’t matter. He’s American. He’s being held responsible.

The first third of the film is intense panic as Paul dials frantically for anyone who can help him. His wife’s cell phone is off. His employers insist he call the “safety number” he was given, despite the fact that his abductors had taken it from his wallet. Finally, he reaches Dan Brenner with the State Department. The government won’t negotiate with terrorists, will not pay the demanded $5 million dollar ransom for him, cannot trace his cell phone but will still do “everything they can” to help him. Brenner insists that they’ve rescued people in similar situations, include a recent “win” with a man named Mark White. There is still hope—thin though it may be, but aside from the few things buried with him, hope is literally all that Paul has in that box with him.

The situation, the claustrophobia, the darkness, the brief fight with the snake that finds its way in through a hole in the crate—these are the things that make Buried a thriller. But it’s the underlying anger, frustration and general indifference towards Paul’s plight that makes Buried a horror film. If there’s ever been an argument in favor of the relentless masked killer, the gory thrill ride, it’s Buried. This movie’s story is a nightmare from start to finish, no matter what side of the political spectrum you take. Some viewers may argue that it’s liberal hysteria; others may find the unseen conservatives to blame. Regardless, at its core, we have Paul Conroy, average citizen, our everyman, caught between the stubborn ideology of multiple sides who created an unwinnable situation. If you’ve ever felt disgust or helplessness at the state of the world, this movie embodies it all.

In the classic scenario of “the ultimate bad day”, every call to or from the outside world worsens Paul’s situation. To avoid paying insurance money to his soon-to-be-widow, a bureaucrat from his company terminates his contract because of a loophole based on an untrue breach of protocol. Our country’s stance on non-negotiation reduces Paul Conroy to a statistic, a pawn in the game. To his abductors, the natives of the country who never asked for our “help”, use Paul as a scapegoat for the horror visited upon their people. There is no side of the nonsense left unargued and even all of the faceless voices are humanized, from the human resources guy (the familiar and officious Stephen Tobowlosky), to Robert Paterson’s Brenner, they’re all just people caught up in Paul’s horrifying day, told to do jobs they don’t want to do, forced to carry out orders with the worst possible consequences. In the case of the H.R. guy, he has to distance himself from Paul, has to make him the bad guy in the situation. Brenner wants to keep Paul’s hopes alive, but doesn’t wish to lie to him either. To others on the stateside end of Paul’s lifeline, all they can do to keep their sanity is to take umbrage with his panic-stricken tone.

In a conversation I had with one viewer, I was told that there could be no sympathy for Paul because he’s so unlikable. “All he does is yell at people—I wouldn’t want to help him.” And that’s the audience’s emotional dissonance. Paul’s situation doesn’t give him permission to “be an asshole”, as my conversationalist put it. And there’s the desensitization of our modern day society. A man buried alive is still expected to keep a polite tongue in his head. His panic isn’t our problem. A quick check of Netflix and IMDb posts backs up this theory. Paul isn’t “always” likable. Of course not—as portrayed by Reynolds, Paul Conroy is a fucking human being. Human beings aren’t always fucking likable.

But because he yells, loses his temper with a disinterested or bored secretary, some audience members can keep themselves out of that buried box, that very realistic hell. For horror fans, there’s no comic relief or cheesy effect providing a trap door out of the horror. This is something real that could happen to any of us, because of things we don’t understand, created by people who don’t particularly care about “the little guy”. Simplistic an attitude that may be, its what most political imbroglios boil down to: the bottom line of money, power and jingoistic ego.

Buried is a very angry movie. It’s not pro- or anti-Iraq or the United States. It’s not misanthropic—it’s holding us all responsible. If you want to make the argument that it’s one-sided because we have a white American as our protagonist, then you’re missing the point. We are human beings—we shouldn’t do these things to each other. We shouldn’t allow the innocent to suffer for political, economic or—let’s be honest—genital-centric means. All war is a pissing contest, and the wrong people are always caught in the splash zone. While it is disingenuous to think that a movie like Buried, with it’s hunky superhero front and center, could possibly solve any of the world’s problems, at least Cortés and Sparling decided that they had something to say that did not deserve to go unsaid. If you don’t feel for our fictional Paul Conroy on any level, for whatever reason, then you are somehow responsible for the deadening of human emotion. If for one moment you don’t feel like you’re inside that box, there’s a good chance you’re not part of society.