Matt Ogens, "Confessions of a Superhero" (2007).

Last night I felt the need to kick back by myself and absorb a movie. I used to do that all the time, and the habit resulted in multiple posts with reviews. Lately I haven't made the time to see films by myself, and it was refreshing to have the opportunity to do so. I could have wasted ten or fifteen minutes agonizing over what title to pick. I certainly have a large stockpile of shrink-wrapped and unwatched DVDs waiting for me. But for some reason, I knew ahead of time that I wanted to see a documentary that I recently acquired called Confessions of a Superhero. It was produced by Morgan Spurlock (of Supersize Me fame) and directed by newcomer Matt Ogens. I had heard from others that it was well worth watching.

Ogens somehow became fascinated by the costumed characters that pose for photographs with tourists in front of Mann's Chinese Theater in Hollywood. These folks aren't affiliated with the business attached to the sidewalk they haunt, and in some ways they are really just glorified pan-handlers. Supposedly there are up to 70 different people donning tights, capes and whatnot to hustle dollars from the rubes. There is a Ghost Rider, a dude from Hellraiser, an Elmo, a Cookie Monster, a Chewbacca, a couple of Marilyn Monroes, and a handful of Spidermen. Certainly the assortment of masked freaks changes with the times, depending upon whatever pop culture items are currently in vogue.

But the director of Confessions wisely concentrated on four individuals who apparently had the most intriguing personal stories. We meet Jennifer Wenger (Wonder Woman), Maxwell Allen (Batman), Joe McQueen (The Incredible Hulk), and Christopher Dennis (Superman). It's easy to identify Dennis right off the bat as the informal leader and unofficial representative of the profession. His obsession with the caped hero seems to overwhelm almost every other aspect of his life. Footage of the small apartment he shares with his wife discloses an environment chock-a-bloc with collectibles and memorabilia, all devoted to the worship of the man from Kal-El. And yet somehow that's not even the weirdest part of his personal story.

One might expect anyone that dresses up in costume in order to bum money from strangers to be eccentric, and the folks that Ogens highlights are certainly not exceptions. The girl that plays Wonder Woman was reportedly Ms. Popularity back in high school, and she is probably the most normal of the bunch. I assume she was chosen to add a sexy element to the proceedings. McQueen also seems fairly sane, despite the fact that he spent a number of years as a homeless man, and his decision to appropriate an identity that entails wearing a suffocating body suit in a climate that often exceeds 100 degrees Fahrenheit. The George Clooney lookalike that plays Batman, on the other hand, is completely off his gourd.

If you don't feel at least a little bit sorry for these posers, then I suspect that you aren't fully human. Without exception, they have all landed in their silly outfits in order to "make it" in the Hollywood film industry. It doesn't seem like any wild stretch to predict that they will all inevitably fail in this quest. Yet somehow they have found a means to stay in the public eye, and engage the world of entertainment that they love. Is what these people do any more ridiculous or pathetic then dressing up in a mouse costume in Disney World? Yes, they depend on the largess of passersby to make their living... but at least they work for themselves and control their own destinies. And they all get to appear in this beautifully-shot flick.

Dan Klores and Fisher Stevens, "Crazy Love" (2007).

I finally got to sit down and watch a movie the other night. The roller coaster of national events has kept my head spinning for weeks. The level of engagement of the US citizenry is as about as intense as I've ever seen it. Instead of talking about the latest celebrity scandal, or the victim of some heinous crime, people actually seem to be concerned with the world outside of their circumscribed circles. I've not often been described as someone drawn to looking at the bright side, but there it is. Anyway, I knew it was time for some concentrated leisure, and that didn't involve sitting down in front of the computer. So I scanned the many titles of my DVD shelf looking for a suitably entertaining diversion.

Crazy Love (2007) is nothing like it sounds. It's not a charming little indie starring Jennifer Aniston. Nor is it a blockbuster with Robin Williams. Instead it's the story of Burt Pugach, a New York City "ambulance-chaser" who had a very successful law firm and owned a nightclub. It's also the tale of how he spotted a woman named Linda Riss, and immediately fell in love with her. Burt had to have her, and set out immediately to court her with roses and dinner. Riss was a lovely girl with a cynicism influenced by family loss and a healthy skepticism of men. Still, she was captivated by Pugach's success and seeming charm. If only he would have been as pretty as her, it might have been a match "made in heaven".

It's true that Burt Pugach was far from being a "hunk". He was inordinately thin, weak-chinned, and kind of goofy looking. But as the old man said- "beauty is in the eye of the beholder", and often one's vision is clouded by great wealth and lavish generosity. It certainly helped that Pugach owned his own plane, and knew many stars. Bottom line, Burt Pugach was completely devoted to Linda Riss. This presented a problem, as he was already married. When Linda found out that he was betrothed, it seemed to make sense. Why would a prosperous man like him still be single? Linda decided that she couldn't continue to see Burt, as long as he had a wife. Pugach responded by promising to get a divorce.

One of the enduring powers that women hold over men is their right of refusal. Although Linda definitely liked boys, she wasn't the easy sort. She refused to put out until marriage. This drove Pugach up a wall, and he started to imagine that his beloved was straying. He badgered her until she offered to take him to a doctor that would verify her virginity. He accepted, and soon found out that he had been wrong. He redoubled his efforts to keep her, promising that his divorce was in motion. Meanwhile, Linda was starting to believe that her suitor was insane. She went on vacation to Florida with a girlfriend and fell in love with a stud. When she came back, Pugach became completely unhinged. If he couldn't have her, he didn't want anyone else to.

As Linda's relationship with her new man developed, Burt intensified his efforts to get her back. He realized that he was losing the game when he was informed of Linda's engagement. Some jealous men simply stew, and others take action. Burt Pugach hired some men to show up at Linda's house and throw lye in her face. As a result, she was hospitalized and permanently blinded. The sordid story of the disbarred attorney who had disfigured his ex-girlfriend hit the media with a big splash. Burt was put on trial, convicted, and imprisoned. This should have been the end of the road for the romantic possibilities between Linda and Burt. But it wasn't. What happened next should justify your search for the DVD... I'm not telling.

Matt Reeves, "Cloverfield" (2008).

For the last year or so I've been pining for the release of an intelligent and atmospheric horror movie. That type of product is rarely forthcoming from the American film industry. Hollywood producers seem mostly concerned with establishing a commercially successful franchise that they can ride for several films, building on name recognition and familiarity. Alternatively their product is so chock-full of big budget special effects that there is very little room left for compelling characters or an interesting storyline. Much has been made out of the supposed return to the 70's approach to horror filmmaking. I simply don't see it. Hungry viewers still need to look abroad for quality movies in this genre.

Of course one can always hope. I still scan the Onion A/V Club and Amazon for the latest releases in the theater and on DVD. I'll still pick up a title that shows promise, especially if I need one last movie to get that special deal on previewed discs at Blockbuster or Hollywood Video. I try to pay special attention to what appear to be "indie-films", although marketers have gotten better at exploiting the promise of a "diamond-in-the-rough". Flicks like The Blair Witch Project and Session 9 seemed to pop up out of nowhere, and it seems inevitable that a similar work of art will eventually be made. Generally the less hype associated with a film, the more likely I am to consider watching it. I have high standards.

When Cloverfield was released earlier this year, my interest was piqued. It got a fair amount of positive reviews from the sources I trust. It had a no-name cast and was created by a first-time feature director. Somehow (either because it genuinely was "below-the-radar" or due to the fact that I'm not tuned in to mainstream media) I really didn't know what Cloverfield was supposed to be about. Truthfully, that contributed to my enjoyment of the film. If you haven't yet seen it and think that you might- perhaps you should stop reading now. While the mystery is revealed early enough, it does add something to the experience and the anticipation helps you get through the rather annoying party scenes at the beginning.

Part of the difficulty with a story revolving around the unexplained appearance of a horrendous monster is the distraction that the thing entails. If some monumental creature is attacking NYC, it's going to be awfully difficult for the characters to compete with it. So it's a bit naïve of the director to truly believe he can make the audience care about the players. Still he gamely attempts to bring their personalities and relationships into focus. It's too bad really, because by the time that Reeves introduces his elements of destruction, I'd already come to hate most of the actors. The interactions between them is just too pro forma. This is not a film that works at the level of the individual.

Having said that, Cloverfield does have its entertaining moments. It's main asset is its setting. Manhattan does a yeoman's job of engaging the audience. Obviously the filmmakers have exploited the feelings and memories arising from "the day everything changed". I don't know how 9-11 survivors have reacted to the doomsday scenario of this flick, but I was captivated by the mayhem caused by the monster. It's pretty easy to relate to the panic that ensues when people start feeling trapped on the island. And Cloverfield is kept to a very reasonable 84 minutes (with more than ten of those devoted to the credits). That left its creators free from the onerous tasks of explaining how and why everything happened the way it did. Many thanks are due the editors.

John Ewing III, "Life After Death" (2007).

It's rare that I'll take the chance on a DVD without reading a single consumer review beforehand. But there was something about the packaging of Life After Death that inspired me to overlook the complete absence of critical attention. It didn't hurt that I was able to buy a copy of it from an Amazon independent seller for about $5 + shipping and handling. I probably wouldn't have chosen to order it alone, but since I was basically indulging myself in a mass purchase, I figured I'd assume the minimal risk. Now after watching it, I can't say that I'm overwhelmingly satisfied. While it wouldn't be entirely correct that it was a waste of time, I will admit to being misled into believing it would be something that it wasn't.

Basically what John Ewing III delivered with this movie is a series of interviews with black men and women who have spent significant time in the nation's prison system. Before I get into the content, I feel it necessary to comment on its form. This is one of the most poorly produced documentaries I have ever seen. It appears that very little money was wasted on things like sound mastering or professional editing. The former is especially problematic since many of the interviews are delivered in a garbled, heavily slang-inflected manner. If you are used to the cadences of urban inner-city accents, then you may have an easier time with this. Even so, the volume levels vary wildly throughout the film.

As far as editing is concerned, what we have here is a series of full frontal segments with former prisoners. All throughout there is an undercurrent of gangster rap that can be subtly distracting. To top it off, some of the footage is simply repeated or interjected in a seemingly random fashion. At other points interviewees are cut off in mid-sentence, or seem to be responding to questions that are only barely audible or consistent with the delivered answers. In between clips, we get to see shots of anonymous prison interiors, with no hint of where they were taken or who took them. I suppose they were included to provide the proper Mise-en-scène. At any rate they are only partially effective.

Yet all this criticism is tempered by the authenticity of Life After Death. Many of the stories related by the ex-cons are both compelling and effective. For the most part the inquiries made elicit frank and descriptive talk of life inside our penal institutions. Much of it will probably come as no surprise to students of the subject. But for those with only minimal exposure to information about our nation's prisons, this should be an enlightening viewing experience. Obviously the viewer should keep in mind that the participants are capable of exaggeration. This indeed is endemic among the incarcerated population. However I'd be shocked if the spirit of their accounts wasn't true, especially given the nature of some of their admissions.

Ultimately I'm not sorry I ordered this. There are multiple opportunities for folks to view or read objective accounts by so-called "experts" presenting outsider views of prison life. On the other hand, it's relatively rare to encounter unvarnished commentary by those who have 'walked the walk'. Even firsthand memoirs are often delivered by non-traditional inmates, who are blessed with ample skills of articulation. The men and women in Life After Death seem generally representative of the African-American population currently housed in federal and state prisons. They are a cross-section of people caught up in a depersonalized and controversial system. I'm glad someone made a document of their voices.

Why I Had to Watch "Blades of Glory", and Will Look Upon My Friends' Recommendations as Forever Suspect From Now On.

So my birthday was last week, and I met up with a couple of friends* a few days later. They are well aware of my disdain for Hollywood comedies, and they continue to insist that I'm missing out by not giving in to the charms of their favorites. I meanwhile remain steadfastly committed to avoid wasting my time. But my pals are insidious and manipulative. Knowing that I'd be obligated to watch if they slipped it in with the original art they blessed me with, they included a copy of Blades of Glory in my gift bag. I was honestly crestfallen and immediately resigned to viewing this dreck. And I promised that I'd review the thing on my blog. Well, here it is folks. I can only hope that by giving in I have finally earned the right not to be subjected to this crap in the future.

There was trouble right off the bat, as soon as I popped the DVD in. The previews were all CGI, explosions, and kiddie films. Nothing I'd ever be tempted to see. I understood immediately that the intended demographic was the group of regressed adults who would be excited by a live action version of Transformers, presented through the filters of Michael Bay. I'm talking about the type of audience that considers Shrek a multi-layered viewing experience. There was even a promo for a Will Ferrell mega-pack, the consumption of which looked akin to being subjected to waterboarding. Trailers are supposed to contain the funniest bits of the movies they promote, right? You'd think after making six (or so) flicks that Ferrell could cobble together three minutes of diverting highlights. But you'd be wrong.

The next red flag was the revelation that Blades of Glory was released under the MTV Films imprint. Uh-oh. And produced by Ben Stiller. It figures. Then within the first six minutes the viewer is assaulted with totally arbitrary product placements for Bud Lite and Skittles. There's the clichéd setup to launch the story- we get to see one half of the stellar comic duo (played by Jon Heder) as the golden haired effeminate orphan (named Jimmie MacElroy) being targeted for future stardom. That's the character development- a series of mildly amusing set pieces delivered in a few brief minutes. The filmmakers don't want to lose the audience with any depth. Then flash-forward to MacElroy's present success, and introduce the ridiculous black-and-white "conflict". We meet the hypermasculine Yang to Jimmnie's Ying- Chazz Michael Michaels, who's portrayed by Will Ferrell in his inimitably wry style. Oh yeah... and there's a Capri Sun ad at 14 minutes, just as we are bludgeoned with foreshadowing indicating that Heder and Farrell will eventually become a (gasp!) same-sex figure skating pair.

You might think that all of the crass marketing is merely incidental. After all, folks do consume the products that appear on screen. Maybe it's just a coincidence that the paid sponsors all have their products featured with their labels clearly centered and inescapable. When Ferrell breaks that bottle of Captain Morgan, it might be just a lucky break for the corporate powers that the glass shatters immediately above the clearly identifiable sticker. Yet later there's a scene with Jimmie working in a sporting goods store, and throughout the run of it not a single brand name is shown. Not one. Apparently those companies didn't pay to play. When was the last time you were at a sporting goods store? In case it's been awhile, I'll remind you that the manufacturers' logos are EVERYWHERE. Same goes when our heroes eat out at a fast food joint. I've never been at a single one that didn't have every wall plastered with ads. Maybe they have no sense of humor either.

Anyway, I'm not going to get into the merits of the story or the writing. I've already offended fans of this movie. There's everything I expected- juvenile surface humor and inane physical gags. I had a hard time seeing it through. But I have to say that I am more troubled than I expected to be after watching it. Perhaps there's nothing particularly devious about the encouragement of rampant consumerism. Still, movie-watchers are paying to see these feature length commercials. Make no mistake- in between the sophomoric jokes and the homoeroticism, Blades of Glory is pushing product.

While the easily amused are yucking it up, these messages enter their subconscious. Obviously they want you to buy their shit, just as the film's producers believe you will buy into their canned jokes. The state of laughter makes the viewer particularly open to suggestion. Nationwide, Trojan, XBox, Dunkin Donuts, Crest White Strips, Subway, Orbitz... these are paraded before our eyes throughout the movie, with no pretext of naturalism and very little appropriate relationship to the story. I guess I should just be thankful that I didn't laugh.


*Please note that I have chosen to protect the identities of those involved.

Chris Bradley and Kyle LaBrache "Pittsburgh" (2006).

Not many smaller cities get a film titled after them. It's mostly for that reason that I picked up Pittsburgh, starring Jeff Goldblum. Actually I needed a fourth DVD to qualify for the special, and I had mild interest in the film. I thought it would be a good opportunity to see an informed yet distant perspective of the 'Burgh. Ultimately it turned out to be about the lot of a professional actor who has "outgrown" his hometown, and decides on a lark to come back and make a summer stock production of The Music Man. While Goldblum had been casting about for an interesting project that would merge the documentary approach with fictional elements, the directorial voices (Bradley and LaBrache) are just as significant in the film's production.

For those not familiar with Goldblum's ties to Pittsburgh, it should be pointed out that he was born (1952) in West Homestead. His parents were Orthodox Jews who had an interest in show business. When Jeff turned 17 he split town and never really came back. He studied acting with Sanford Meisner at the Neighborhood Playhouse in NYC. His first roles were bit parts in movies as diverse as Death Wish, Nashville, The Sentinel, and Annie Hall. He seemed to peak creatively in David Cronenberg's 1986 re-make of The Fly. After that he attained financial success in inane blockbusters like Independence Day and Jurassic Park. Presumably his interests have recently returned to smaller idiosyncratic projects.

Pittsburgh gets going with Goldblum's decision, against the strident opposition of his agent, to play the starring role in the Pittsburgh CLO's production of The Music Man. It's fairly clear that his infatuation with a 23-year old Canadian dancer named Catherine Wreford is the impetus for this unconventional career move. Apparently she is having problems retaining her visa, and needs to either get married to Goldblum or find a job in-country. So they present themselves as a package deal to the CLO. What's particularly amusing is that the The Music Man's Pittsburgh producers seem to smell a rat almost immediately. They fear that Goldblum will flake out after committing to the project, and get distracted into some big budget film.

So Goldblum and Wreford actually have to audition for the gig. While Goldblum does indeed have musical talent and has some distant experience in musical theater, it turns out that he has to strenuously prepare for the job. It also seems he must bribe his way on board with the inclusion of his friends Ed Begley, Jr and Illeana Douglas. What originally started as a lark transforms itself into a bit of an ordeal. The play's director accuses Goldblum of being smarmy and over-acting, and even says he thought about shooting the actor to avert an impending failure. The biggest surprise is that all of this is really happening, and what is marketed as a "mockumentary" is really an lot more real than the joke it was intended to be.

Basically everyone in the film plays themselves. There are a couple entirely-contrived subplots including Begley's scheme to involve Goldblum in the marketing of portable solar generators, and a completely fictional (but hilarious) romance between Douglas and rock star Moby. But by and large the narrative traces Goldblum's realization that Pittsburgh musical theater is no joke. While the city itself takes a back seat to the main plot thread, there is a smattering of scenes featuring the Golden Triangle and the end credits depict a visit to Kennywood. However, in the end Pittsburgh is more concerned with portraying Goldblum's self-identity as a "serious actor". It has very little to do with the culture or character of this city.


Extra Special Trivia: The directors state on the commentary that Goldblum originally wanted to title this film Two Pickets to Tits-burgh, which is apparently the punchline to some joke.

Jeff Stimmel , "The Art of Failure: Chuck Connelly Not for Sale" (2008).

About a week ago a friend told me about an HBO documentary called The Art of Failure. The subject of the film is a Pittsburgh native named Chuck Connelly, who found success in the New York arts scene in the 80's alongside such names as Basquiat and Schnabel. Truthfully I despaired of having the opportunity to see it, since I don't have cable. Fortunately on my recent trip to Eastern PA my host had plenty of channels. Although I kept myself busy with other stuff, I did get an hour here and there to surf the tube. One night after returning from a long walk I plopped down on the sofa and started scanning the program guide. I was pleased by serendipity when I discovered that I would get a chance to watch The Art of Failure from the beginning.

Right from the start it was clear that Chuck Connelly was a bit unstable. He paced through the screen nervously, ranting and raving against his perceived enemies and the injustices of his life. He was shown haranguing a woman who I soon figured out was his ex-wife, and it was clear that being around Connelly must be a trial. He is the true manifestation of the artist as L'enfant terrible. He drinks incessantly, and becomes increasingly agitated until the point of violence. This isn't surprising as he is said to view himself as a Jackson Pollock-type, outside the realms of polite cultured society. Apparently he learned quite early that he would be allowed a certain amount of self-indulgence, given his profuse talent.

But evidently Connelly miscalculated the reception his act would generate. At one point he looked assured to attain the lofty ranks of art-stardom. He was represented by Annina Nosei, and courted by collectors and celebrities. He sold millions of dollars in paintings. Martin Scorcese even used him as his subject in his segment of New York Stories. According to the tale that director Jeff Stimmel spins, this tribute actually led to his downfall. After New York Stories (starring Nick Nolte as the infamously truculent artist) was released, Connelly was asked for his reaction to the film by The New York Post. He called the portrayal mundane and cliché, and made a rather unflattering comparison to Scorcese's masterpiece, Raging Bull.

While Connelly's remarks about New York Stories were obviously impolitic, this viewer found the premise that they singlehandedly sabotaged his career a bit implausible. Connelly had clearly built a track record of being recalcitrant. No matter how things were going for him, he seemed to have the belief that he deserved better. But there were other factors that may have kept him from being as prominent as he would have liked. It's clear that from the many examples of his paintings shown in The Art of Failure that his style was far from consistent. His subject matter and aesthetic approaches were all over the map. No doubt his talent was prodigious, but there doesn't seem to be any real cohesion that would tie his work together.

Nonetheless I would certainly love to get my hands on a few of his artworks. His expressionist brushwork lends an undeniable charm to the most challenging of subjects. One specific piece has a portrait of a particularly ugly Santa Claus overlaid with the word "Ho-mo". There are also post-apocalyptic cityscapes and a cavalcade of freaks. No doubt the exposure that The Art of Failure is likely to bring to Connelly will go some length in reviving his career. He has alienated a lot of people, but his most grievous sins are now buried in the past. The current media environment has a very short memory. Reportedly Connelly is achieving a measure of success now. Who says there are no second acts in the Twenty-First Century??

Sean Penn, "Into the Wild" (2007)

A few years ago I stumbled upon a copy of Jon Krakauer's Into the Wild (1996). It takes for its protagonist a young man named Chris McCandless, the son of a prosperous family who decides to take it on the road after his graduation from Emery College in Georgia. For one reason or another he has become disenchanted by his post-grad prospects, and turns down the opportunity to study law at a prestigious Ivy League College to live his life as a vagabond. He takes his impressive savings account and donates it to OXFAM, drives out to the desert, and abandons his car after being inundated by a flash flood. Then he burns the remainder of his money and sets off in search of "high adventure".

It's clear from Krakauer's account that McCandless was idealistic and often quite foolish. He embarked on a number of challenges in the wilderness without adequate preparation or knowledge, and met his ultimate fate in the Denali National Park. He failed to bring along with him the most basic essentials. He hitchhiked his way to the very edge of the wilderness with a ten pound bag of rice, a 22 rifle, and some rudimentary camping supplies. Unfortunately for him, he didn't have a map of the area he planned to camp in, nor did he have a compass. It was only by stroke of luck that he managed to find shelter in an abandoned transit bus that had served as a base camp for moose hunters.

McCandless' death was officially recorded as a result of starvation, but Krakauer wasn't quite convinced. The author speculated that the young man had poisoned himself by foraging a toxic plant that looked quite like an edible one. This was the main thing I remembered years after reading the book. It seemed like a tragic and unnecessary end. McCandless had planned to recross a river to hike out after a hundred days, but found his way obstructed by ice melt that had swollen the river. Little did he know that there was a makeshift tram a mere quarter mile away meant to assist the crossing. There were also a number of hunting cabins, some of which had been ransacked (possibly by McCandless).

Sean Penn's film adaptation of the story has much more to do with the romance and free-wheeling spirit of youth than the reality of events leading up to McCandless' demise. It's filled with wistful camera work focused on the natural beauty of the settings, and scored by an appropriately complimentary acoustic soundtrack performed by Eddie Vedder. Scenes from McCandless' last few weeks in Alaska are interwoven with vignettes from the remainder of his travels. Our hero (played competently by Emile Hirsch) hangs out with a hippie couple on the beach, nearly seduces a 16-year old girl, works in a grain silo, and befriends an old man (Hal Holbrook). These portions of the film are meant to convey McCandless' ambivalent feelings toward human relationships.

Your reaction to this tale (both book and film) is likely to be determined both by the roles you occupy, and the attitudes you carry toward life. If you are nostalgic regarding youth, you'll be touched by McCandless' innocence, and inspired by his rejection of the materialism and compromises so endemic in our society. If you are of a more cynical bent, you'll probably invoke the Darwin Awards and decide that McCandless got what he deserved. While Penn clearly leans toward the former interpretation, his approach doesn't completely preclude the latter opinion. Finally- if you are a parent... you'll definitely feel for the boy's family. No matter how inclined Penn might have been to lionize McCandless, he makes sure to underscore the grief that his father, mother and sister felt about his disappearance. That's an important core for this story.

John Huston, "Fat City" (1972).

Sometimes you watch a movie, and by the end of it you get the feeling that it was rather slight or insubstantial. But then you sit on it awhile after putting it aside somewhere deep in your subconscious, and it starts to resonate. This is particularly likely in the case of films that find their raison d'etre in conveying the mood of a particular environment. Perhaps the plot is circumstantial, and there are no memorable plot twists to occupy the front part of your brain. The actors seem to sleepwalk through the settings and there is no cue to indicate a sudden and startling revelation. Naturally such a film is an anomaly in our modern era of simplistic Hollywood blockbusters. The audience that once existed for such work has all but disappeared.

Such is the case with John Huston's Fat City, which is an obscure flick out of what was once the era of the "New Hollywood". It's interesting to note that this film was in accord with a lot of 70's-era American cinema that was being touted as revolutionary. Perhaps it has been overlooked because it represents an atypical creation from what had been a prototypical old-school studio director. This was not the work of one of the highly-touted Young Lions of the time, like Francis Ford Coppola, Martin Scorcese, Peter Bogdanovich or Billy Friedkin. This was output from an old master that everyone likely expected to fade into irrelevance. However, such assumptions turned out to be unfair.

The narrative of Fat City (loose as it is) concerns the budding relationship between Tully (Stacy Keach) and Ernie (Jeff Bridges). The former is a washed-up boxer that has fallen on hard times. Tully drifts from cold-water walk-up to seedy dive, dreaming of what he has lost and stumbling about trying to reconstitute himself. While making a half-hearted attempt to get back into fighting shape, he meets the youngster Ernie, and ends up playfully sparring with him. He sees a bit of his former promise in the young man and decides to take him up under his damaged wings. What this entails is passing the boy off to his former trainer Ruben (played sympathetically by Cheer's cast member Nicholas Colasanto).

The film proceeds at a desultory pace, as we see Tully fall into further dissolution and Ernie engage the tough world of low level pro boxing. The two threads remain largely disconnected, and Huston introduces a "love" interest for Tully, in the form of the alcoholic barfly Oma (played convincingly by Susan Tyrell). By this point the viewer figures out that every single endeavor pursued by these characters is destined to fail. While this is a depressing realization, it doesn't take away from the sneaky power of Huston's direction. At the time that Fat City was made, it was rare to have experienced such bleak blue collar realism in American film. Flicks like Barbet Schroeder's Barfly and Vincent Gallo's Buffalo 66 were still decades away.

It's easy to see why a modern filmmaker, discouraged by the sensationalism and big-budget gratuity so pervasive on today's movie screens, would feel drawn to the cinéma vérité of Fat City. It's the perfect antidote to Hollywood's candy-coated sensibilities. Huston apparently felt no need to idealize the settings and characters he wished to portray, and the results of this approach are all the more interesting for that fact. There are several moments in this tale that are mystifyingly opaque (an extended freeze frame at the end is the most glaring example), but rather than seeming like evasions or flaws, these choices provoke curiosity and wonder. That's an altogether rare phenomenon in today's media environment.

Satoshi Kon, "Paprika" (2006).

Despite my fascination with most pop culture phenomena, I have a record of snubbing anime. There is something about its predominant illustrative style that strikes me as perverse. It has something to do with the wide-eyed characters that marry a subtly Asian look with the stereotypical portrayal of a Western fashion model, and cross it with a pre-pubescent. These creations come off as simultaneously alien and ageless. I have a difficult time investing any amount of compassion or empathy in these creatures. Similarly I find the themes of most of the work inapproachable and vaguely unsettling. For the most part the stories are presented with a heavy dose of science fiction. That's a genre I know little about and have relatively little interest in.

So when I come across a promotion for an anime film (a term which is in fact technically redundant), I tend to discount it. I'm just not that excited to explore the art form. I expect to see heroes that are sexualized little girls being forced to fellate octopi. No thanks, I'll pass. I'm already inundated with ample perversion by my own culture. The last thing I need to see is the embodied id of a generally repressed people that have succumbed to the thrall of their own dark fantasies. I always picture a bunch of middle-aged Japanese men clad in T-shirts featuring videogame icons from the 80's, sitting around the table and dreaming up plot points during their breaks from whatever arcane role playing game has captivated their attentions.

And yet... I realize that I am giving in to my most stereotypical perceptions and biases. Perhaps I'm making the mistake of confusing all anime for hentai. After all, it's more of a "medium" than a genre. There's nothing inherently limiting in Japanese cartooning. It can be about anything. This realization gives me enough pause that I occasionally give in, and seek to learn what all the fuss is about. I've purchased Hayao Miyazaki's Spirited Away, and been captivated by it. Its like a wholly original Alice in Wonderland, without the not-so-subtle undercurrents of pedophilia. Additionally I bought Isao Takahata's Grave of the Fireflies on a whim, and am just waiting for the appropriate mood to watch what I have heard is an extremely depressing work of art.

My point is that once in awhile an anime breaks through to a wider consciousness and is recommended as being atypical (i.e. something that the novitiate can appreciate). Such is the case with Satoshi Kon's Paprika. Somehow the film struck a chord with Western art-house adherents. I bought it pre-viewed at Blockbuster, and popped it in last night. It's certainly a wild ride. Kon adapted it from a novel by "avant-garde" sci-fi author Yasutaka Tsutsui, who actually approached the director at a convention and requested his famous novel be adapted for the screen. Predictably, Paprika has many of the off-putting convolutions one might expect from such futuristic material. Yet there is more to it than that.

Tsutsui's work was fraught with intense dream imagery. It can be appreciated best by letting the plot assume the background. As Kon points out on the interviews included as extras on the DVD, he started with the visuals and attempted to work an entertaining plot around them. He succeeds completely in his endeavor. Apart from the meandering and vaguely comprehensible plot lines, Paprika is absolutely overwhelming. It has a look that avoids the aforementioned clichés that put me off the bulk of anime. The surreal fantasy elements are unencumbered by weird sexual overtones and mind-numbing action sequences. It doesn't rely on making sense to be entertaining. That's why it succeeds at the level of quality art. In this respect it is indescribable, so I'll merely recommend you give it a chance despite whatever assumptions you might have.

Peter Fonda, "The Hired Hand" (1971).

A few days ago I started reading Peter Biskind's Easy Riders, Raging Bulls: How the Sex-Drugs-And Rock 'N Roll Generation Saved Hollywood (1998), a book delivering all the salacious details of the American film industry in the 70's. With my enduring interest in film, you'd think that I might have already gotten around to this title. Finding it for a quarter last Sunday certainly helped pique my interest. Anyway, it's a great summertime read. It's light enough to be tremendously entertaining, but at the same time there is enough meat between the slices to keep me from feeling ashamed of the empty calories. I'll probably get around to posting a review whenever I finish.

If nothing else, Biskind's book has rekindled my desire to revisit my shelves, searching out the gems that cannot wait. I thought I had a lot of 70's classics, and perhaps I do- but there aren't many that I haven't watched yet. However, one flick that I've kept in the plastic for a couple of years already is Peter Fonda's The Hired Hand (1971). There is plenty of gossip about Fonda in Easy Riders, Raging Bulls, so it seemed particularly appropriate that I finally break the seal and watch it. Obviously Fonda is primarily known for his acting career, so I had no idea what to expect from his directorial foray into the Western genre. I suppose I imagined something completely over the top... like a postmodern, psychedelic trip through the desert.

To my surprise The Hired Hand is remarkably restrained. Regardless of how it must have seemed during its theatrical release, Fonda's movie demonstrates some reverence for the traditions of the American Western. It has a very simple plot. Fonda plays alongside frequent collaborator Warren Oates, riding across the beautifully-depicted landscape (photographed in stunning fashion by legendary cinematographer Vilmos Zsigmond) and getting into sketchily-drawn shenanigans that are largely beside the point. Fonda's character Harry is getting a bit road weary, and feeling an urge to reunite with the wife and daughter he abandoned seven years previously. Oates (Arch) plans to continue on his ride to the coast to get his very first glimpse at the ocean. But circumstances conspire to send both Harry and Arch back to the old homestead together.

Hannah Collings (Harry's wife, played by Verna Bloom) is predictably unsettled to see her phantom husband return after all of the intervening years. Her daughter is now sufficiently grown-up to be disturbed by the revelation that her Daddy is not dead, as she has been told since she was old enough to understand what that meant. Hannah has become hardened out of necessity, and the local townies pass up no chance to let Harry and Arch in on what she has had to do to survive. It's a bitter pill that Harry must swallow, but he'd be a pretty small man not to own his responsibility for those circumstances. He's decided he's sticking around. Meanwhile Arch is feeling the vibes from Hannah, and realizes that he must be on his way.

The film is ultimately about the conflict between a man's duty to his family and his competing desire to run with his friends. It pits filial against familial loyalty. Fonda has managed to convey this complex dynamic in a way that is at once minimalistic and (even) tender. In this respect he has strayed far beyond the traditional borders of what was typically a hyper-masculine milieu. While there is a hint of awareness of the secondary status of women in many Westerns, it is often reduced to a joke or a cliché. Given the prevailing attitudes of the 70's (and the presumptive influence of his pro-feminist sibling), I guess we shouldn't be too surprised that Fonda worked against the stereotypes. In the process he created a poetic document that transcended the genre, without the self-consciousness that might have distracted from its power.

Sidney Lumet, "Before the Devil Knows You're Dead" (2007).

Did you ever step back to consider why the idea of seeing a certain movie appeals to you while the thought of another leaves you cold? I would speculate that the most obvious determinative factor is the cast. Most people with an average interest in film see the name of an actor on the marquee, or nowadays more often in the promotional material, and decide whether or not to go to the theater, rent the flick on DVD, or wait for it on cable. Once folks develop a deeper interest in film they start paying attention to the directors. They find out who "made" the film and then look for other stuff by the same filmmaker. I tend to fall into that last category. Usually I gravitate to those directors with the most consistent and articulated aesthetic.

I can't think of many times that I've chosen to see something based upon the title. But Before the Devil Knows Your Dead caught my attention as soon as I heard of it. Likewise the presence of Phillip Seymour Hoffman intrigued me, as I've recognized his talent in the past (primarily in the films of P.T. Anderson). Those clues were sufficient for me to want to see it. As if to reinforce my interest, the Onion A/V gave it an intriguing review. There is no single source that I trust like that website. So I didn't even get to the point of noticing who directed BDKYD. Had I realized that the great filmmaker Sidney Lumet made the film, it would have simply made me even more anxious to track it down.

Lumet has made some absolute classics- 12 Angry Men (1957), The Pawnbroker (1964), The Anderson Tapes (1971), Dog Day Afternoon (1975), Network (1976), and The Verdict (1982). Yet somehow he's often overlooked when it comes time to discuss the best filmmakers of the second half of the 20th Century. Perhaps that's because he took so many chances and was so prolific (he made more than 50 films). He actually cut his teeth directing teleplays (over 200 of them in the nascent period of the medium), and through them developed a distinctive intimacy and social realism that came to characterize much of his film work. Remarkably he is still creating work in his 80's.

Before the Devil Knows Your Dead is a story in the tradition of neo-noir. Along with Hoffman it stars Lumet-veteran Albert Finney, Marisa Tomei, and Ethan Hawke. It concerns Andy and Hank (Hoffman and Hawke), two brothers who decide to make an end run around their financial troubles by ripping off their parents' suburban jewelry store. Predictably things go horribly wrong. When the plan falls apart, it is up to Andy (who instigated and plotted the entire affair) to clean up the mess. This is going to require a lot of improvisation and a fair amount of violence. There are deep complications that poison the relationships within the entire family, and the resultant emotions are as difficult to overcome as the situational difficulties.

Lumet has crafted a relentlessly bleak film. It is notable that there isn't a single likable character within the entire film. Hoffman is spectacular as a slimy real estate accountant who is steadily deteriorating, and Hawke plays against type as an exceptionally weaselly prat. As always Finney is a singular presence as their tormented father. The cast alone justifies a viewing of Before the Devil Knows You're Dead. The direction is gritty and professional, even if the dialog and plot sometimes veer toward melodrama. The disjointed narrative serves to keep the viewer engaged. While no one is likely to place this film among Lumet's classic canon, it manages to capture the nihilistic dread of our modern age. It is impressively relevant for a late career work.

David Fincher, "Zodiac" (2007).

There are some American film lovers that will insist that director David Fincher is an auteur. His hyper-stylized and frenzied movies have captivated the ADHD generation. He has made a handful of successful thrillers, including Se7en (1995), The Game (1997), Fight Club (1999), and Panic Room (1992). In the process he has amassed a huge and loyal fanbase. His early development prepared him well for the role he now fills in our cultural landscape. He started off working for George Lucas' Industrial Light and Magic. He then produced a commercial for the American Cancer Society that featured a fetus smoking a cigarette. This brought him to the attention of the film industry, and gave folks a hint of his developing aesthetic.

Fincher has also directed numerous music videos for Propaganda Films. Notable among his clients were George Michael, Billy Idol, Nine Inch Nails, Madonna, Michael Jackson, Aerosmith, and The Rolling Stones. This work proved that Fincher could display comfort and confidence while at the helm of a very large budget. He was subsequently tagged to make Aliens 3 (1992), a project he would later publicly disavow due to creative differences with 20th Century Fox. After this experience he went on to produce the aforementioned series of films, which propelled him into his current status. He is known to take on challenging stories, and commit to an unflinching depiction of oftentimes sordid material.

I've always viewed Fincher with skepticism. I've felt that he undermines his own promise with melodrama and elaborate special effects. While his films are usually good entertainment, there is always at least one 'groaner moment' which keeps the work from ascending to the level of art. With that perspective, I began watching Zodiac (his latest movie) with reservations. I had read some good reviews from sources I trust, but could not imagine being wholly satisfied with a Fincher picture. My preconceptions seemed to be confirmed in the first half hour of this serial killer flick. While we watch the tense lead-up to the first on-screen murder, we are suddenly subjected to the rising volume of period rock-and-roll. It really does feel as if Fincher has flash backed to his time with MTV.

Even if I did find a hint of crass exploitation in the soundtrack, I resolved to make it through the 157-minute running length of Zodiac. I was familiar with the story, having read Kelleher and Van Nuys' This is the Zodiac Speaking. I wanted to see just how much fealty Fincher would have to the historical source material. It didn't necessarily bode well that all of the killings were portrayed in the first hour of the film. I wondered what the director could have to fill the rest of the time. I was mildly pleased to see the story transform from a series of violent vignettes to a brooding study of growing obsession. The Zodiac case kept much of California on the edge of abject terror for almost half a decade. Fincher's approach seemed refreshing.

By the end of the movie I was ready to give Fincher some long withheld credit. Not only was he able to assemble a great cast of major and minor players (including Mark Ruffalo, Robert Downey, Jr., Jake Gyllenhall, Chloe Sevigny, Anthony Edwards, Elias Koteas, Adam Goldberg, Clea Duvall, and John Carroll Lynch), but he was able to include roles that gave them something to chew on. It was refreshing to see that Fincher could include characterization in his film-making toolbox. His trademark atmosphere was present without being overwhelming, and there were only a few moments of obvious excess. It makes me feel better about the rumor that he has agreed to adapt Charles Burns' excellent art comics series, Black Hole. That material is too good to see it marred by an immature sensibility.

Paul Bartel, "Private Parts" (1972).

This past Sunday night I got a chance to get together with a fellow 'new father' to watch a movie. I knew his older kid would be in bed by the time we got started, and so we were free to watch whatever twisted fare I brought over. I'd actually been carrying around a copy of Paul Bartel's Private Parts in my car for a few weeks, as I had originally intended to show it to some other friends. But I figured B. would appreciate it, given the fact that he is mostly living in 'kid world' nowadays. I watched him and his wife struggle to put together a double decker baby stroller, and helpfully attempted to keep my ideas about its assembly to myself. It had been received secondhand, so naturally there was no manual to use as guidance. In the end there were some crucial parts missing. I only mention this because of the shift in tone that would occur when we finally sat down to enjoy the movie.

Actor and director Paul Bartel should still be alive. He died relatively young at the age of 61. He was a theater arts student at UCLA, and got his 'big break' when Roger Corman's brother (Gene) hired him to direct the low budget Private Parts. Later on, the legendary producer Corman would use Bartel to direct Death Race 2000. Bartel's directorial career eventually encompassed ten feature films, including Naughty Nurse (1969), Cannonball! (1976), and Scenes from the Class Struggle of Beverly Hills (1989). He may be best known for making the black comedy cannibal classic, Eating Raoul (1982). But you could be forgiven for associating him with his acting work, which included parts in Corman favorites like Eat My Dust, Grand Theft Auto, Rock n' Roll High School, and Piranha. He even played Henry Geldzahler in Julian Schnabel's Basquiat.

Frankly I've only seen a handful of films that Bartel has been involved with. However, if Private Parts is an accurate representation of what can be expected from his projects, then I'll probably make an effort to check out more of them. First of all a disclaimer- with the amount of money that Bartel had to spend, there is no way that he could have hired professionally successful actors. The performances in Private Parts are hammy and wooden. They deliver often absurd lines in melodramatic tones. Yet somehow this works perfectly. Much like in a John Waters flick, overacting is completely appropriate here. In fact this particular movie wouldn't be nearly as weird or fun if it was delivered seriously. This isn't supposed to reflect ordinary life.

The premise of the story is pretty simple- a young runaway (Cheryl- played by Ayn Ruymen) gets in a fight with her roommate, and she makes her way to her Aunt Martha's rundown hotel. She convinces this middle-aged widow (Lucille Benson) to let her have a room until she gets back on her feet. Martha is not happy about the presence of a 'painted whore' within her domain, but apparently family obligations weigh heavily on her. She is very explicit that Cheryl not bother the other tenants, nor wander around the hotel on her own. We learn quickly just how bad an end the wayward traveler can face. Someone inside is completely willing to draw blood (literally and figuratively).

The characters in Private Parts are strange in a mostly unaffected way. They spout one-liners that are at once strange and scabrously funny. There is just enough attention paid to cinematography to ensure that the soon-to-be downtrodden hotel building provides an eerie and intriguing setting for the mysteries at its core. And there are no doubt things in this movie that you have never seen before, and probably haven't even imagined. I don't want to spill the beans about specific scenes... but rest assured that there are images here that will be impossible to cleanse from your mind. If you are a randy guy, then there is another compelling reason to watch- Ayn Ruymen is extraordinarily pleasing to watch. She appeared exclusively in television after this role, but not in anything that I would have made a point of seeing. We have Paul Bartel (an openly gay man) to thank for this visual record of her in her 'prime'.

Danial Johnston, and his movie.

I finally got the chance to watch The Devil and Daniel Johnston (2006), a documentary film directed by Jeff Feuerzeig. I had been intrigued by this story of a mentally ill man who wants to find fame as a singer-songwriter. In fact I'm generally interested in psychological portraits of artists who fight against convention to express themselves. Daniel Johnston fits that profile. He struggled with a bipolar disorder for decades. Still he believed that one day he would be famous, like his idol John Lennon. He used film, songs, and drawings to document his daily life. He recorded his raw, warbly, voice and simple guitar-playing on cassette tapes, and distributed them to everyone he met. Eventually people began to take notice. Musicians like Thurston Moore, Steve Shelley, Tom Waits, David Bowie, Yo La Tengo, Beck, and The Flaming Lips became fans of his work.

Daniel Johnston grew up in the northern panhandle of West Virginia. He was the youngest of four children born to a pair of Christian Fundamentalist parents. From the very start his parents realized that he was different. He had a hard time controlling his impulses, and he liked to spend all of his time in the basement playing a rickety piano and creating line drawings. Sometimes he would enlist his brother's aid in making home movies. But he mostly kept to himself, articulating his dreams. Upon graduating high school he briefly attended Abilene Christian University, and later transferred to a branch of Kent State University in Ohio. It was during those years that his bipolar disorder began to manifest itself in serious ways.

While at Kent State, Johnston met what would turn out to be "the love of his life". Although they never even established a romantic relationship, the troubled young man became entirely obsessed with a girl named Laurie Allen. Through the years he would write hundreds of songs about her, claiming that she was his one and only muse. At the same time he was having a lot of difficulty living with his parents, and his siblings in Texas eventually invited him to live with them. It was upon his move to Austin that things began to develop for him. Johnston worked at McDonald's and in his off-hours began to establish himself as a bit of a local celebrity. His big break happened when MTV came to town, and he managed to worm his way into their programming.

As his exposure grew, and his music began to make its way into the hands of musicians and recording industry professionals, Johnston's behavior became increasingly erratic. He began to take LSD. His hallucinogenic drug use combined destructively with his millenarian biblical views to produce severe delusions. He began to act out in strange and maladaptive ways. His condition deteriorated until he ultimately tried to bring down a plane in which his father was attempting to fly him home. Although both Johnston and his father survived the crash landing, this stunt landed Daniel in a mental institution. Incredibly, he had become such a legend in the music underground that major record labels were offering him lucrative contracts while he was under commitment.

The Devil and Daniel Johnston brings us up-to-date with its subject's life. Johnston lives in Texas with his aging parents, in a home adjacent to their own. Although he seems relatively stable (thanks to a comprehensive regimen of modern medication), he is in need of support and care. He still records and performs music, and is assisted on the business end by his father. Tastes are different from the 90's, and there isn't such an appetite for quirky and raw fragility in the guise of indie pop-folk. While Johnston still has his following, he increasingly becomes a novelty act. I'm convinced that people go out to see him for his legend, rather than his actual creative output. He's even gotten his drawings into the Whitney Biennial, which pretty much guarantees that he is past his artistic zenith. But he is still a curiosity, and for those that are unfamiliar with him, the documentary is quite amusing.

Nimród Antal, "Kontroll" (2003).

Sometimes I will choose to watch a film simply because its setting appeals to me in some way. Session 9 is an excellent example of this- for those not familiar, it's a movie that takes place almost entirely in an abandoned and deteriorating mental asylum. In that flick the building itself is like a character. There's an inescapable oppression at its core. I don't know exactly why urban ruins appeal to me, but I'll often seek them out whenever I get the opportunity. In a strangely similar way underground environments have always interested me. Whether its a cave system, the sub-basement of a large building, or any sort of tunnel- it makes me curious. I guess it's because there is a suggestion of hidden activities and unique conditions in the dark recesses of such environments. The idea of another world beneath our feet is stimulating.

When I first read about the Hungarian film Kontroll (directed by Nimród Antal), I knew I wanted to see it. It was created against the backdrop of the subway system in Budapest, Hungary. It's the second oldest underground Metro system in the entire world, and construction on its very first line began in 1894. Amazingly it only took 2 years to complete it. While it was a remarkable feat of engineering during the time it was built, it is now an operating historical landmark. One of its distinctive features is the presence of roving pass controllers. Their job is to verify that all riders have passes. Although they may be stationed at the bottom of various escalators, they often turn up in unexpected places to surprise the unwary.

Kontroll is based on the activities of a team of these controllers. The ticket inspectors under the supervision of Bulcsú (Sándor Csányi) are a motley bunch. There is the grizzled veteran, the enthusiastic novitiate, the narcoleptic and temperamental giant, and the slimy cynic. Together they monitor their assigned daily section and play off each others' practical jokes. They also engage in a less-than-friendly rivalry with another team of controllers. Like in any other workplace, the subway workers establish alliances, discover ways to passively protest their conditions, and feud with those they "serve". Apparently the inspectors are resented for their petty authority and certain riders go out of their way to make their jobs more difficult.

Much of the enjoyment of Kontroll is to be found in exploring the culture of the underground. It's such a surreal place of employment that it can carry a large burden in the struggle to maintain viewer interest. What would tempt people to work in such place? You'd have to be a quirky character to spend a third of your life beneath the city. The interaction between these workers is often humorous and otherwise engaging. The dark comedy of the film offsets the creepy ambiance of the tunnels themselves. It's a bit of a shame that Antal felt a need to introduce conventional action elements into the tale. Certain plot threads seem contrived and out-of-place in what could have otherwise been an effective slice-of-life sociological study (in this respect it reminded me of Art School Confidential). But I suppose this type of forced drama served to hook a less sophisticated audience that will likely ensure a cult status for Kontroll.

The other directorial misstep lies in the soundtrack. At times the heavy techno-industrial music served to heighten the tension. Yet at other moments it seemed overdone. Using too much of that sort of thing makes a movie seem like an MTV promo spot from the 80's. That kind of choice can seem hip at the time of production, but it causes the movie to age poorly. There's also a subtle undercurrent of political commentary regarding life under an authoritarian regime. Fortunately none of that needs to be understood to enjoy Kontroll. Ultimately much of this film works. It's got the pace and editing of a "popcorn flick", and its context is unique enough to hold the viewer's attention. I wouldn't be surprised to find this director lured to Hollywood with promises of a big budget and American stars.

Val Lewton's "Ghost Ship" (1943, d. Mark Robson)

After watching 8/9ths of the Val Lewton box set, I am struck by the realization that the famous producer was making films that went far beyond the ordinary scope of the horror genre. Bedlam was a slice of history, Isle of the Dead had more to do with politics, and his other works all have strains of social commentary interweaving through their plots. Certainly there are elements of suspense and frightful situations in all of Lewton's productions, but the extent to which they are resistant to categorization is striking. There are even some observers who have likened Lewton's style to classic noir, although this is more likely attributable to budget constraints and photographic techniques than anything else.

The Ghost Ship (directed by Lewton favorite, Mark Robson) is an oddity among a string of exceptions that the noted producer delivered to the under-financed RKO studios. It concerns a developing conflict between an experienced ship captain (Richard Dix) and his novice third officer (Russell Wade) while on an overseas commercial voyage. The initial meeting between the seamen is propitious, and it appears that Will Stone (Dix) and Tom Merriam (Wade) are going to get along famously. The eager protege is anxious to profit from the experience and wisdom of his seemingly distinguished elder. Stone tells his young charge that they will have plenty of time to speak with each other during the long journey ahead.

It only takes a few days on board for questions to arise about the management style of Captain Stone. When things go wrong with an unsecured piece of hardware, and lives are unnecessarily put at risk, Officer Merriam begins to question his superior's judgment. He tentatively approaches the Captain, and is convinced that the incident was engineered in order to transmit an important lesson. Having worked his way through the initial doubt, Merriam's respect for Stone is redoubled. He resolves to observe the actions of the Captain closely, with the hopes that he will learn more than he would by merely reacting to events as they occur. Unfortunately, his mind is further troubled by what appears to be the intentional killing of a crew member.

Following a brief period of troubled introspection, Merriam decides to report his concerns to the ultimate authority- a senior agent of the shipping company that he works for. To his chagrin, he discovers that the agent and his Captain are old friends. He then makes the hard choice to quit his position altogether. Still it proves impossible for Merriam to fully extricate himself from the situation, as unlikely circumstances intercede to reverse his escape. Once again on board the ship, he is assured by Captain Stone that the earlier events will not be held against him. Of course this promise is later proven false. Things escalate quickly, and Merriam finds himself completely alone without friends, and stuck on the high seas with a man who clearly wants to exact his revenge.

The conversations between Stone and Merriam throughout The Ghost Ship illuminate two very different understandings of what it means to be an "authority". The Captain clearly believes that his relationship to his crew is that of an absolutely powerful patriarch. Since he is responsible for their lives, he feels the right to dictate the terms of their existences- even to the extent of willful termination. He is immovable in his faith that they will always act upon his orders without questioning him. It's clear that his mental heath has become imperiled during his long career at sea. So he involves Merriam in an experiment that will test the validity of his beliefs. It's clear that the filmmakers are making a crucial point involving both individuality and power. In this respect, The Ghost Ship is as message-oriented as any other Lewton movie. But it still retains enough mystery to qualify as riveting entertainment.

David Cronenberg, "Eastern Promises" (2007).

I'll freely admit to being an almost obsessive fan of film. When I first bought my digital camera, I did so because I couldn't afford the developing technology of digital video. I fully intended to eventually buy a video camera and start making my own little movies. But I figured that in the meantime I could learn about lighting and composition by taking still images. Well... I've gotten a bit sidetracked with exhibiting photos, yet I would like to think that one day I will follow through on my original plan. Until then I'm going to continue my habit of seeking out the best films on DVD, and appreciating them at home and at my leisure.

Many of my friends are aware of just how much energy I put into selecting what I watch. Fairly often they will ask me for recommendations. Once in awhile someone will ask me about my favorite director(s). While there are a bunch of filmmakers I respect, there are very few that I will consistently trust to make quality work every time they attempt it. I guess it's just so easy to fall into the trap of striving for mainstream Hollywood success. There have been many directors whose work I respected that ended up selling out and making flicks that appeal to the lowest common denominator. So when I assess my absolute favorites, I try to decide whose films I would plan to see regardless of the content, and without prejudice. One of the few names that comes to mind immediately is David Cronenberg.

I first became aware of Cronenberg as an auteur when the Carnegie Museum of Art had a retrospective of his films. I saw The Fly (1986) , Naked Lunch (1991), Videodrome (1983), Dead Ringers (1988), and The Dead Zone (1983) during that series. I was absolutely hooked, and since then I have watched almost everything he has ever released. In my experience there is very little in his oeuvre that isn't challenging, fascinating and memorable. Even titles that weren't entirely successful (like eXistenZ-1999, and Scanners-1981) held my interest. So I have made a commitment to continue seeing his work until I am fundamentally disappointed with something. I thought that maybe History of Violence (2005) might be the movie that failed to meet my expectations. But despite the fact that Cronenberg's usual themes were largely absent (there was no body modification, intense mental illness, and/or darkly surreal settings), I still found it wholly entertaining.

Given his amazing track record, I resolved to watch Eastern Promises (Cronenberg's latest film) despite the fact that it was said to be his most mainstream and "accessible" effort yet. Why should I let film snobbery rob me of a potentially entertaining viewing experience? Indeed EP is as close to a straightforward crime thriller as Cronenberg is likely to deliver. And that isn't a genre that I am particularly interested in. Still there is just enough in the look of the film to distinguish it as special. The grittiness in the environments I am used to seeing in Cronenberg films is present. There are certainly a couple of "Cronenberg-esque" segments of unflinchingly brutal violence. Finally, the performances by Naomi Watts, Vincent Cassel, Armin Mueller-Stahl and Viggo Mortensen are excellent. As usual Cronenberg brings us into a fascinating underground subculture that we are lucky in our ordinary lives never to be exposed to. In this case it's the Russian Mafia in London.

Watts plays a midwife who finds a diary on the person of a young mother who has just died. She has the document translated and is pulled into a criminal world that is distinguished by savagery and exploitation. Mortensen portrays a cold and calculating mobster who is strenuously seeking acceptance into the upper ranks of a human trafficking operation. His body is covered with tattoos that tell the history of his wrongdoings. Apparently Russian prisoners receive these markings while incarcerated in order to distinguish themselves in circles of thieves. They communicate where an individual has done time, as well as his status and resume. Mortensen himself traveled to Russia to visit his character's "birthplace", and research this phenomena in order to present an authenticity in his role.

Eastern Promises moves along at a brisk pace, but manages to convey enough characterization with subtle hints that allow us to care for the plights of the characters. With its approximately 90-minute running time, the story is briskly told and easily maintains one's attention. What makes it stand out most amongst Cronenberg's other films (along with its accessibility) is its remarkably hopeful undertones. Despite the darkness implicit in the subject matter, there is a lot of humanity in Eastern Promises. While some of the director's disciples may resent the absence of the relentlessly bleak mood he has become known for, Cronenberg is sure to expand his fan-base with this movie. That can't be all bad, can it? I guess it depends on what comes next.

Val Lewton's "Bedlam" (d. Mark Robson-1946)

I'm slowly working my way through the Val Lewton box set I bought in December. Of course nowadays it's become a lot more difficult to get through a feature length movie. Baby E. is still completely unpredictable in his sleeping patterns. But once in awhile I can outlast him, and reclaim my lair downstairs when he goes up to bed. Last night I decided to watch Bedlam (1946), which was directed by Mark Robson and starred Boris Karloff, Anna Lee, and Billy House. It's a period piece about the infamous British insane asylum, set in 1761. Perhaps you have seen William Hogarth's etchings of interior scenes taken straight from the historical Bedlam? From all accounts it seems like it was an extremely horrific place.

Technically the madhouse was named the Bethlem Royal Hospital, and was built in London in 1247 to be used as a priory. It became a hospital in 1330, but it wasn't until 1403 that it first admitted mentally ill patients. Conditions inside were notoriously poor. Although there were less than 30 sick inhabitants at any one time (for the first few hundred years), it was said that simply visiting the place could drive one insane. Even before it was expanded and relocated outside of the city (in 1675), it was known for the excessively cruel treatments keepers inflicted upon the unfortunates who were kept there. In the 18th Century, people were encouraged to go to Bedlam to see the "freaks". This was a popular amusement and visitors actually prodded the "patients" with sticks, inciting them to further paroxysms of madness. On the first Tuesday of every month, admission was free.

The prevailing notion of insanity in those days was that it was caused by "moral weakness". This was ironic given that sightseers were attracted to the spectacle of inmates having sex and engaging in other ferocious physical encounters. Eventually more compassionate minds concerned themselves with improving the plight of the mentally ill, and reforms were put into place to protect their rights. In 1815 Bedlam was moved to Lambeth, where conditions were said to be much improved. There was a great ballroom, a library, and a chapel for patients to enjoy. Those who were lucky enough to be released from the asylum were believed to be licensed as street beggars, although there were many more who claimed this distinction than were actually ever in residence at Bedlam.

Lewton's Bedlam is presided over by Karloff, who represents the type of externally-fawning and internally-raging administrator that must have been particularly hellish for those stuck with him. Ann Lee serves in the court of a nobleman who comes to see a theatrical production starring the patients. Their exploitation is meant for the amusement of the wealthy, and it is clear that the spectators view the performers as little more than animals. Lee finds herself commiserating with the exploited, and seeks a way to help them. She tries to talk her lord (Billy House) into ponying up some money for improvements, but Karloff resists her efforts and eventually finds a way to incarcerate her in Bedlam as a 'patient'. While in this dire predicament, Lee undergoes a radical personality transformation and works to alter the lives of her fellow prisoners.

The setting inside the asylum is shot with dismal lighting, and exudes a filthy menace that is made especially effective through the black-and-white film stock. The roles are all portrayed with competent professionalism, as one might expect in a Lewton film. There are a range of strange and eccentric bit players, and they add to the general atmosphere of the tale and its times. There is a strident message of anti-violence running throughout the movie, embodied in the character of a conscientious Quaker stone mason. It's an interesting story, made especially intriguing by the social commentary at its core. Society was still struggling to provide humane treatments for the mentally ill in 1946. The perspective at the core of Bedlam is that bringing normalization into the lives of those suffering from psychological disorders is the most effective way to stimulate a possible recovery.

Juan Carlos Fresnadillo, "28 Weeks Later" (2007).

I wonder why people watch zombie movies. What is it that attracts people to stories of the walking dead? It's true that I make a point of including them in my broad exploration of the horror genre, but I was never really drawn to them in the first place. Yet they seem somehow indispensable once you have made you way through the haunted houses, ghosts, demonic possessions, slashers, witchcraft, monsters, and mental asylums of the classics. I must admit that since I started watching them, I have identified a select few as worthy recommendations. My favorite zombie movie of all time is Messiah of Evil. It's a lesser known gem with style to spare... call it the art-house zombie flick. I've also been moved by the new wave of fast-moving zombies depicted in the releases of the last few years. While it could arguably be defined as a "plague" or natural disaster film, I was particularly impressed by 28 Days Later.

Directed by Danny Boyle and written by Alex Garland, 28 Days Later (2002) concerned an imaginary "Rage virus" that swept through England, turning ordinary citizens into crazed killers. A small band of survivors attempts to find sanctuary against overwhelming odds. What impressed me about the film was the cinematography and editing. It's pacing was cringe-inducing and the atmospheric panorama shots of a devastated London added a lot to the overall sense of dread. The "zombies" themselves were terrifying, as they appeared to be almost superhuman with reserves of adrenaline that never seemed to be exhausted. They passed on their sickness by overtaking their prey and spewing bodily fluids into any open orifice. Their vacant madness was portrayed so effectively that infection was immediately apparent.

As one might expect, the military eventually gets summoned to deal with the spreading contagion. A lot of difficult choices need to be made concerning who (and when) to kill. Scientists would like to have the opportunity to study a living victim, but having one in the midst of the uninfected is an extremely perilous proposition. By the end of the film, the disease has mostly taken its course, and we have confidence that it has been contained on the island of Great Britain. The methods employed to deal with the social unrest caused by the Rage plague added additional layers of social commentary to the story, and anyone fascinated by governmental responses to crises should be well satisfied by 28 Days later. I have no doubt that people will be watching it decades from now (if they are watching anything at all).

When I heard that there was a sequel in the works, I was immediately skeptical. These follow-ups are generally bleak affairs that merely capitalize on the popularity of their predecessors and introduce very little uniquely compelling material. I had even less interest when I heard that Boyle wouldn't be involved with the film. But then I read that Juan Carlos Fresnadillo (who had directed the promising-but-ultimately-flawed Intacto) was slated to take the helm. This was a good sign. In addition, I read several positive reviews (including one from the Onion A/V Club) that suggested it was worth watching. So I made a point of picking it up and sharing it with a friend who I knew would be interested in seeing it.

As we settled in for the duration, we were drawn in by an anxiety-inducing opening that flashed back to a grisly scene during the initial outbreak. That sets the stage for the premise of 28 Weeks Later. We are brought up to speed concerning the elapsed time between the end of the last movie, and the main setting of the new one. American troops have been installed in London to create and maintain order in an operation of repatriation for 15,000 brave citizens. An area of the city has been cordoned off, leaving a small island of civilization surrounded by acres of waste and destruction. Right off the bat there are obvious parallels to the continuing occupation of Iraq. The US military has every intention of creating a viable new society on the brink of complete and utter ruin.

As one might expect, despite the "best of intentions" there is no way to control all variables of a population with its own agenda. Before long we learn that a carrier has survived the first cycle of the Rage plague. When that individual is introduced into the healthy population, there's a whole new phase of horror ready to unfold. What we get as viewers is another dose of paranoid creeping depression, as we consider what it might be like to find ourselves in the midst of such a scenario. There are no overtly "good"or "bad" characters in this drama. Those types of easy categorizations tend to break down along with the normal conventions when conditions of imminent disaster confront us. Ultimately that might be the most compelling feature of zombie films. The threat is a horde of beings no longer able to make moral distinctions. And even the survivors, when faced with such a breakdown, must revisit their own conceptions of "right" and "wrong". The question is not one merely of survival... but also of the quality of life.