NAKED LUNCH @ 35

Bill Lee stopped writing early and got a gig as a bug exterminator. He calls it the best job he's ever had but he keeps running out of spray powder. Taking a lead from his beatnik pals, he catches his wife Joan injecting it into her breast. It's a literary high, she says, kind of a Kafka jag. Then, after a series of strange encounters with cops and talking oversized beetles, market stalls selling dried centipedes, he reminds his wife that it's time they did their old William Tell routine. She balances a glass on her head and he takes a shot at it with a .38. The glass rolls over the floor intact and Joan lies on the carpet with a bullet hole in her forehead. When a monstrous figure in a bar tells him to get a ticket to Interzone and send back reports from there, he goes.

Naked Lunch was always almost a movie from its publication onward but there are problems in the book that, depending on when the scripts were attempted, made it unfilmable. It could be seen variously as pornographic, ultraviolent, thickly surrealistic and dense. Burroughs' novel moves between lucid muscular narrative and arcane weirdness that continues and will continue to daunt the casual reader. What Cronenberg did was make a companion text.

This is a quilt formed from selected passages in the novel, biographical details of Burroughs' life in Tangier and in New York among the beats, as well as anything he could cull from other works like Junkie, Exterminator and Queer. Through this, Cronenberg threads a loose narrative centred on Burroughs' guilt over the killing of his wife and this forms a number of loops in which the act and its consequences repeat for a person who could never quite outrun them. Add the figure from the novel of Dr Benway, both sympathetic to and contemptous of the addicts in its world. Fascimiles of Jack Kerouac and Allen Ginsberg appear as sympathetic companions. Bill Lee moves through this, observing wryly, sharing blackly comic anecdotes, receiving overloads of psychic and sexual information.

This never quite fulfils the brief of a movie version of the book but it works best if you already know the book and would be effective as a spur to attempt a read. As a filmmaker Cronenberg had to clear the things that were literature and render unto cinema audiences the things that created a character to follow. Peter Weller plays Bill Lee as a taciturn wanderer, unfazed by the worst his life can deliver, delivering his lines as though he were spinning them from corroded copper, not quite caring if everyone hears them. It's the speech of the literate junkie, from the only imaginable centre of the universe. Weller pulls this off enough to keep screen centre with enough substance for us to try to make sense of everything around him. The great grace of his performance, though, is his evident refusal or agreement with Cronenberg, not to do the Burroughs voice. This party trick of everyone who ever went through a beat phase was a craw-sticking feature of the Kill Your Darlings biopic of Ginsberg a few years back, making the thirty year old Burroughs sound like he was eighty. Weller just finds Bill Lee, bowing to Bill Burroughs as the creator, not the entirety.

Judy Davis gives us a female counterpoint to Bill Lee, her New York version weary and in search of kicks, and her Interzone version more guarded, more worldly with an understanding of the dangers of Lee's influence. Both are nuanced and sexy as well as unsettling. Ian Holm's Paul Bowle's facsimile is solid but more a presence than a player. Michael Zelniker and Nicholas Campbell as the Ginsberg and Kerouac stand-ins are fun. It is Roy Scheider, though, who steals his every scene as the forbidding and funny Dr Benway. You'll remember him as much as Weller and Davis for his few minutes of screen time.

Because Cronenberg was prevented from shooting in Tangier by the first Gulf War, he improvised and went to the opposite end of the spectrum and made everything look like a set. The wall to wall magic hour golds and reds are pure tungsten lights and give the scenes an extra sting of oppressive delerium. 

Naked Lunch is a film about writing the same way that the book is a novel about literature. Writing is an art of the mind, constructed from thoughts that form and take life while walking dogs or doing dishes, the act of writing when that's done, has none of the physical theatre of music or painting. Cornenberg's brief was a tough one. I don't think it works entirely but I also admit that it wasn't made to be witnessed in isolation.

I failed to finish Naked Lunch three times before I stumbled on the solution: read it among noise. Just after I moved to Melbourne, I would go on tram trips to anywhere to familiarise myself with the system but also the speech and mood of the locals. I packed my Fontana paperback into a jacket pocket and took it out on a particularly long journey and found, finally, between shutting out the noise and letting it blast, that the strange prose on the pages started to have cadence and flow. A similar thing happened a few years earlier when I heard the Birthday Party single Release the Bats just enough times, having gleefully celebrated and ridiculed its chaos, to realise it was a tightly constructed rock song. A few more trams to wherever and I finished the book.

In case that puts you off there is a very good documentary that could bridge Cronenberg's film and Burroughs' novel. Burroughs: the Movie from 1983 is a terrific warts 'n' all account, narrated by Burroughs himself of his life and work with a wealth of footage from his younger life and various collaborations. Criterion have released this at one time which might point to it being trackable by several means.

Until then or you find a copy of the book, you can see this film. Take Bill Lee's advice and exterminate all rational thought and take this in

Review: ALPHABET LANE

Young couple Jack and Anna trade the bustle of Sydney for the serenity of the country. Life is tolerable with only each other for company but the sense of isolation swells up between them. They work at different phases of the day which further complicates things. One day, driving home, Jack passes an old timer on a horse and delivers the experience to Anna like he's brought home a boquet of flowers for her. He says he stopped and talked with the man, calling him Joe. Anna, at first incredulous, twigs and plays along. Soon, the pair are living through their imagined extra family, sending letters from Joe and his wife Michelle to each other. Things are about to get strange.

Or they would if this meaty premise had been served with a stronger screenplay. The Chekov rifle, here, is the breaking of the folie a deux by outside influences demanding explanation. This could lead to Hitchcockian tension but, instead, we get a dragging repetition where the new details and attempted complications are just absorbed by the pair and never strongly challenged by anyone who might. A very late third act decision seals this but without satisfying resolution.,

I kept wondering if this was a kind of minimalist thriller but kept coming up against a problem. Jack and Anna have clearly demonstrated flaws but these seldom compel palpable hazard. The suggestion of infidelity cannot sustain the audience's knowledge that Jack and Anna are writing to each other through the fantasy characters. If they were really concerned, they'd tap out and call it. Or, delving further into the shared madness, raise the conflict to more serious stakes. But that doesn't happen. Ever.

The emotional beats are soft and the points of crisis gentle. This pair of amiable young people, having brewed an explosive, relationship-annihilating potion, seem ok with just sipping on it. When one or other introduce serious developments in the agreed narrative, the tension is not there to play it through and they just deflate back to acceptance.

Because there is so little opportunity taken with the potential of this scenario, the appreciably short eighty minutes of screen time feels much longer. This is not the fault of the performances: the compliance scene alone when Jack persists with his invention until Anna understands and runs with it, is strongly played, believable and charming. Between that and the odd point of breakage in the third act it feels like it's coasting. This is emphasised by the pleasant but formless score of humming vocal harmonies and the soporific pacing which increasingly makes the film feel like a short film in the guise of a feature. 

I was reminded of Peter Carey's A Happy Story. There are no similarities in plot but the sense that compliance might lead to discovery in a relationship is a potent recall. It's worth noting that the Carey piece is a short story. I wish I could speak better of this attempt at an interesting premise and say more than praise its impressive use of its location but it just kept disappointing me. I kept thinking, this needs to feel real. Then the credits rolled.

THE SILENCE OF THE LAMBS @ 35 and HENRY: PORTRAIT OF A SERIAL KILLER @ 40

Serial killer movies have been with us for a long time. Claims of which is the first interest me less than who was the first punk band. Both punk and serial killer movies peaked in their turn after any identifiable ancestors and the main task is to separate the cultural trend from the technically included. So, instead of doing that, I'm going to compare one from before the trend in the '90s with the one that started the trend. 

By the time Henry: Portrait of a Serial Killer, the term was known but not really hammered into the parlance. What became the joke about anyone a little awkward or withdrawn was more like a reference to a dark and grave phenomenon. John McNaughton's film keeps to that understanding. Its unflinching look at the violence is painful to the eye and its mood is grim.

Drifter Henry stops by Chicago to catch up with his friend Otis. Otis's sister Becky has also knocked on the door, escaping her husband's physical abuse. Becky is drawn to Henry's quiet power, partially because it stands between her and her carnally unrestrained brother. Meanwhile, Henry leads Otis into a life of murder as a leisure activity. I'm not going to spoil either of these movies, here, but you can already see where this is heading and, while you won't be surprised, I guarantee you will be horrified.

John McNaughton's film is stark and dour. Every surface looks like it would soil the lightest touch. These are people whose life decisions were formed in trauma and poverty. The Chicago of the setting is not the metropolis but the lightless apartment blocks and empty nocturnal streets. Becky's attempts to brighten her circumstances with chirpy optimism stop well short of the kind of grotesquerie that David Lynch might have imagined, this deep darkness feels far too grim for such whimsy and her cheery voice only reinforces the dread.

Henry, polite and personable in daily life transforms into an ultraviolent monster at any encountered slight. He goes from tipping the waitress at a diner and paying her a compliment to murdering the married couple at a liquor store. When Becky points out that his story of how he killed his mother changed in the same conversation the tension is unbearble. The moment is crossed, unsatisfactorily but cleared and marked for any future reference Henry might need. With Otis things are much worse. Henry is hard work. Can't suck up to him, can't deviate. In charge but without a plan.

At first the violence is depicted by a collision of lingering shots of the victims' corpses and the audio of the action played back. Eventually, we do see the acts and they are brutal but undramatic. A home invasion scene is dehumanisingly cruel and near impossible to watch without wincing or covering. Henry's policy is to vary the M.O., making detection difficult. This will only continue until Henry is stopped and that might take his own death. 

In The Silence of the Lambs young FBI trainee is pitted against the dangerous mind of a cannibalistic serial monster (now imprisoned) to help with a current case of near equal ghastliness. A bargain forms between the pair, a quid pro quo of expert opinion and personal trauma. While this hazardous pathway is negotiated, young Clarice is heading for a baptism of terror.

Really? Five paragraphs on an obscruity and just one for one of the most influential crime thrillers of all time? Yeah, but that's to do with that influence. The Silence of the Lambs is a film I didn't revere even as I first saw it, out with friends at the cinema on first release. My second viewing was for this blog. While I've softened on my disdain for it because of that, I still think its value lies in what it started, not what it was.

Jonathan Demme's film was made to hit and did so. It spawned a decade of copycat movies, each entering an arms race to produce a killer more brutal, ingenious and impossibly well resourced. I note two exceptions to this: Seven and The Ugly. While both plug in to the exploitative nature of the sub-genre they also both deviate from it in ways that distinguish them from the source point. The rest, The Cell, The Bone Collector, Kiss the Girls, and so many more, filled the form and played along with little to tell them apart by. 

And they mostly hit big, as well, with genius level criminals, elaborate murder methods and forbidding lairs. The dread in Henry had become the Grand Guignol of the big nihilistic '90s. In case you think I'm gittin' all judgey, be informed that I was first in line to see most of these at the cinema and those I missed got rented on VHS. I also got burned out by them and by the time Tarsem's eyepopping art-direction exercise The Cell appeared I tapped out and left the hall.

I am making this comparison because it highlights the irony that the earlier no-budget film is always grim but never sensational and the later one is a massive A-list cast extravaganza masking a tawdry exploitation movie. Silence is, at its best a well crafted dark crime thriller but it is also a movie that happily invites its audience to cheer the choice of victims by a killer who is nothing but an extended open target for othering. There is carefully placed dialogue in the film, between Clarice and Hannibal, that Buffalo Bill is not a transsexual but scenes of him have all the subtlety of bait. The sleaze is not Bill's, it's Demme's and source novelist Thomas Harris'. It's the popcorn and choctop selling sleaze of mega suits tripping on a goldmine. 

What's new? Not that but if any of us is going to laud a movie as near perfect or subtle or profound as Silence has been regarded, where is the love for the first big screen Hannibal in Michael Mann's more complex and harder to love Manhunter from the same year as Henry? It's the Anthony Hopkins and Jodie Foster pairing along with a massive budget that did that. Next to that, the modestly made but severe and brutal Henry can never compete, though its violence has none of the scary titillation of Demme's film (if you are aroused by the murders in Henry the problem is not in the film). 

Silence created a trend of mounting depravity that licenced its audiences to switch sides after the devil stand-in got too bad and cheered on the good guys when they kicked down the door. No wonder Seven's refusal to allow John Doe genius (he's actually more of an a proto sovereign citizen) made it stand out. No wonder Simon's fear of self is more striking than a committee-designed super-psycho.

I was ready to be humbled by a revisit to The Silence of the Lambs, hoping I'd see more to it a second time, but it just wasn't there. Then again, it did give the TV great The X-Files its base aesthetic (tellingly). Henry, on the other hand punched me in the gut all over again. Its power is palpable in the notes its not playing and that never turns into TV.

Viewing notes: I turned to my old DVD for Henry (scrubs up well for an oldie) and watched Silence on Prime (but its licence just ran out so it's not there anymore. You can rent both through Prime and VOD. You can still get a Blu-Ray or DVD of Silence but you'll have to look online for any phsycial copy of Henry.

TAXI DRIVER @ 50 (Spoilers: it's 50!)

Travis is lost. He got out of the army ok but maybe not Vietnam. It's the mid-'70s and he's still in his mid-20s and he doesn't know what to do. He tries to beat his chronic insomnia with late night porn shows or just driving around. Figuring he might as well get paid for the driving, he gets his chauffeur's licence and a job driving cabs. All good except that this isn't really doing it, either. When you get a tough young man whose was legally killing people in his late teens and can't ever quite see himself married behind a white picket fence, you get one who thinks like this: "Some day a real rain will come and wash all this scum off the streets." He's not in but he's not out and he's still not getting any sleep.

Paul Schrader's screenplay came from somewhere silmiar. No military service but estrangement from two relationships and a kind of PTSD from a severe ascetic religious upbringing and lost in LA, holed up in a motel, he kept to himself and remembers not talking to anyone else for weeks at a time. Noting where his own thought trains took him in that state, he conjured Travis Bickle, God's Lonely Man, a self-appointed champion looking for a cause.

Travis does try the conventional lane, all but stalking a woman he has seen who is working for a political candidate and simmering up the courage to ask her out. Over coffee and pie Betsy is intrigued if not openly attracted and agrees to see a movie with him. Ok, so the only movies he has any idea about are the ones he tried to use on his insomnia and they go off to one of the era's attempts at legitimising pornography (Deep Throat, Last Tango in Paris, I am Curious) except this one ingtercuts quasi expert panels with clips of orgies. Besty storms out, rails at him when he follows her out. And he still doesn't understand. His attempts at reconcilation result in bouquets of returned flowers, disintegrating in his apartment and a cringing phone call that sees even the camera avert its eye, preferring the void of the corridor.

Ok, well that didn't work, why not centre his attention on her precious presidential candidate. Travis works out, gets cleaner and the tone of his voiceover monologue more delusional and violent. He buys guns, fashions wearable rigs for them and goes to the Senator's rallies. Greatness thrust upon him? He gets chased off but it'll keep. Besides, he's found someone else.

Iris is a twelve year old sex worker wjho almost escaped her bondage in his cab one night. He cases her situation and identifies the bad guys. You know where this is going.

How this story got the attention and then the directorial custody of Martin Scorsese is a compelling story in itself. What resulted from a few years of Schrader hawking the script and Marty building his rap sheet was a perfect storm of cinematic power. Fifty years on, Taxi Driver remains vital, engaging and terrifying. I've known people from more recent generations to be astonished by its vintage. It still feels contemporary the same way that Bowie's Heroes still sounds like the future. How contemporary? Well, when podcaster Jamie Loftus referred to Travis Bickle as the Incel King, in the past few years, I didn't bat an eyelid.

This was from Loftus'  Lolita Podcast which is well worth your ear's capacity. She wasn't laying the charge of incel advocacy, proto or not, at the feet of Taxi Driver as much as exposing its advocacy by that community. Travis' monologues about Betsy are of an idealism that is stretched so thin that the hostility behind them shows through like a radiant ghost: one step of hers toward realistic behaviour would unleash it and indeed does. Is there some inherent decency in his later championing of Iris? Maybe, but the championing reminds me of something I read online. A woman was reposting comments sent her by a stalker who was attempting to woo her but then hoisted his own crimson pennant with something like: ... and I will crush the life from any creep who dares to bother you. Beyond a certain point, Travis his right to your pity. He's a naif only as long as he keeps away from the creepy gun dealer and plans for assassination or urban "clean up".

He's racist, naively puritanical, violent. Scorsese's cameo as the would be wife killer who forces Travis to listen a ghastly game plan that gives him the idea of buying a particular overqualified pistol, is an encounter with a being of equally lethal thought but the will to enact it without more justification than personal vengeance. The scene is there to plant a seed in Travis' head. "If this guy can do it..."

But nowhere does this get weirder or darker than the scene where Iris' pimp, Sport, reassures her of his love and gaslights her fears for her own life and future. They embrace to the sound of a song on the record player as he recites what is often called a Barry White seduction number. It is tender and sounds real, a declaration of devotion from a thirty year old to a twelve year old. The icky boldness of the scene has not lessened. It's a marvel of performance between Harvey Keitel and Jodie Foster (who was replaced by her of-age sister for all intimate and sexual shots) and is a direct contrast between the breakfast Iris has with Travis who, in contrast at that moment, briefly comes across as benign. 

This scene would be impossible to fund in current cinema. One critic's insistence that it shows what the audiences for John Ford's The Searchers never got to see, the possible benevolence of the Native Americans to the abducted Debbie. The hyper-racist ethics of that film could fill encyclopedias but its scaled down redress in this scene might remind us that Ford's film did not embrace the revenger's compulsion (while indulging in its own goofy version of othering). The difficulty of the passage, intentional in production, calls out over decades. It's still there. What do we think? What can we think?

Scorsese's craft sets this story in a New York of neon, sleaze and brutal barganing that has made its way into any film since that needs to convey the Hellscape of urban life. It's there in Seven, decades on, in clear tribute as the aged Detective Somerset tells his own cabby to take him, "anywhere but here." Scorsese and his cinematographer Mike Champman used available light and avoiding towing for the car shots, giving us a Manhattan both crisply beautiful and contagiously ugly. The contrast with the pastels and daylight of the honest world is like salt and sugar. The two collide when the Senator happens into Travis' cab one night and Travis lets loose one of his repulsive rants. The politician's restrained response is delivered through a mask of professional performance less contrived than Travis' gushing fandom.

When the bonds between the authority of the status quo and the self-styled knight errant drive toward the third-act massacre, it does feel like fulfilled action but also catastrophic contempt for all the convention that it professeses to be defending. The coda, after Travis has been media-ed up as a celebrtity vigilante and gets a surprise fare from a clearly revising Betsy, has often been considered Travis' fantasy. That does work but I think in the same year as the Mosaicly judgemental satire Network, a literal take on the ending carries even more poignancy.

Almost forgot, Bernard Hermann's cool jazzy score was his last; he died the day after handing it in. It was unusual in its day for its unapologetic retro flavour when other films of the time were opting for irony in needledrops or going electronic. It used to irritate me but, more recently, it just feels accurate. I love it.

What else? Part of the perfect storm that made this film is the casting. A young Robert De Niro as  Travis brings all his method and intensity to the role, double taking at every point of incomprehension, bearing and revealing a scary personal power. The famous, "you talkin' to me," scene had none of his lines scripted. It came out in rehearsal and Scorsese went with it, adding the disconcerting jump cuts as Travis revises his own routine. Cybil Shepherd gives Betsy the full '70s urban professional woman about town, finding (at least initially) Travis' menace attractive then horrifying. Her pushback deserves a cheer. Harvey Keitel has the thankless task of making Sport palatable and mostly does so through humour but then there is his Barry White moment which still challenges us. Jodie Foster both shocks and rends hearts as Iris, her vulnerability a thin suggestion from exposure. Albert Brooks is correct when he says he plays Betsy's workmate as a guy who can be funny, not a comedian. All of this falls under the masterful hand of one perfect with timing, Scorsese himself who deserves his own cheer as the chilling murderous husband who not only knows what a Magnum 44 will do to a woman's face but also to her "pussy" ("Now THAT you gotta see!). His one scene contains the art of his realisation of the whole screenplay. 

Considering the current critical response by the culture to the Manosphere and its grifting advantage over the faceless and numberless hoardes of keyboard-clicking handles of vengeful construction, it's likely that Taxi Driver will never fall from relevance. Holy hell, my own generation of cinephiles could fire its infamous dialogue between each other as though it was a stock of passwords. If there is a fault to current reception of the cinema of codes it lies in the preference for literal interpretation. This is not a literal text. We are not offered Travis' manifesto-like garbage as touch points, nor Sport's seduction of Iris as cosily as it is presented. Taxi Driver puts it all up there on screen and leaves it to us. We need to read.

Viewing notes: I first saw this movie on a Steenbeck editing desk at Griffith University. I came in halfway and had to supplement that with the VHS when I went home for the holidays. I have seen it at a cinema but mostly on home formats. The result, nothing damages its core. For this blog, I watched my 4K edition which looks as close to the projected film as you'd want, grain in lower light and perfect rich colour for anything else. You can get the DVD for about $10 or rent it from the usual streamers and VOD. 

Review: THE STRANGER

Meursault, young, beautiful and carefree is having a week. He goes from meeting his obligations after his mother's death to picking up a new girlfriend, to falling into involvement with his neighbour's affairs over an Arab woman, to, because the sun was in his eyes, shooting her brother on a beach. It's the Vichy '40s and if you're French you can fly free of the charge of taking out a indigine but at Meursault's trial, the prosecution want to make an example and effectively try him for being disrespectful to his dead mother.

Albert Camus' absurdist story, often entitled The Outsider in English, posits the notion that anyone whose indifference to most of the universe and its team playing crowds will be crushed by them for the insult of refusing to join him. For that reason anyone who reads the novel in their teens or early twenties is likely to identify with every shockingly honest answer he gives to the queries of daily life. His girlfriend asks if he loves her and he rejects the question as meaningless. She then asks if he will marry her and he says sure, why not? and she asks if another woman asked him he'd give the same answers (including the one about marriage) and he says naturally. If this story were told today without reference to Camus' book Meursault might be depicted as being on the austism spectrum. That was never Camus' point. So, how does contemporary auteur Francois Ozon handle it?

Going from the surface, it's set in 1942 and it's in black and white. There is a class divide between the French colonialists and the Algerians. Meursault lives and moves through his days with as little engagement with the rest of humanity as he can manage. He is not a misanthrope nor a Dostoyevskian Underground Man, just someone who communicates only when he has cause and avoids the general annoying flow of life. While Ozon manages to drain the humour from what is a frequently hilarious book, he nevertheless offers a sincere depiction of Meursault's state. 

The indifference which readers for generations have registered as both comical and alarming is splashed across the screen, told not only in Meursault's own evident moment to moment disdain of physical discomfort (the heat is more painful to him than the effect of his mother's death), and the interactions with those around him. Ozon builds this and takes his time. By the scenes where he is publicly reviled for this indifference more violently than his act of murder we are left concerned at his failure to make a case for himself that would not only infuriate the judges and witnesses in the courtroom. 

But then, by the scenes where he grows to understand his relation to the universe and it indifference to anything it contains he finds a kind of perfection that perplexed readers and now audiences of his tale. And what, I wonder, would younger audiences who have not encountered this accessible book make of this film? The trailer that looked like a cosmetics ad with lean and photogenic young people in the sun told nothing of the story. The film itself which works like a Trojan to dispell the impression of the trailer by dumping Meursault into his daily life where we see his detachment and its strange effect. A young man with clear prospects of advancement has so little so say for himself that when he does speak, his lack of connection can startle. Benjamin Voisin in the role uses his prefect beauty for blandness for most of the first half of the film; a man who takes pleasure in wine and sex and the Mediterranean beaches but when annoyed by the blinding glint of a knife, plugs another man with bullets.

In the final act where Meursault gets the chance to broaden and set fire to his self-ideas to reach his state that might be self-negation or cosmic acceptance, he has become straggle-bearded and wild, only very superficially a Jesus but more profoundly a prehistoric figure recognising his place and welcoming the hatred of the world of joiners and judges.

Ozon's insistence on a tension between the growing blandness of the beauty we see and its undercutting existential tension can feel draggy. You can simply sit back and wonder at the richness of the monochrome landscapes, beaches and city life. Indeed, it can feel as though you are invited to. But the Givenchy ad aesthetics here are the decievers, do you fold yourself into that smoothness or work to discern the grind beneath? How close do you get to feeling the apparent ease of Meursault's expressed ennui?

I hate comparisons but there is one worth making here as it is with a very distinct approach. Luchino Visconti's 1967 film presents a much more adamant character. Played by Marcello Mastroiani (who even looks a little like Albert Camus), Meursault is fiery. It works because the readers of the book want that mix of stoicism and passion. Ozon's delay of the latter might feel like a drag but it is truer to Camus' purposes. It means that this newer take with its etheral electronic score (and needle drop treat for those who know over the end credits) allows audiences to take it away and let it bake. And it will taste of bread either nurturing or over processed but bread all the same.

CARRIE @ 50

Carrie White is not having a good day. First, she flubs a catch at volleyball and gets bullied by the other kids. Then, in the shower after the game, everything is going fine until she starts bleeding. She's seventeen which seems late but there's no rulebook for menstruation. That's not the bad bit. The bad bit is her mother not telling her anything about it. At all. You'll meet her mother in a minute. Meantime, Carrie heads to the rowdy crowd of teenage girls as though she might be dying, holding out her bloodied hands in horror. Well, they're teenagers and their ridicule is a babel of taunts and jibes accompanied by a hail of tampons from the shower room dispensers. The PE teacher breaks it up and takes Carrie aside, dispersing the rabble. She takes Carrie to the principal for a day pass. While he means well, he fumbles every attempt at soothing the girl including getting her name wrong so many times that her psychic tolerance meter bursts and she breaks an ashtray. Really, really, really, not a good day.

Her mother Margaret is doorknocking for The Lord. She gets past the mat at one of her daughter's schoolmate's place and is dismissed with a palpable embarrassment. Oh, that's why Carrie never expected what her body was about to do. When both are back home and Margaret gets a call from the school about why Carrie's back early, she flies into a religious rage and punishes her daughter with a spell in the household solitary. Meanwhile, the rest of the girls in the team get detention and one incorrigible loudmouth gets her prom ticket withdrawn. She storms from the scene plotting revenge. So, now the crazy religious parent is blaming her for the sins of all the world and the alphachick is blaming her for missing out on the school's big night and all Carrie ever did was start her period.

Brian De Palma's adaptation of Stephen King's book is one of his most blatant genre films but also one of his most nuanced and deep. What looks like male gaze fetishism in the slomo credit sequence with the rich strings and frontal nudity of people meant to be seventeen is completely undercut by Carrie's menstrual flow. De Palma knew perfectly well that any frat boy or suburban dad getting off on all the flesh and play was going to get the ick as soon as Carrie's pubesence gets real. You would be on a surer bet to accuse the detention workout scene with its sassy music and PE teacher banter but by then the rules have changed. If you really want to get aroused by the girls in their gym outfits moving their bodies so stridently you're probably better off going to a specialist cinema. It's not that it isn't there (it clearly is) it's just that it has more context now. 

De Palma was no hack by this stage, having cut his teeth on a good number of apprentice and journeyman titles to reach the high variety rap sheet that included Obsession, Sisters, and Phantom of the Paradise. Carrie was his first outright horror tale but he clearly enjoyed the kind of suburban darkness of King's style. While the dastardly arc of the revenge plot is writ in giant letters of blood, the development on the ground is Sue's genuine remorse for her part in tormenting Carrie. Sue's insistence on getting her jock boyfriend to ask Carrie to the prom is part of this and offers the possibility that there might be more Christian sacrifice here than in all the operatic blustering of Margaret White.

Then, of course, Margaret's big key to sancitmony is her guilt at the sexual pleasure she felt which she associated with facing life as an abandoned mother to a freak of nature. Her evangelistic Christianity is an unpoppable bubble. Piper Laurie's task in playing this is a tough one. She needs to rail and harrangue as though she means it but to show compassion for her daughter in constant battle with her revulsion. Her dialogue doesn't always allow this but there are scenes in which her torment rises to the surface and the loud robot that results is terrifying.

On the other side, the perfectly cast Sissy Spacek, pale and frail with ragged hair and freckles emerges from the shock of discovering menstruation to a being more determined than ever to declare her independence and will. This, however, does not stem the strength of her psychokinetic powers. As we see the prank in construction in the middle act we tense up at its effects. Spacek plays things raw as though the acts of compassion she does encounter from the likes of the teacher and Tommy Ross (a naturalistic and believable nice alpha boy from William Katt) are scarcely credible miracles. She sees them but is ready for pain. If Spacek's mumbling small town girl in Badlands a few years before was the promise, this credible incredible turn is the fulfilment. Both she and Piper Laurie were nominated for Oscars.

On the lesser side of ethics, the baddies also get good casting. Nancy Allen as uber bitch Chris and her minion Norma (a sneering PJ Soles) do their work but show the vulnerability of their characters' age. Chris's boyfriend is a rising John Travolta who was about to have a very good late '70s. His Billy is comedically macho, thick as two planks but in service to Chris's manipulation, a laughing monster.

When prom night rolls around and all the players and their designs start converging we get a Carrie ready to break from her mother's control. Chris's horrible prank is set to go. Those who know and those who don't flood the venue with the urgency of kids on their night of nights. Tommy is convincingly and touchingly kind to Carrie but knows how to play it for real. And then it's time and it happens.

And then De Palma goes into his own mode of split screen and slow mo to draw out the violence of the prank and Carrie's automatically ruthless and instant revenge. Blood bath after blood bath. The setpiece is part of cinema history and deserves its place. The genre would soon shy from large budgets after the success of a mouse that roared (John Carpenter's Halloween) as keeps happening, but until that time the cinema of the suits could produce this biblically proportioned spectacle. It's a wonder.

I won't spoil the final shot nor the showdown between mother and daughter as they are best seen without prior knowledge. What I will say is that from a culture that was busily deconstructing its cold war puritanism with films that exposed it like Network, Taxi Driver and Carrie, we can heed the call as a warning as we witness the rise of authoritarianism, ruling cynicism and unbound bronze age inspired sloganeering. We'd do well to witness and remember Tommy Ross taking Carrie White by the hand to the dance floor, regardless of the ridicule surrounding them as decency (even that required by others) is still the better choice.

Viewing notes: I watched the magnificent 4K treatment of Carrie from Scream Factory. There is an equivalent local release from Imprint but it costs a bomb. There might well be a more afforabvle standard edition down the road, though. Prime offers it with a subscription.

THE OTHERS @ 25

Grace and her two children live in a mansion on Jersey. It's just past world war two and the Nazi occupiers have left but so have the servants of grace's mansion house. Three locals knock on the door and offer their domestic services and, after some confusion, are let in and start work. But there are restrictions. The windows of the rooms are to be curtained off at all times when the children are in them. The children are allergic to light. When one door is open, the other door must be locked. There are sounds of movement in the house when no one should be there to make them. Grace's daughter Anne claims she sees a boy her own age called Victor. The house is bound by fog.

This is a tale of whispers and shadows, of memory recorded and repressed. And it is a story of responsibility. But none of that is served up front. We need to take our time following Grace and her observations of what is happening in her house. We need to listen to the conversation between her children and observe all of their relations with the servants. We are going to be led on a strange journey which won't make sense until the end (beyond its twist) and then will probably stay unsettled in any thoughts you have of it afterwards.

The look of the piece is a kind of magic hour gothic with deep black shadows and golden tones. The score is spare and quite conventional with slight screeching strings stabbing and discordant swells for momentum. But this feels appropriate. There are no jump scares to warrant orchestral explosions. This situation keeps things on a constantly uncertain balance.

Nicole Kidman as Grace gives us a parent on continuous alert. The order she seeks in the running of the day to day keeps dismantling delicately. She doubts her children's claims of what they have seen but has nothing to replace the stories with. It's a strong, sustained performance which can break into operatic histrionics but mostly kept in uneasy restraint. An old acquaintance of mine who had acted in theatre told me that her director told her to imagine that a pearl necklace had broken and scattered around the room and that she should be constantly examining the carpet for the unrecovered gems. Kidman's turn is like that, she attends each sound and quirk of light, thinking it might contain the solution to mysteries. That she never allows this to stretch into viewer fatigue is testament.

The three servants are led by Irish veteran Fionnula Flannagan whose patience and concern boast a gravitas which can only be understood as the darker details appear. Comedy veteran Eric Sykes reels all of his lifetime career's phsyicality to a hulking silence. On silence, Elaine Cassady's mute Lydia is given the thankless task of recieving information she does not like but cannot convey. If they feel clumped there is a reason for that. The story must have them and have them like this.

I'm going to leave one performance out as mentioning it would constitute a spoiler and I want you to see this film. I'll go straight to the children, instead. Nicholas, the boy with the unearthly pallor, is constantly puzzled to the extent of his sleep being dependably uneven and his queries frustrated. His older sister Anne has a wicked cheek, happily taunting her brother's worries and feeding disinformation like a learned brat. But she is also witness to the shapes of the goings on and her accounts of them are true. When she shows her mother what the figures she has seen look like in her drawing, Grace must admit that it does not feel like a child's fabrication. Anne has dealings with the others, most memorably in a scene which breaks the ambiguity. She, herself, is not afraid but is to receive a shock (beautifully played in a double take) in good time. Alakina Mann and James Bentley give us upper crust kids who are resolutely in their childhood, even when it would have been more convenient for them to grow up a little to aid the narrative.

As I say, I will not spoil this one. It's recent enough to discover anew. In the several rewatches I've done of it, I have found fresh details that only deepen the horror of the situation. Like The Innocents or Dark Water, all good ghost stories should haunt us. This one does.

Viewing notes: I watched my local 4K of this and, most recently, introduced it to two friends who enjoyed it. The 4K is gorgeously renedered and supported by an effective 5.1 audio track. It is currently streaming with a subscription on Stan.