SPECIES @ 30

The yetis from SETI have made the kind of contact that Nigel Kneale thought up in the '60s, invasion by DNA. Their first test case is fused with a female human sequence that grows up rapidly to look like a pre-teen Michelle Williams. The point of making the hybrid a girl was that she'd be less aggressive. Well, that went off the table as soon as Sil the Experiment started acting out her nightmares while asleep. So, they fill her big glass cage with cyanide gas which she breathes like it's strawberry vape and breaks out and escapes with her learning capacity galloping even faster. By the time they have assembled their team of stock characters, Sil's on her way to L.A. with a bag full of stolen cash and emerges from a human coocoon as a twenty-something Natasha Henstridge. In Hollywood, she gets a room, a wardrobe and a tip from the nightman about the club around the corner as she's now in need of a breeding partner. Meanwhile, the anthropologist, macho black ops agent, biologist and special empath, led by the story's Baron Frankenstein, Scientistprofessordoctor Fitch.

Ok, so once we settle into Sil's motivation and the various powers of the pursue crew, the movie plays by numbers. But, really that's not a bad thing. Species arrived in the mid-90s after a decade and a half of seminal sci-horror moments and had to try and either do something new or at least something generic with a lot of style. Ok, so this does neither. The world had seen this kind of pursuit, regardless of motive in things like The Hidden, Terminator, Predator, and their many carbon clones. Hell, they even got H.R. Giger off the ice for the creature design which sent everyone who saw it right back to Alien.

With a cast of strong performers, led by Oscar laureate Ben Kingsley and including U.K. character star Alfred Molina and highly effective heavy Michael Madsen, you'd expect some spark but this is a good example of how passable writing cannot fill gaps in chemistry. Kingsley cannot work out what accent he's going for and frequently sounds unintentionally mechanical which rubs his quality emoting the wrong way. Madsen and Marg Helgenburger form a couple of circumstance who, though credible on paper, act like they really are just doing it for the money. Molina does some day saving, along with Forest Whittaker who lets us believe in his new agey empath claptrap through an effortless sincerity. Henstridge turns up trumps as a genuinely otherworldly creature. When the effects go to work on her, the coldness inherent to her Sil intensifies. That's not faint praise; she's actually pretty good.

All that said, this movie will entertain you from the word go and keep you watching to the credits effortlessly. Why? Because once you realise that it's Sil's movie and the Keystone Boffins don't need too muchof your attention, you'll be fine with what you move with. It's also a good showcase of the state of physical effects which, in this margin between their near perfection and the onset of CGI, render the predatory alien believable. Even in the mating scenes where the film might have gone for team-human body horror, we want the Earthling marks to shut up and lie down for the seeding. Species enjoys a strange glory for this, the first creature horror of its greater era, to steal the support from the good guys and make its audiences want the baddie to triumph over all the population of the Earth, one DNA sequence at a time.

This doesn't make Species a bad film or even a bad alien horror movie, just an unusual one that only looks bad if you treat it as a normal one. If you do let the good guy gang through with too much credit. you'll be missing out on the fun of the story. The sadder side of this is that it was not intended. The decade that was thrilling people at the cinema to an ever sleazier parade of serial killer filler, was also rendering sci-fi and horror into high sheen, over-designed bland plates. There are always exceptions but Species was not one of them, however much fun it is. It was a symptom of the fallacy of the suits throwing more and more money at genre, assuming that that would lead to a golden age of cinema commerce. It would take micro productions like Primer and The Blair Witch Project to burst that bubble (re-inflated by the Waniverse a decade on but not permanently). In the meantime we got Species, too late to make a difference and too lunkheaded to make a mark. Still, it is a ton of fun.

Viewing notes: I watched Species on STAN through a subscription. It's also rentable through a number of outlets but is long out of print on physical media in Australia.

12 MONKEYS @ 30

A pandemic has driven the survivors underground. James Cole volunteers to go on surface sorties to bring back life (mostly insects) for examination of what made them immune. It reduces his sentence. That is even further shrunk when he puts his hand up for time travel missions. Have they got it right about what caused it? Could it be prevented? And what is the meaning of the childhood memory that keeps surfacing in Cole's mind? It seems to change every time he thinks of it. Is the future changing the past?

Terry Gilliam's time travel scenario is a minefield of information by which past, present and future are in continual conflict. Cole's ally, Dr Railly is also his guide through the bewildering mess of late twentieth century life. Her link is a fascination with the Casandra syndrome (you know the future but no one believes you, imagine that as a mental condition) is the bridge to her acceptance of Cole's incredible claim of being from the future. Cole's appearances at different points in history and records of the incidents are what convinces her which allows her a bypass of Stockholm syndrome (Cole abducts her) and acceptance of banding with him. Then, there's just the rest of the world. 

Time travel aside (big ask but, beyond the look of the process, it's never explained) 12 Monkeys is Gilliam at the most straightforward that any film of his had been to that point. The Fisher King showed signs of him straying from the mould of the magical epic. After 12 Monkeys the blend became smoother as the spectre of his Monty Python years retreated ever further. I wonder if this was helped by the fact that this film is a cover version.

Chris Marker's 1962 film La Jetée is essentially the same story told in a series of still photos with a brief motion scene toward the end. A man is haunted by a childhood memory which results in the same twist as Gilliam's film. There are many further similarities and Gilliam eventually added a title acknowledging Marker's film as the basis of 12 Monkeys. I would strongly recommend La Jetée. It's not always easy to find but has had physical media releases. I'll insist, though, that Gilliam's movie is neither a veiled ripoff or a misguided mainstream overblown retelling. Gilliam is fascinated by the play of information and how it changes history whether true or false.

At its centre is an impressive turn by Bruce Willis as Cole. Willis had left his quirky tv show Moonlighting to forge a career as an action hero. His big gunned, quipping persona was a more everyman alternative to the Arnies and Segals of the time but he still played it macho and capable. James Cole spends most of the screen time in 12 Monkeys confused and drooling, a sluggish bulk held back by a crippling melancholy. This was the year, too, of Pulp Fiction and his role as a vulnerable loser (but that was transformed by action). It was this role that reminded anyone who'd forgotten, that he had the range and gravitas that would serve him in the later Sixth Sense and Unbreakable. That began here.

Madeline Stow as Dr Railly is almost victim of over-convenient writing as she uses anger to cross the bridge from victimhood to partner in adventure. It's a thankless performance but completely necessary to the film, providing the action that Cole is mostly incapable of. 

Brad Pitt had started the year as Detective Mills in Seven, a role that broke him from aesthetically pleasing furniture to credible performer. His Goines is given as a cartoon monkey, all frenetic gestures and screeching vocals. It's over the top and frequently approaches spinning off but Pitt always manages to reel in his excesses. After this year's turns he could command the course of the rest of his career.

And then there's Terry Gilliam himself who brought a stolen idea into the light and enriched it with confronting thoughts about the information economy that was already gearing up to the constant dynamism we have now where the notion of truth is thin and shifting. The '90s needed 12 Monkeys, not just as a cool sci-fi but as a commentary on our beliefs and their vulnerability.

I saw this at the Russell in Melbourne in early '96 with Kathy. It wasn't a date, we just liked each other's company at the movies. This was the occasion of my last ever Fantale. At some point, watching this movie that has one of its characters extract his own teeth I chomped down through the unforgiving caramel and encountered a rock. I dug it out of my teeth and realised that the sweet had successfully extracted a filling, just lifted it out of the molar. As discretely as I could, I transferred it to a pocket and  vowed to find a dentist the next day. But the worry and the self ridicule!

Kathy and I went to a pub afterwards for a post movie drink and chat. We unravelled what we could of the film as I drank on one side of my mouth. We also talked about Pulp Fiction and what was in the briefcase at the end. I was well into my internet life and spouted a range of fan speculation about it which she'd never heard. It felt good to share this nonsense with someone from the real world.

Viewing Notes: I watched the superb Arrow 4K release of this for this review. A very clean transfer with plenty of fine grain for the film connoisseur and a sturdy audio mix. You can rent it online at the usual places and it's a title that often surfaces on SBS on Demand or the other streamers.

SEVEN @ 30 (Spoilers)

Detective Somerset is on the verge of retiring when he is partnered with new cop in town Detective Mills on a case that is troubling and looks to only get worse. A serial killer is using the seven deadly sins as a blueprint for his crimes, leaving grisly clues. Is he punishing or preaching? Will he stop at Seven? 

It was 1995 and halfway through two decades, one of time and one of cinema. The Silence of the Lambs appeared at the very start of the decade and scooped box office share, critical acclaim and five Oscars on its way home. This meant that the screens of the 1990s would be stuffed full of serial killer movies, petering out with the likes of The Cell in 2000. Because of the acute curve of the success, this sub-genre of crime procedural developed its checklist traits rapidly, taking pretty much everything from Silence and repeating it with different character names. Until this one.

That's not to say that Seven is cliche-free. The fatigued cop on his one last job and his clashes with a rookie as well as the higher ups are all standard fare. What's missing is the federal agency with its control and collected wisdom. The wizened Somerset is going off his knowledge of culture, history, literature and the infernal dark of human nature. When the FBI appears, it's clandestine and dodgy. There is a clear sense that Somerset and his volatile new partner are adrift in the circles of an urban hell, alone against a malevolence that moves through the constant rain like a a shadow.

The lack of FBI order is important. With it, the more conventional serial killer flick was able to provide a base. This meant that audiences were welcome to thrill to the murders and cruelty against the objects of their disdain, barracking for the killer until the Feds crash in at the end and everybody rallied around them as though they had been all along. The serial killer movie was mainstream cinema as sleazy and misanthropic as it could be without an X rating. Each new entry offered a genius psychopath whose kill scenes quickly grew into impossible architectural wonders with ever more disturbing machinery and motive. Seven includes some elaborate setups but they tend to be more practical and, very importantly, nixes the notion of the comfortably insane killer. 

John Doe is extreme in his obsessive M.O. His meticulously homecrafted notebooks are intentionally kept without date and shelved randomly. The removal of his fingerprints with razorblades is ugly but comprehensible. His clues are as clear as they are taunting. The neon cross over his bedhead in his apartment is, I still think, overdone, but it does illustrate his strangely static idea of religion. That he is an intensely angry citizen keeps him a lot scarier than the wildly unhinged monsters of the sub-genre. The big bust in does not catch him and almost feels like a comment on the fad with its anticlimactic payoff. John Doe turns himself in; this movie has more on its mind than popular catharsis.

Fincher's unnamed American city is drenched with rain. Its shadows are deep and filled with darker detail. All surfaces look grimy and worn, even in the police station. Mills and his wife live in a flat that needs a lot of work and shakes as subway trains pass by. The sex club that becomes a crime scene feels like a near extension to the life in the streets and offices of even the cleaner parts of town. As he did again in Fight Club, Fincher imbues the demeanour and voices of his characters with a kind of palpable fatigue. Everyone is cranky and sleep deprived but, as the sex club manager says when asked if he likes what he does: "No, but that's life, isn't it?" 

This city could be anywhere and almost at any time. When John Doe delivers his monologue on the idea that his victims were innocent, he could be writing an epistle. Seven's effort into examining the town as a living organism as a terminal patient had not appeared before in this run of movies that increasingly reduced themselves to good genius against bad genius with action endings. When John Doe proposes his deal and the rain stops the scene switches from the unbreathable claustrophobia of the alleys and dives to the bare desert stage under the high tension wires of the climax and there, in the bareness of the featureless earth the final two moments of destruction are revealed. Hamfisted symbolism? Sure, but what a relief from the last minute battering ram of an FBI raid. John Doe's scheme was not suicidal even though it meant he'd be dead at its conclusion, it was the preaching that Somerset identified at the start: his envy was killed by Mills's wrath. No serial killer movie had ended  like that. Even at cost of his own life, the bad guy won, no switching back to the law team for the audience.

The casting for this one was also illustrative. Morgan Freeman was well into a decades long career and had starred memorably in the recent Shawshank Redemption. After this he was awarded gravitas rights to any lead role that could accommodate him (including God). His turn as the world weary Somerset is a primer in how to freshen a cliched character. At times his performance is documentary perfect. There is a look he gives Mills early on. We only see it from behind but we imagine it effortlessly. His three stage laugh at the shaking flat feels natural. The double take at the whole bottle glass of wine that Mills has handed him is laugh out loud funny. And through most of the running time he is shouldering the darkness of the life around him, knowing that it's just only ever degrees of that for all of life.

Brad Pitt had an interesting 1995. His brief career had included noticeable turns in Thelma and Louise, Johnny Suede and the hilarious stoner in True Romance but the most he'd done prior to Seven was the vacant Louis in Interview With the Vampire. Seven and Twelve Monkeys turned him into an explosion of notice and guaranteed stardom. Is his performance in Seven overbaked with its James Dean mumbles and De Niro lash-outs? Maybe, but there's a mass of tiny nuances in there, as well. They can be as subtle as the industrial soundscape sizzling under the dialogue almost constantly. It's not just the operatic blast of the finale.

Gwyneth Paltrow also shows range and skill as Mills's wife, stepping back into a kind of midwest everywoman with a plain show. It's when she talks in private about her pregnancy to Somerset that she shows what she can do. She listens to Somerset's personal story with natural attention until he throws it back to her and she barely controls a break into tears.

The surprise for me was Kevin Spacey. I'd never heard of him when I saw this at the cinema, taking up half a row with the usual gang o' friends. His dramatic entrance as John Doe at the police station, murmuring and then screaming and then falling back into his studied calm recharged a movie that wasn't wanting more energy. The dialogue in the car which he dominates is constantly chilling, especially in moments where his demeanour breaks and his face suggest the expression he would wear as his victims breathed their last. After seeing this, I got a backlog of his prior movies and went through them. While he betrayed a number of traits common to all amounting to a smarmy urbanity, he brought a managed rage to John Doe we wouldn't see again until House of Cards. John Doe's control and its breaks are extraordinary.

But Seven is more than performance and plot. Fincher's oppressive city sounds like a construction site. Howard Shore's low brass bam bam bam chords are flown in from his work on Silence of the Lambs (not really, but almost). It might seem trivial to mention the typography of the credits and titles throughout the film, announcing the day of the week but they became the way dark crime cinema and television was expressed with their juddering handwritten look as through the names and roles were thought up by an enraged brain. The title sequence supports this with its montage of what we'll come to know as John Doe making his notebooks, shaving his fingerprints and messes of crime scene photography. This felt like a galaxy away from the slick perfection of the Silence of the Lambs credits and titling and, once crossed, it was a line that took years to cross back.

Seven was numbing at the cinema. I recall my small gang zombie shuffling out of the cinema from a week night screening without our usual wordy yapping. When I was asked my opinion out on the footpath, walking to my tramstop the best I could muster was: "Better than Silence of the Lambs". Still, I retain that opinion. A friend of mine at a catch up drink talked about it and derided its persistent ugliness. I reminded her that it was about the ugliness of human behaviour but she wasn't convinced. A future girlfriend told me that she'd got out of a screening in the city and walked for almost an hour to her flat and only when she opened the door had a sudden panic at leaving herself so vulnerable.

I kept going to serial killer movies, watching them grow increasingly feeble and try hard. I'll note the exception of Simon Reynolds' wonderful The Ugly but even the visual splendour of Tarsem Singh's The Cell felt like window dressing on the Titanic. The sub-genre had printed through by the early 2000s and would soon be replaced by torture porn which had even fewer scruples about exploiting the worst in its audiences. That, too, is a epochal memory. I got into the phenomenon of the serial killer for a few months, buying every book I could find on real cases and dredging an internet only too eager to share such genuine horror until I exhausted my capacity for it and couldn't bear the thought of it. Seven, with its break with a sleazy convention, its shift of the depiction of murder from act to aftermath, and concentration on morality, remains one of the best illustrations that the peaks of genre are non conformist. Along with The Ugly and Henry, it is one that I'll revisit. Gotta count for something.

Viewing notes: for this review,  I watched the recently released 4K remaster that is still available in a swanky steelbook at time of writing. Seven has always looked good on home video and now it actively stuns. Fincher has added a few things via AI and CGI but they are not instrusive. The grain was always very fine with this one and needs a little squinting to see but is still there. Seven is available on all digital disc formats and via streaming on Stan and Prime by subscription and rental through the usual outlets.