Review: IF I HAD LEGS I'D KICK YOU

Linda is a psycho therapist with problems of her own. Her husband is always away on his job captaining a ship. Their daughter has a condition that requires a high maintenance care routine that involves an intestinal tube and an eating regime that is not working. One of Linda's patients is a depressed mother who abandons her infant during a session and disappears, literally leaving Linda holding the baby. The roof of her rental collapses and floods the place, forcing her and her daughter to a fleabitten hotel. Her own therapy sesions with a colleague are grdinging into difficulty. I could go on like this movie does but my commitement to mercy is vetoing that. It's this and more for almost two hours.

Linda and other characters are almost always shot in closeup and kept to the centre of the widescreen frame, forbidding the visual freedom of the aspect ratio. It creates an unsettling claustrophobia. There are a few jump scares to agitate your popcorn but the film plays without an act structure, rendering the constant series of stressful scenes exhausting to watch. It's not a comment on the pressure being exhausting, it really is draining to sit through. A late moment of a character throwing herself against more powerful waves works as a poignant symbol, or would if we hadn't already sat through almost two hours establishing the same thing in a virtual loop. There is no relief until the final image.

But even that last life affirming shot feels more like an "ok" rather than an "oh right". The onslaught of tightening oppression for the running time is unrelenting. This means that Eraserhead, Come and See and Martyrs offer more relief. Think about that.

It makes me think that this is a writer's film, an exercise in devising a constant series of cruel challenges but little to keep them in a coherent thread. The symbolism - a birth canal hole in the roof that gushes like water breaking, an umbilical scene involving that tube, the tide of the nocturnal beach standing in for an unfeeling nature and all of modern life. Through this, through a multitude of expressions and actions lived and done by Linda, we get to know her only very slightly. She deals with each challenge in turn, some more effectively than others. We get the overall arc of her resiliance but almost nothing of the origin of her drive. In one scene she dirupts a support group by turning its mantra around before fleeing the scene. This plays a little like black comedy but I could only register it as bleakness. Linda should be well enough established to buy her way out of most of this, even if only to dent the pressure. She seems to opt into it with no suggestion of mental damage that might prevent her from it.

What works is an assured helming with effective cinema skills to at least evoke all this in style. Also, this is Rose Byrne's career best performance. However little my regard for the conception of this constant barrage of woes that Linda faces, Byrne provides everything from tempests of fury to a visible struggle against implosion and carries her place at the near constant centre of the screen with solid compulsion. All the cast do well but all are in her shadow.

My exhaustion from seeing this film left me baffled. Did writer/director Mary Bronstein (impressive in a significant role on screen here) have an explosive urge to construct this repetitive torment? I don't expect Pollyanna but some character constructing space would have welcomed me in more and allowed me to travel with it rather than constantly keep from resisting it. If you see it, see it for Rose Byrne. She's a revelation.

Review: FRANKENSTEIN

Frankenstein was written as a horror story for a readership whose fear of gods was as real as taxes. Of all the big stories of the genre, Frankenstein is often the least scary. It needs a push. Boris Karloff taking a child's game too far made my favourite version horror. Later interpretations looked into philosophy, the issues that spring like ballistic missles from the notion of creating sentient life. So, when Guillermo del Toro came up with his I was already in line. But I wasn't expecting a horror tale.

If you want one of those, go back to James Whale's breakthrough, or Terrence Fisher's bold return for Hammer (there are a few but Curse is the OG). Del Toro's aim, if you are familiar with his work, would never be generic horror. And this is not.

After a prelude at the North Pole where Frankenstein and his creature are discovered at the end of the story, we enter into what we might comfortably assume will be most of the rest with Victor's story. This is told by Oscar Isaac in a dependably layered performance and takes him from blustering science hero to one horrified and contemptuous of his own creation. Shorter roles by Charles Dance as his bullying father and Christoph Waltz as his later sponsor fill things credibly. 

But then we follow the creature's tale we find out why most of the acclaim for the performances in this film have gone to Jacob Elordi's turn as the creature. Elordi whose beauty is concealed beneath slabs of prosthetics has just enough of his face and his eyes to use for his emotional responses as they appear and develop. Brutalised as his creator projects his own shame on him, echoing both Baron Frankenstein senior and an imaged god's distaste, he is withdrawn and almost mute. In later scenes where his interacition with the outside world complicates, Elordi feeds us painfully gradual inches forward. He plays it as a survival story.

Spanning both these tales is that of Elizabeth, Victor's frustrated love interest and the one who introduces the creature to kindness and a kind of love. She is played by Mia Goth who steals every single movie she is in. Goth's talent is complexity and here she shows it progressively as, scene by scene, her physicality reveals her to be Frankenstein's superior in avante-science, adding compassion to discovery with the kind of fearlessness that defies her constricting times. It's less than a leading performance but it's one you'll be taking away with you.

So, while Del Toro's Frankenstein is not the shrieking pop piece of James Whale or the near psychedelic showreel of Terrence Fisher, it does allow us room to ponder the spiky issues of the story in deliberate pacing (Del Toro can make two hours plus feel quite breezy) and some of the most beautiful imagery you'll see this year. It might not scare you but you'll have something to think about.

INVASION OF THE BODY SNATCHERS @ 70 (Spoilers)

Local doctor Miles gets back to town to find a number of people are claiming that family members have been replaced. Mothers, Uncles, children have suddenly changed to strangers. They look and talk the same and even have the right memories but there's an essence lacking. Miles dismisses this at first but is haunted by the number of cases being reported. One night, he is called to a friend's house, the town bohemian, as it happens, and finds an indentical copy of him lying on the billard table. The body is perfect but lacks all the signs of decades of life. When the guy accidentallky cuts his hand, a cut appears on the copy. Phone calls here, hurried drives there, the town is being taken over by people who form in giant pods and takeover their assigned bodies while those are asleep. A quiet and thorough invasion from space.

This, the invasion and evasion, is the plot but the threads are concerned with the loss of that essential humanity. When the pod people have a chance to speak, they appeal to the painlessness of their new form, no love but also no hate, no shame, no guilt. A moment of cornered affection between Miles and his love Becky negates that promise and firms their resolve to resist. 

It's the question of resistance that has driven both ends of the political spectrum to claim Invasion of the Body Snatchers for themselves. In the '50s of its birth, you can easily see how the McCarthyite watchdogs would see this dehumanisation as communism, the collective over the individual. But it's just as easy to see a critique of the apple pie conformity assumed by the anti communists. If you've got sides, it's plain fun to accuse the other one of being pod people.

What is clear is that mobs are mobs and the threat of control by them is terrifying. The scene before the mobs form is one of chilling conformity as the small town seems to move as one organism, appearing from the footpaths and silently swarming to the town square to recieve their new pods from delivery trucks. If you saw this in the mid-'50s in the USA it would have frozen you, either way you looked at it. The idea that the other is yourself is a perfectly hit note for the times. While this film keeps things a lot more grounded than I Married a Monster from Outer Space (a LOT less cheesy than its title) it knows its audience well.

And it had durability. Body Snatchers is one of the few horror movies that is cited as an exception to the rule of the inferiority of remakes. Along with The Thing and The Fly, this one was successfully reinserted into later cultures only it was redone well more than once which gives it the edge. In 1978 the me-generation with its psychobabble gets infiltrated by pod versions of itself that are beyond empathy. 1993's Bodysnatchers put the story into a military context (nuff said).

This original from mid century America with its poster pefect couple (Kevin McCarthy and Dana Wynter) does carry the first told charm. Miles's lustful banter with Becky feels like old man entitlement now but it does get well batted back by Becky and then the stakes between them are raised as it resolves as love to face the challenge of never feeling that again. A little context tolerance allows that indulgence effortlessly. The incident that breaks the couple's humanity while surrounded by the pod people concerns the safety of a dog. Later, in 1978 (which did not fall back on the love switch) this has become the sight of a monstrosity. A scream will always turn you in.

The original cut of this film (which did not make it to the first release) did not include the framing scenes in a Los Angeles police station where the raving Miles is calmed and tells his tale. There was a home video release without these scenes which starts in normality an ends in panic as Miles screams futilely in the middle of a busy highway that everyone around him will be next, at one point yelling it down the camera to the audience. In the early days o' DVD I bought a cheapo with a terrible transfer which featured this ending. This was my first viewing of it and it played very strongly. There had been a campaign to offer this restored form but it couldn't make it to the people who made the decisions about it, even as an alternative version. That's a pity as, without the reassurance of the good guys in the big city taking control with an early warning, the prospect was nightmarish. My scrubbed up 4K which looks so beautiful might have been presented with the Ur potency. But no.

Lifting the filter of vintage cinema and mores and presenting this version to today's America makes things a lot less tame in light of the apparent shift toward authoritarianism and hive mindedness. Imagine the January 6th insurrection done as a quiet swarm and you'll get the idea.

Viewing notes: I watched Kino Lorber's excellent 4K release, choosing the standard widescreen presentation over the offered 2:1 alternative (both were released originally). I'm calling it a 70th anniversary despite it normally being considered a 1956 release as I noticed it said MCMLV in the credit sequence. I was using it as a pallet cleanser from the excerable V/H/S/Halloween which was mostly tedious garbage. It was good to see the clean lines, solid characters and thoughtful craft of this one after that mess. At time of writing there are no local releases of this on physical media. It can be hired through Prime, Apple and YouTube.

GINGER SNAPS @ 25

Something is ravaging the dogs in the quiet and flavourless suburb of Bailey Downs. Brigitte Fitzgerald emerges from her family garage, laden with lethal equipment, and sees her neighbour screaming about finding the latest victim. She tells the dog on the other side to shutup and returns to the basement bedroom she shares with her sister Ginger. Ginger is wondering about suicide methods, toying with a knife at her wrist. The pair are a pact of two, teenagers in opposition to the world at large. As Ginger says, offering a hand of solidarity, "united against life as we know it. Out by sixteen or dead on the scene. Together forever." They then go about videoing their school project Life in Bailey Downs, a series of staged suicides as the credits roll.

The Fitzgerald sisters keep to themselves at school and are taunted by the other girls and (Ginger, at least) lusted after by the boys. Their secretive dialogue is entirely resistent to the teen-go-round of playing and mating. After a run in with the local alpha chick, Brigitte suggests a prank with alpha's dog. If it works, great, if it goes wrong, they can always blame the Beast of Bailey Downs. While putting the prank together one night, they come across another victim of the Beast and Ginger's first period begins (both girls are years late menstruating) and then the werewolf attacks, leaving Ginger a torn and bloodied mess. At home, after escaping the monster (who gets splattered by a van), Ginger's wounds begin to heal before their eyes. 

Karen Walton's and John Fawcett's upgraded werewolf story drags the mythology of the werewolf from the traditional burden of secreted animalistic violence and even beyond a sexual motive and plonks the condition squarely into adolescence where we all wade through our own tales of  body horror, no exceptions. The voice changes, ball drops, periods and skin explosions and the myriad rest of it have been there for centuries waiting for such recognition. It's only taken a few millennia of tale spinning.

What about Teenwolf? Good point but while this shares a comedic approach with the '80s piece, the underlying darkness remains core. The Fitzgeralds have discovered the futility of fantasising a lifelong pass from doing what the world wants of them but then, when joining it, there is only more futility, more struggle, more life-crushing hosility. Teenwolf did get through a few similar issues but Ginger Snaps concentrates on them: the superpowers of the transformation just accentuate the brutality. Every teenager, apart from the very one percent at the top of the pecking order, would use the nuclear codes at the drop of a hat. Nothing, neither power nor sex changes that. In the end all they have is sibling love but even that gets tested toward tragedy.

If that just sounds like more downers about angst ridden teens, be aware that this is a constantly funny movie. Only at the end, when it has to stand up an be a horror piece, does that change. The dialogue might remind you of the inventiveness of Heathers or the TV version of Buffy. "The fuck, B, this is your idea. If you don't like your ideas, stop having them." But then there are moments of poignancy in the sass. A local buck sees Ginger in pain, buying tampons in the supermarket and suggests that a toke would take the edge off. Ginger quietly rasps, "maybe I like my edge." Thoughts that seem to transcend adolesence are set so strongly within it that they convince.

Ginger is given a stomping performance by Katherine Isabelle who runs through every sudden turn and rip. Her bludgeoning eyes get her through freezeouts and one of the strongest suddenly-hot-dweeb-girl-strolls-down-the-school-hall scenes in cinema history. Her elder sister ptoection of Brigitte is quietly authoritative and her growing wildness never less than convincing. By the end she is the monster she promised to deliver but still the girl who tried to wish it all away. Emily Perkins as Brigitte gets most of the screen time and gives us a constant cringe from acting out of ghastly necessity. It's over for her, as well, as nothing will be like the confident life-denying pacts she made with Ginger. Her negotiations with the local drugster and agent of help see her taking her protective role into a maturity beyond her years. It's a great push-pull turn. Necessary shout to Mimi Rogers as the ditzy parachute mum whose every scene is a belly laugh.

This is a tale of latchkey kids, X to Millennial, who were yet to have their culture conquered by screen time and needed to work things out themselves. It's a story of the pressures of girlhood and coasting "along the way the world works". It's a mini epic of the need for the kind of culture that sneered at cosmetics called Teen Spirit and had just been taken to the entrance to hell in a $2 indy called The Blair Witch Project. This was neither Heathers nor Scream. It was unsafe and its comedy was on the prowl. That it still works is its message.

THE APPARTMENT @ 65

Charlie Baxter is a drone at an insurance company, buzzing away with a crowd of others in a low cieling office that is about as close as you get to a hive on a human scale. He's still young but has ambitions. He often works late, as he says in his narration. Then we find out why. Through a series of small favours that escalated, he lends his appartment to a small group of executives who use it for extra marital sex. They keep him strung with promises of advancement but by this time those are sounding hollow. 

On the way into work each morning he has a smile and banter with the lift girl Fran. He's impressed by her as she handles herself firmly with the handsy execs and seems above the exploitation mill that Charlie enables. Then one day the promises are made good and he gets called upstairs. The mighty Mr Sheldrake wants to see him. There is the prospect of promotion but, really, it's just another suit buying into the appartment rort. He's already been stranded outdoors while his higher ups take their time in his home, his neighbours complain about the noise and he seems to be shrinking into a barely functional stasis. Will having his own office be worth it?

Billy Wilder's 1960 interpersonal epic is hard to call a comedy. As a director of funny films he was no slouch with the likes of The Seven Year Itch or Some Like it Hot behind him. The Appartment plays like a drama with an overlay of warmth rather than a series of payoffs. The concern here is finding the moral centre among the urban hellscape of privilege and advantage. 

Jack Lemmon's Charlie understands the order, however much he resents it but when he benefits from it the sense of freedom overcomes him and he falls into form, another exec. Shirley MacLaine's Fran returns an expression of one who has been through the mill and is witnessing yet more corruption. Care is taken to illustrate Fred MacMurray's Sheldrake's skill at manipulation, his conscience-free lying and emotional pressure. This is a cast responding to the call of elegant writing about a brutal work culture. It cuts very close and the relief is often a sobering pathos rather than a joke.

However, this is a comedy the same way that Network or Boogie Nights are comedies in that they beg of you to reserve your judgement until you have seen everything. The stratification that frames the conflict is the same whether it's a capitalist industry or a remote politburo and it could as easily have been set in Classical Greece as mid century New York. Lemmon's decency begs his pathos. MacLaine's outward incorruptibility (according to Charlie) is amour against experience. And Fred MacMurray's effortless maintenance of his droit de segnieur is chilling. His dismissal of  a previous victim, kept close as a secretary, will have resonance but it probably won't be premanent. The final scene gives us what we want but its lack od sentimentality makes it feel earned.

Wilder's career is a list of bangers and (probably) others that will need seeking. That the same hand at the helm brought us the creepy Hollywood self-portrait of Sunset Boulevard and the durably hilarious Some Like it Hot could make this dark remionder of the world of work and the consequences of unchecked privilege should come as no surprise. It was films like this that broke the stiffness of the Hollywood in the decade to come and made way for the liberation of the '70s. Another debt we owe to Billy Wilder. Pay it in the best way: seek it out and watch it.

Review: ONE BATTLE AFTER ANOTHER

A couple in the centre of a revolutionary cell Pat and Perfidia join in lots of fun activities like mass releases of border crossers and city wide power failures when Perfidia come across oaken martinet Captain Lockjaw. Perfidia stages a bizarre captor/captive scene with the soldier. He digs it, though or because he's renedered a sub, and pursues an encore. Over time she gets pregnant and has a daughter, ostensibly to Pat. When the gang gets busted Pat is plunged into hiding as Bob with the child. Perfidia makes a deal and flees south. Or did she? Young Willa has been told family legends that her mother died a hero. Others in the greater secret diaspora think she ratted them out. When Lockjaw gets his funny handshake opportunity to join an elite vigilante group, he has to pursue the evidence of his inter-racial failing to present cleanly and ascend to macho right Valhalla. 

Confused? You might be. This is an adaptation of a novel by Thomas Pynchon whose fairy tale named characters tote assault weapons and whose plots wind like medieval ornaments. I haven't read Vineland (nor anything but short stories by Pynchon) but what I do know is that Paul Thomas Anderson has apparently tamed Pynchon's sargasso plotting to deliver a cogent and engaging (if overlong) movie. You might not be able to keep up with all the great crowd of characters but you'll get the centrat quartet and more significant players and enjoy some well turned action and typical wry humour along the way.

The cast is not just on game but at the hands of a warmly capable actor's director and deliver. Leonardo DiCaprio is constantly funny as the punch drunk ex-agitprop operative who almost remembers what it was like three decades ago. Teyana Taylor is intimidatingly solid as a revolutionary who gets everything she wants out of what she encounters. Benicio Del Toro has a lot of fun as a martial arts instructor from the old revolutionary days who turns on a dime without a shift in his pulse. Sean Penn is given a dark, demonic other side to his ambitions to rid the galaxy of everything unAmerican, raging here and icy there. And, at the eventual centre of the quest, Chase Infiniti presents a teenager whose cool conceals a cheated mother's cosmic anger. And so on; in a Paul Thomas Anderson joint, you will end up knowing everyone.

The final act reminded me strangely of Boogie Nights, with important differences. Where Anderson's breakthrough hit used the porn mill to arrive at extended family values, One Battle After Another goes through that to pursue something more like a nature/nurture pride of craft. The culmination of the thrilling car chase along an undulating highway delivers a revelation of an intergenerational exchange. It really is a step forward for Anderson.

This is a film whose slickness masks anger. Because of the timelines of production, it would have been on its way before the Trump victory last year but it feels like a response to it. Perhaps it was more like an imagined worst case scenario. We marvel at the Rube Goldberg like falling into place of the evasive tactics of the networks and the warmth of craft of their organisers and we do begin at the border, such a centre of the worst excesses of the campaign. Anderson might well have chosen his material as a warning but found that it was more like a report.

I find it interesting that both he and the comparable Darren Aranofsky have landed on much more straightforward fare for their releases in the first year of Trump Secundus. We could also add Ari Aster's Eddington. America's social and political woes are benefitting from a surfeit of pummeling pushback from the arts. While that might come across as a big so what in light of the terrifying compliance of the nationwide cult, it can still serve as a beacon. May it glow.

SUNSET BOULEVARD @ 75

Joe Gillis came to Hollywood to make his fortune after dazzling the bosses of the dream factory with his genius. After a few B-movies he's hawking around his latest mediocrity and getting shown the door when his own door thunders with the sound of repo men after his car. He blarneys his way out of it but when he is seen driving the jalopy by those very agents, he takes evasive action and darts into the first ungated driveway he can find, parks the beast in the open garage and starts walking away, calculating his next move. When the woman in the window yells at him that he's late and he'd better get in there, he follows as only the down at heel can, because it's better than the motel room.

But this isn't just some Hollywood broad, an old dowager ordering a pool clean, it's former silent movie superstar Norma Desmond. Once he clears up the misunderstanding that he's not actually there to inter the dead chimpanzee on the slab in a shiny white coffin, and that he's actually a writer for the movies, he's kind of hired. Why? Well, Norma has a notion to break back into the flickers with a script as long as the Bible about Salome with her as the star, of course. Ulp! Well, if it gets the debt guys off his back, he's in. After all, as shes just assured him, she's still big, it's the movies that got small.

This Mad Hatter's tea party scenario from 1950 is one of Hollywood's most damning self portraits. If Singing in the Rain softened the notion of Hollywood hope two years later, Sunset Boulevard gave it a big chore. Its combined noir cynicism and deflating pathos create a kind of ethereal horror by which the favours of tinsel town demand the entirety of their applicants. Billy Wilder and co. even supply a more measured image of honest work with the figures of younger people taking more practical paths to careers but Norma's crazed hunger and Joe's own unquestioned opportunism to be elevated by it are the things that leave that bad taste. The focus is on the freak show, not the bright young things. That is what still makes this film essential viewing for anyone who fancies themself a likely player.

Norma's screenplay is a mass of hopeless narcissism and Joe's attempts at editing it, when discovered, are absorbed into her host's ingestion of him as parasite. Of course, he resists being bought at the beginning but he has neither idea nor defence against someone whose riches flowed in from staged histrionics and interpersonal atrocities. For any of his resistance, Joe knows he's signed the contract and, saving opportunity, is effectively doomed. We also know, from the opening scene and narration, that he didn't make it out. We meet him visually floating face down in the swimming pool. We're finding out how he got there.

The tuned casting of this is essential. William Holden was still young but wise enough in his carriage and demeanour to convince us to get behind him. His narration is the same husky snark of a Phillip Marlowe or Same Spade except it begins with a bitterness that both would avoid. 

The real coup is Gloria Swanson. She was a star of silent cinema. She did know De Mille and all the others. She knew the adoration, the parties and the endless champagne and attention. And her career, though it continued beyond the switch to sound, faded steadily to the point when she was more than ready for this. Among all those stars from the Hollywood firmament, she did know the tragedies and horror tales, the delusional and the heartrending. Though not one of them herself, she is in this role speaking for them, not just like them. If anything, she is more authentic and compassionate than the real life Cecil B. DeMille who appears in an extended cameo. Norma's quiet and stern butler is given a hate-filled gravity by silent auteur Josef von Sternberg. This film ain't kidding around. It is to Swanson's persistent credit that her own grotesque turn raises her to triumph in this sordid fable.

Sunset Boulevard was one of David Lynch's favourite films and it's easy to see why. It is an ornate nightmare of masks and fugue states set in a Hollywood that knows how stinking and cruel it always was. This would play seamlessly with Lynch's own attempt, Mulholland Drive, the pair of them craving deep into the horrors of delusion with the most convincing beauty.

Viewing notes: I saw this as Paramount's stunning 4K presentation. However, this one is always around. Not quite a Casablanca or Wizard of Oz, it's been treated well for home video from the DVD era on. If you don't want to commit to a home 4K you could easily come upon it at an op shop for a few bucks. I first saw it on midday TV and was capitvated but that doesn't happen anymore.

Review: FINAL DESTINATION: BLOODLINES

A young couple in the '60s go to the opening of a new skyscraping landmark in their city. By Rub Goldberg increments, the building explodes and collapses, killing everyone, just after he proposes marriage and she confesses pregnancy. Cut to now and uni student Stephanie is being robbed of her sleep because she keeps getting woken by nightmares about the building disaster. She gets back home mid-semester to track down the truth and exorcise the terrors. A visit to her grandmother clears a lot up, including the horrifying news that she and her current family also are in line for Death's ire because Aunt Iris cheated and lived. So, this is a franchise film and we are in for a series of orchestrated kills and circumventions.

As that is the entire plot, I'm going to leave it there, keep this short and rant a little.

I saw the first Final Destination movie at the cinema when it was a new release. It was fine, some very inventive kills and a cameo by the great horror icon Tony Todd (most famous for Candyman). The franchise kept going, essentially repeating and riffing on audience expectations. What's wrong with that? Nothing at all, that's the way horror franchises are meant to work and it's why I avoid most of them. So, what's my problem with this one?

Well, it's historical. The first one was released in 2000. This was a time when mainstream horror had grown bloated by big budgets which saw them paralysed by massive CG effects but also a smoothing of any scares that might alienate the maximisation of their audiences. From the top dollar blandings of Coppola's Dracula and Branagh's Frankenstein, Blade, the cruddy remake of The Haunting, Darkness and too many others, Hollywood's snatching of the genre meant it got richer and stupider and stopped working. The maverick hit Blair Witch Project white anted this over the next decade and horror once again, aided by accessible technology, had a healthy undercurrent. 

This happens in cycles and we're once again at the peak of one whereby ineffective garbage like this, the Waniverse (Conjuring etc.) and so much else, rules the cinema screens and the streamers with nice and toothless horror. What is different this time is that the undercurrent is not affected by this and remains active and successful. So, again, why should I care about this one, can't I just live and let live?

Well, no. It's always worth calling out how a mighty genre can turn into soft serve and rake it in when stuff much tougher still struggles for clicks in the margins. A string of selfconsciously clever kills of people I cannot care about doesn't cut it. When I can be reassured that folk like the Philippou brothers are here to stay and will keep pushing their own envelope so that the big overstuffed popcorn muck like this can take its rightful place in the family safe section.

Tony Todd's cameo in this was his final screen performance before his death last year. It is the sole poignant moment in this movie and, for all its brevity, outclasses the rest of it. In memoriam.

Review: CAUGHT STEALING

When Hank agrees to look after his neighbour's cat in their Manhattan apartment block he quickly finds out how much trouble that has landed him when a pair of Russian mafia thugs beat him unto death's door and reveal a whole mini cosmos of bad behind them. Hank coulda been a baseball player, he is haunted by nightmares of why that didn't happen. Where others might feel like a failure, he reasons that he likes his job at the bar and loves his girlfriend and has pretty much what he needs. He doesn't want what the bad guys want but they have their ways and he's bargaining over riches he isn't pursuing as the stakes get deadly and real. Maybe he should just given the cat some of the tuna from his bagle and gone to the shop, but circumstances won't have that. It's 1998, before the whole world went off. At least there's trip hop on the radio.

After Black Swan, Noah, Mother, and The Whale, Darren Aranofsky might well have felt the need to make something more straightforward, something with a beginning, middle and end in that order that made hard narrative sense. I actually like his more allegorical work but watching this muscular crime thriller made me glad that he can turn something out like this, still. 

Austin Butler reminds me of a young Brad Pitt without the macho bluster. Ok, maybe not in Dune II but certainly here where his Hank lives with development paralysis that he will probably have for life. I won't spoil why he didn't make it into the baseball league but the reason is deep seated enough to give him painful nightmares many years after the incident. The more we learn of this the better we see that he's keeping his head just above the surface tension. He still hasn't quite confronted the possibility that he is destined to be just like the old characters who are his bar's regulars and owners. If he has a motivation it is to keep everything the same as it is now. He keeps the trouble of his past behind a placid face. It's this story's job to turn that into a rictus of agony.

And as this is an Aranofsky movie, we get all this with a layer of kitchen grease and a sheen of beauty. Yvonne (a luminous Zoe Kravitz) and Hank facing each other after racing to get their kits off is sweaty, smelly and alluring, a workaday erotic. Manhattan's weary old streetscapes are both enlivened through action and loom from the weather as indifferent artefacts. Goose that I am, I didn't look out for sight of the pre-2001 Twin Towers but the scene to scene setting doesn't need them. Portishead on the radio feels more like the time. As the storms of violence enter or converge, it's almost a comfort to think of the era before the crazy quilt we live under now.

The lightness beneath the mounting brutality and suspense is kept low. This is necessary to allow us to persist through some convincingly choreographed violence and very dark morality. It's nothing like the knockabout goofiness in the trailer which makes it look like mid-period Coen brothers, but the lightness is where the warmth resides and its supply is kept to a constant undercurrent. Aranofsky's helming is nothing but confident as he keeps the easier comedy from the extreme characters dangerous rather than comic.

A strange aspect of this movie is the sight of fine grain in a film that was shot on 8K digital. I can't find out why that is beyond assuming it was the same kind of process to make it look like film that other titles have used. The strange thing about that is that it immediately reminded me of how Madonna's 90's single Erotica had a sample of vinyl record noise imposed on its entirely digital soundstage. Portishead, heard on the soundtrack along with a host of other trip hoppers from the era, used samples of their own jams to build their sound. Aranofsky's use of the grain, here, feels like a sneaky kind of nostalgia. The pummeling violence, informed by Asian cinema choreography (but not campily, the way Tarantino uses it) stops the spread of that nostalgia. It's an odd moment of detail.

So, it works. Tim Smith's punk works. The Hassidic gangsters work (though their last line is too cute to work) and the setting of the last of the late nineties before the craved new world of runaway found footage success, mobile phone movies, unbridled internet turned capitalist captors and the mainstreaming of political fantasy. This was a time when a Hank could confront in clear lines, the worst of his faults and seek to rise to invention and success. Is this Darren Aranofsky's own farewell to the era that wtinessed his rise with Pi, another story about a talented nice guy beseiged by violent interests. It is harder to be that now, harder to discern the lines. It's the clarity we miss, even if we know it was also illusory. This is fun, it has grave concerns but it's still fun.

Oh ... stay for the end credits.

Caught Stealing is currently on general release.                                                                                                             

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.

Review: DANGEROUS ANIMALS

Tucker, solid wall of salt beef, shows tourists who take him up on his offer of cage dives that sharks are not the worst things in the water, or on it. After a demo of this, we meet young Zephyr who has come to the Gold Coast from the U.S. to escape bad family and surf it away on the big waves. A few chance encounters later, she's on Tucker's boat, waking up to the sight of another abductee. Things could be better.

From this point, as you might expect, this is a tale of action and survival, the only unknowns how far it's going to be taken. At the heart of comparable contests like The Shallows or Gerald's Game, we also need to follow a character's growth and developing strength.

Jai Courtney gives a Tucker whose only emotion is satisfaction from the torment of others. We see this in the prologue scene and we get nothing further. He needs to be most directly comparable to the sharks that his business promises. They are only making their living but Tucker has the choice that makes him worse. Courtney brings a brick shithouse's phsyical force and animal tirumph to render him easily intimidating even before his shows of violence. 

Hassie Harrison's Zephyr is young and damaged, just enough spark left to try and kick against her past through her skill and the freedom of the waves. She is in stark contrast to her fellow prisoner Heather whose trauma is still too recent to smooth over. She, as we, needs Zephyr's fight and in a dialogue of character reinforcement that gets away with sounding a little too written as it feels like the only spark of hope in a starkly bleak situation.

Director Sean Byrne gives us an extension on his action chops as the scene widens out from his previous work to the open water and Tucker's almost medieval torture devices and the threat of the sea itself. There is little point in revealing more plot detail in what is kept to a lean two-hander with support and a constant feed of deeds. This film works exactly as intended and declared which is a lot more than I can say for a lot of similar outings. Faint praise? Not if you see the movie.

Review: DROP

After a prologue of a woman, Violet, facing an extreme DV situation, we cut to her more ordered and stable life years on. She has decided to brave leaving the house and try the dating scene again. The guy seems perfect, hunky but self-effacing. The restaurant is impossibly swanky with dizzy views of the city from its skyscraper setting. Violet's early but her date is keeping her updated with messages and apologies for lateness. An aging suit mistakes her for his blind date and after laughing about it they clink glasses as fellow explorers of later stage romance search. 

When the guy, Henry, arrives the chemistry is immediate. Then during the small talk, she gets a drop on her phone, a challenge. She ignores it and all the subsequent ones until the sender shows her his hack of her home security system with a balaclava-ed intruder waving a gun in the living room. What do they want? Henry. Dead. Nope, they already thought of the police or her telling Henry. They can see and hear her. She has to kill Henry with a phial of something lethal, planted in the towel dispenser in the loo. She has to think fast and well.

Christopher Landon who has already proved himself a strong director in the thriller and horror corner for the Happy Death Day films and the clever Freaky, gives us a sprightly, Hitchcockian story of invention against threat. This does not bear very close examination, once you take the setups and parade of tension releases along the way, the overall scheme just won't work. But that's situation normal for the genre.

It's also clouded and very pleawsantly by the sheer chemistry between the two leads played by Meghann Fahy and Brendon Sklenar whose interplay and individual actions in the busy setting take our minds well away from the plot holes. The camera is ready to move on call but also assuages us with static setups we need for character. The drops are delivered on screen as large font angled as through projected on to the walls. At one point there is a patchwork of Violet's home security cameras cast around her. These are like freeze frames of her concentrated attention and augment the more typical phone screenshots with a lot more urgency. In showing this kind of flair, we are invited into Violet's anxiety, knowing that, for all the brightness and scale of the notifications they are being read only by her. Add the vertigo of the window-side table and you've got some nice queasy moments of dread.

There's not much more to say about this Blumhouse produciton; it really does what it says on the tin. However, at a time when new genre tales are coming out with bloated running times, this ninety-five minute pacer, wins its slot.

VIewing notes: currently available for hire through Prime

Review: EDDINGTON

Eddington, New Mexico, May 2020. The small western town is in lockdown. The mayor promotes social distancing but doesn't always practice it. The sherrif doesn't believe the virus has made it to the hamlet even though the town drunk is clearly afflicted and roams the streets and bars spreading it to the air around him. Meanwhile, the youth are rising, turning their sort-of distanced keggers into political meetings as the community responds variously to the news, Black Lives Matter and Antifa and calls for defunding the police hit the air. Little Eddington is behaving like big America with protests made of a babel of differing directions and a comgin showdown between the mayor and the sherriff. Don't worry about missing anything, though, everyone's phone is out and it will all be online in varying degrees of truth. 

Ari Aster, one of the wunderkinds of the 2010s, consolidating his early win Hereditary with the epic scaled Midsommar and then confounded most of his fans with the massive fable Beau is Afraid. Now he's back and has his sights on the greater American epic in the manner of Robert Altman's Nashville, Paul Thomas Anderson's Boogie Nights or the Coens' No Country for Old Men. The difference, here, is not with approach, they're all of a piece when you look at them, but in how the film suggests not that this is America now but how it happened. The information age that was freeing everyone constrained to remote cultures (or just remote basements) was devoured by capitalism and where once numbers ruled influence usurped democracy. So, instead of an America seen through porn or country music or greed, we see how the invading pandemic appears and then is exploited to transform a flawed but functioning elder democracy into an atomised mess.

While it is clear to see parallels between the characters and the COVID years' public figures, Aster doesn't labour it by being too declaritive. Neither Sherriff Joe nor Mayor Ted evoke a Trump. The conspiracy star Vernon doesn't have to correspond to any particular figure, being so all purpose. Are the terrorist-like groups Antifa, a false flag Klan, or something evern weirder? No idea but they do fire real rounds. But when we see the resulting order, the society that emerges from the rubble of the medical, cultural and political tornado, we know that we are watching types that now walk our earth in positions of authority, having once been lax lawmen, blithering conspiracists or centrist town elders.

Joaquin Phoenix offers a finely tuned and nuanced Joe who's ok at keeping the peace but doesn't handle the confusion of his times well. When one of the rioters assuages a loud protest by manipulating it into silence, Joe walks off, seeing the result is good enough. It's a performance that warns us that he will break, that his voice at the higher end of his register will gun it into a big guitar through a Marshall stack distortion. At the more Zen end of the spectrum, the I'm-in-everything Pablo Pascal as Mayor Ted Garcia, shepherds his consituents into living the right way until he needs to have a fundraiser BBQ and all the regulations loosen. The meeting of these two forces at that occasion is the point where the chaos takes full spark.

Emma Stone has few lines but her torn character takes heart-rending life when she is embraced by Austin Butler's Vernon, a soft spoken rabble rouser. Young Cameron Mann makes one of the biggest transitions from well meaning teenager to the lightlessness of the ultra right.Aster's talent lies in the smoothness of all of this. The film does feel long but also crafted. It's the craft that keeps us there; from the rich digital cinematography and dolby atmos audio mix to the warmth of the performances across the board to the rallying cry to look to as much truth as you can find, it's in the craft

Viewing notes: a small morning session at Kino was blissfully uneventful. Eddington is on gerneral release.

Review: TOGETHER

After a prologue that will remind you of John Carpenter's The Thing, we meet Tim and Millie who are about to move a little out of town to a lushly forrested country house. As partners, they are on a plateau where things have got a little too routine and their youthful hopes are dragging into inertia. At a sendoff, Millie proposes marriage in Millenial fashion and Tim bungles it with hesitation before an anticlimactic acceptance. Their night together features pillow talk that would render anyone in a long term relationship icy. Is it just a dream? Established in their new place, they whimsically go for a hike, find the location of the prologue, enjoy a bonding moment and wake up fused together at the calf muscles. That bit is not a dream.

Michael Shanks's debut feature of his own script (more on that later) wastes no time in establishing the dull pain of this part of a relationship and how the magical fusion the couple is suffering is directly punishing their drift. The central couple is played by real life couple Dave Franco and Allison Brie who immerse themselves into roles that, while they once might have been poignantly close to their real lives, might serve on ly as distant memories as recriminations about their progress as professionals and partners come up as part of daily conversation. The interesting thing about this depiction is that it swerves away from comedy when it might have gloried in it.

As such, it is more like an early '90s indie as directed by David Cronenberg with both flinty candour about coupledom and sex and body morphing ick. We are given a generous ramp of development before we get to the crucial moment when the central conceit is made flesh (so to type) and when the concept prevails and the expected twists and turns take place, the film falls into mechanical efficiency. Thanks to the stars, this works as they work hard to give us cause for empathy despite the writing presenting two entitled ocnsumer grade narcissists.

Also of note is the casting of Damon Herriman. Herriman has already played Charles Manson twice as well as a handful of other edgy nutjobs and he plays them for all they're worth. As fellow teacher Jamie at the school where Millie works, he's instantly offputting, mixing insinuation with a kind of Ikea-assembled charm. His quiet queasy menace sustains to the end.

This film arrives on screens under a cloud, being the subject of a lawsuit for plagiarism from an earlier Australian film called Better Half. I haven't seen that but I can tell you that the case is not just a plain stealing of an idea. I'll leave it to you to harvest the details but it does hamper the reception of this finely wrought film that unusually examines the creepier aspects of long term relationships so candidly. Does Better Half do the same or simliar? Well, I'd like to see it.

Until then, I'll be happy enough recommending this strange tale as an energetic and substantial essaying of the dangers of intimacy and the look of it when it's forced.

Viewing notes: Not only was I up for a free ticket due to my club membership at Kino, I had the whole screening to myself, a kind of reverse experience from the annoyance of Monday's cinema outing. Together is currently on general cinema release.

Review: WEAPONS

One night, at 2.17 in the morning, all but one of a primary school class get out of bed, go out the front door and run into the dark with their arms arched like wings. The community, in a show of communal reason, blame the teacher who is dismissed from her position and turns to vodka for assistance. She's as haunted as anyone and feels the kind of guilt that cannot be assuaged philosophically. Meanwhile, in a series of chapters that cover the same time period in the ensuing days, a cop, a homeless addict, a parent and the school principal, all make their way through the mystery of the disappearance. And then things start coming together.

Zach Cregger gave the world in 2022 the wrong-footing and heart-winning Barbarian whose sudden shifts and rug pulls revealed all of the skills of his comedian beginnings to expose his love of comedy's obverse, horror. Weapons is what his fellow Americans call his sophomore effort and it reminded me, if only in how the differences between debut and follow-up appear, of the Philippou brothers' second feature Bring Her Back. In both cases there is an intensification of elements key to the first outings and a downturn on the humour. Both are subtler than their predecessors but also nastier.

The creepiness of missing children has been an infrequently recalled trope in horror cinema and the first title Weapons reminds me of is The Brotherhood of Satan with its small town aridity and eeriness. We also get a kind of Pennywise in the figure of Gladys. By the time you meet her you'll understand why I say that, so it's not a spoiler. Shallow comparisons aside, though, the ruling mood here is the uncanny, things that almost make sense stop short of it set free the dogs of menace.

Casting here is as fine as Barbarian with the young female lead of the hour Julia Garner as the strong woman rendered fragile by the circumstances and the atmosphere of resentment and hatred around her. She doesn't miss a beat. Josh Brolin as his usual welcome lug with a heart. Amy Madigan renders her every breath unnerving. If each of these weren't offering the best they had the twisted tale would unravel about half way as the artifice begins to show. They do what all good performances do in delicate plotting, distract with organic warmth. One thing demanding mention here is the aid that Cregger's tracking camera gives with the sense of queasiness (at one point making the skeletal junkie figure tower and demoralise). A solid directorial strategy.

As the plot and its matter appear more clearly, with some unnecessary clarification in the narration, we are taken home to a conclusion that, for all its supernature, makes sense. While I was continually engaged over the long two and a half hour running time, I did begin to miss the persistent restraint of the horror behind the horror in Barbarian. That said, I'd much rather watch this than almost anything currently offered by MIFF this year. Yes, that's a hobby horse but it's still true.

Viewing notes: I went to see this at Hoyts in the morning and al was dandy until a small group of  wagging teenagers sat to one side near the front, kicked their shoes off and started talking. I turned and glared at them until I got their attention, a small wave from one of them who nodded when I put a finger to my lips. Their droning mumble lowered to whispers. It rose again as the soundtrack volume swelled and then didn't subside until I glared again. As the credits rolled and the lights came up. I caught the eye of one of them and asked why he had to talk all the way through. I almost instantly regretted it as he responded as though I was a teacher with a kind of feeble excuse that they had been whispering. I reminded him that I had heard them and added that I paid for a ticket to see and hear the film and not him. No reply. I saw them looking for an unofficial exit as the rest of us filed out. I went out into the light of day wishing I'd used the truancy card but then reasoned that it wouldn't have had much of an effect. You go in the morning of a week day and this happens.

Review: VIDEOHEAVEN

Can you remember the last time you went to a video shop as part of your domestic routine? The weekend night you weren't going out or the movie marathon you organised with your friends, or maybe on a whim a mid-week catchup with something you missed at the cinema? It really was a while back, wasn't it? You might have forgotten your local one. Mine was a place called Video Busters and had a massive floor space and a big expansive range from the latest hits to obscure continental gore fests. In 2012, I was housebound with a leg in a cast and in two months, while I was recovering, the entire block that housed that shop, the chemist and the medical clinic had all been redeveloped. The shop did re-emerge further down the road and kept up the ice cream and snacks it had been selling to keep things afloat. But a lot of the stock was on sale. I picked up a few Asian horror titles I didn't know and pretty much left it there in the street to end its life. It had gone by the close of the year.

This film is not the documentary I had assumed it would be but a deep diving essay into the market, the cultural phenomenon and the social space of the video shop through its decades long history. Instead of talking head recollections from former owners and staff, we get the flinty tones of Maya Hawke talking us through an epic three hour examination.

At first, to allow us an appreciation of it scale, we are treated to a compact history of the technology and its rapid commodification that affected both cinema attendance and tv habits to install itself as a constant rival to previous standard business. One thing that such a stretching vista omits is how a flop at the cinema could be a durable hit on home video. That surprised me.

Otherwise, the chaptered sections begin to specialise. Aspects like the social arena of the spaces and its depiction in movies and TV shows, the figure of the video store clerk in feature films as toxic cinephilic gatekeeper, the language of cinematic taste in rom coms, and the depiction of the business in popular culture as it waned against the tide of convenience offered by streaming services. Carpeted by TV and movie clips that expand from instant illustrations to a series of deep dives, the arc describes the passing of an institution by cultural change from the ground up, just as TV and home video itself had. 

I watched this as a MIFF stream on ACMI 3 and intended to slice it into digestible pieces but, after some initial resistance as I got used to the chalk and talk approach, I just let it absorb me whole with its subtle but mesmeric repetition and massive supply of quotes. Depictions of video shops in fiction were far more prevalent than I recall and chosen to provide solidity to the discourse. Instead of the nostalgic to-cameras I was worried about, I was engaged to compulsion by this revisit to a thing that folk of my age down to millennials will remember as a dependable part of the weekly roll. While, I didn't wander, check the phone or interrupt the stream for too long, I know I missed quite a few points and might well seek this on physical media to cover everything that slipped by. I know it's ironic but it suits.

Viewing notes: As I'm not buying into the stress of MIFF this year, I'm choosing very few things to see and was happy to stream this through the ACMI3 app. This looked and proved essential. I am glad I didn't have to put up with the distractions of contemporary festival audiences for three hours in a cinema but enjoyed this in the cloister of my lounge room. I'd recommend that approach.

Review: 40 ACRES

After an agrarian apocalypse, the most precious thing is arable land. North America has become a land of self sufficient farms. So you are going to get raiders, invaders, post-urban imperialists to move in and take over. We open as the Freeman family's place is getting taken. The rough and ready land pirates move through the thin grain crop. They are surrounded in the thick by eerie whistles. In a matter of minutes, they are all lethally dispatched. C'est la vie.

The entirety of the first and second acts are spent on character and family development and it takes on the distinct feel of a literary adaptation: deep characterisation, back story, leisurely pacing, chapter titles. Then a detail is revealed and everything breaks. This makes for a riveting final act but at the time it occurred to me how forgiving we are of a pedestrian beginning when act 3 is action packed.

And then, as the credits rolled and I and my companion stood and made our way out, it occurred to me that when the action is so heavily concentrated at the business end, how eager we will overlook the ease of the falling final action. Anyone who has done their thinking about narrative structure will consider these statements naïve singsong but I've seldom seen a film where I was so keenly watching my own responses.

That is not to say that this film is too formulaic but when it does enter genre territory it becomes very obedient of it and the narrative beats are palpable. This is eased by the performances which are robust across the board, particularly Danielle Deadwyler as the military-trained earth mother, and Kataem O'Connor as the son and heir trying to work out what kind of person he needs to be for a future as raggedly promised as this one.

There is more made of descendance as a theme, here, than I would have expected. The Freemans came from post-Civil War slaves who moved north across the Canadian border to shake the stigma of bonded ownership. The companion family is native north  American, retaining language and cultural traditions. The encroaching antagonists are weighted to the historically likely northern Europeans. These last seem like the forced but doomed people who have chosen the way of the spoiler that I won't be revealing.

This is where the film does start working for its living and the stakes produced by those issues come into life/death levels. While I can't be recommending 40 Acres as a post apocalyptic scenario I will suggest that its thematic overlay does have merit and the cast do some solid bearing. There are a few too many flaws due to genre-service but, really, it's not the end of the world.

Viewing notes: I saw this as a plus one in an advanced screening at Cinema Nova. A very fine spirited time. On general release in Australia from August 14 2025.

PEEPING TOM @ 65

We watch as a sex worker gets killed by a client, almost entirely through the crosshairs of a camera viewfinder. Through the same crosshairs we watch the police investigation the next morning. The camera operator is Mark Lewis, young, fresh faced and lethal. He shoots porn above a newsagents as a moonlighting job but mostly pulls focus on feature films. He lives in a large terrace house in London which he partially lets to tenants. He has little to do with them, preferring to stay upstairs watching his home movies. 

One night he pauses at the window of the mother/daughter pair on the ground floor. There's a party going on for young, sweet Helen and they notice him gazing in a little too long. Helen is curious and catches him on the stair, offering a slice of cake. She follows him upstairs and asks about his camera. Of course she wants to see something. He shows her a series of experiment films his biologist father took of the young Mark which go from charming to unnerving in seconds. Ok, that's where he got it from. Helen is scooped back by one of her party guests and leaves, disturbed but intrigued.

Reading all that, you might have come to the conclusion that this is an early serial killer film like M or its fellow 1960 horror Psycho. That's true enough when you consider the onscreen murders in the film itself and the implied bulk of previous crimes canned away on celluloid in Mark's attic, but most of the running time is actually taken up with a romance. It's a strange and unsettling romance but a romance all the same. 

Casting is key, here. Carl Boehm as Mark, is supposedly a Londoner. The actor makes no attempt at disguising his Teutonic accent. Powell, no slouch at maximising the value of his casts, appears to have encouraged this, and not just for giving his lead actor a comfortable base. No explanation is given for Boehm's voice which could be a prototype for every Kraftwerk album ever made and this affords it an unease that the posher English voice Mark Lewis might be expected to affect. It is there to unnerve an audience who had had the time to learn of the horrifying extent that the Nazi scientists took their experiments. His grown up Peter Lorre cooing sounded of the laboratory and the death camp; nothing homely, nothing warm.

Anna Massey as Helen has escaped from a Cliff Richard movie into a London that hasn't yet started its '60s swing. She is less pure than unformed and eager to find definition, even by the side of a soft voiced monster. She is not turned off by Mark's private cinema of his father's cruelty but enticed by its results. It's unknowing rather than naivete that drives her to pursue him, persuading him to leave his now-organic camera behind on a dinner date. She sees him stop and linger near a necking couple and reach for the mechanism but just pulls him away, as though she is flicking away the cigarette of a compulsive smoker. We have seen her courted by far more eligible specimens in the same residential crew but it is the other that attracts her. This does lead to a confrontation, as it must within the era's ethics but she has followed it to that point through fascination.

Necessary mention must be given to Helen's hard-arse mother played by Maxine Audley. Embittered and toughly cynical, she suspects Mark of horrors and confronts him about his compulsive behaviour. Her blindness prohibits her from being either horrified by his record or seduced by it. She warns him away from her daughter, knowing, with or without evidence, that he is beyond redemption. She knows him through his sound, thudding on the floor above, the projector ticking away. With the teen romances of the '50s fading, this difficult morsel of love and violence was a good decade before its time. You could look ahead to Badlands, Taxi Driver or Natural Born Killers but you'd still not find as dark and deep a pairing as Helen and Mark but there it was.

Peeping Tom was savaged by critics and left alone by audiences on release and sank into obscurity for decades until corners of the now obsolete late night movies on TV allowed it some air. Michael Powell's career was finished in the UK and found himself thrown back to the fate of criminal pariahs by getting transported to Australia where he made films as celebrated as They're a Weird Mob and as winced at as the dodgy Age of Consent. It wasn't until the '80s that Martin Scorsese took up the champion token and arranged for the restoration of the likes of Red Shoes, Matter of Life and Death, Black Narcissus and, finally, the strangest one, Peeping Tom.

I knew about this film from an article in a magazine about a rare cinema screening of it. I needed to see it but there was no way. A friend, much later, lent me his TV tape of it and I was hooked. This is a film not to love but to acknowledge. If you get to know Powell's stunning work with long time collaborator Emeric Pressburger you might resist this on first look but the aesthetic, the use of colour and the strange mix of the urban merry England and dark fantasy carry over. As a marker for a junction in crime fiction cinema, add this to the same year's Psycho for context and watch the time line as the rest of the world caught up. 

Viewing notes: I first saw this as a dub from TV then as a DVD, then Criterion's Blu-Ray and finally Studio Canal's stunning 4K which is currently available in Australia (including a Blu-Ray disc) at a moderate price. 

PLANET OF THE VAMPIRES @ 60 (Mild spoilers)

A pair of exploration ships respond to a distress beacon while in deep space. As they approach the planet and prepare to land the crews suddenly start beating each other up. Captain of the Gallio Markary, manages to control himself and breaks up the fights and the crew return to normal, reporting feelings of being manipulated. The landing goes well and the atmosphere and gravity are hospitable. Locating the other ship, they find the crew, including Markary's brother, dead and an essential piece of equipment intentionally damaged. Once buried, the remaining crew, set about finding the source of the beacon, now considering it an act of hostility. Could it have come from the crashed ship with the giant skeletons over there? Guess not. They aren't stranded but they also might not be themselves, effectively binding them to the planet. Things to do.

Mario Bava's 1965 eerie sci-fi is a triumph of artistry and vision over meagre means. Bava had already put in some serious service by inventing the giallo crime thriller and answered Hammer with a continental version of gothic horror in films that remain impressive. The Bava name stretches back to his father, a cinematographer from the early silent era, and forward to his son Lamberto, himself no slouch in giallo and horror in the '70s and '80s. Planet comes near the mid point and, as we'll see, reaches into the past and future.

One of the persistent issues with this film is that 1979's Alien ripped it off. You'll get that with the giant skeleton in the old crashed ship and the false beacon by themselves. You could go further. The twin phallic engines of the Gallio and its genital front door (made more labial under H.R. Geiger's design) as well as the ribbed interiors and jagged, misty landscapes. What's missing is the physical alien, the xenomorph that becomes the plot of Ridley Scott's film. That's not really a massive steal.

What we do get is much more like John Carpenter's 1982 re-adaptation of The Thing where the alien could be anybody. It's actually a little scarier. The crew are effectively parasitised by an ethereal consciousness that intends to travel inside the crew back home and transform the planet into a colony. They've all but destroyed their own planet, which should tell you a little about their character. But this is not Star Trek (which hadn't been broadcast at the time), it's a space opera by the writer-director of Blood and Black Lace; Markary and his dwindling company aren't interested in civilising the insidious colonisers but shaking them off and fleeing the scene. That, after a little gore unusual for its era, is what they set about doing.

The mention of Star Trek there might have set off some images. Yes, this very cheaply made movie was shot on sets that could have been from a '60s TV show. Bava joked that the landscapes were made out of a couple of plastic rocks reused over and over. But that's false modesty. There are many shots that involve optical illusions that Bava's father used in the early years of cinema. So, yes, the space ship in the credit sequence looks like a bath toy against some starry wrapping paper but as soon as the ship lands and the scene changes to an alien world things lift dramatically. One of the durable techniques is to shoot a mirror reflecting a miniature set, with a cutout through which cast members can be seen performing. It is more seamless that the dioptric shot in Jaws of bad hat Harry and the beach, within the aesthetic, it looks realistic. Bava uses this for interiors, as well, rendering the ship gigantic. The ringed entrance to the crashed alien ship is a marvel of forced perspective. The gore effects might surprise you.

The score is solidly electronic but not the weird and wonderful symphony of Forbidden Planet (itself a wonder) but a low key moody series of drones and growls. If anything, I could have wished for a lot more of it (although it occurred to me, when watching it for this blog, that it must have been a slog getting what sounds we did get in the first place: see also Delia Derbyshire's work for the BBC). It's not just a theremin and a few kazoos. John Carpenter almost certainly saw this film near its release and would have cause to recall the sounds of its atmosphere.

That said, Planet of the Vampires drags Bava's '60s rap sheet with its slow pacing through some fairly obvious revelations and the stiffness of the international cast who were speaking their lines in their own languages. Post-sound was normal practice for Italian cinema well past this point and the resulting Babels of on-set voices was never considered a hurdle. This was the first time I chose to watch it in Italian with subtitles and preferred the experience to hearing the strangled dubs (even though the Italian is also a dub). But I'd still recommend the curious sci-fi fan or cinephile seeking it out for the atmosphere building and wow-factor of the resourcefulness on display. Bava's space horror, for all its creakiness, remains a treasure.

Viewing notes: I've had this on a non-anamorphic DVD and a slightly better Blu-Ray but I watched it most recently on Radiance's stunning boxed Blu-Ray with a squeaky clean remastering. The thing looks a little too good when coming up against some of the model work and effects but most of what is on screen is a notch above what you'd see in the remastered Star Trek and so quite easily adjusted to. There is a possiblity of a 4K but I can't see it doing all that much more than here (then again, I've said that a lot). This might have once been available locally but not at time of writing, so the only way of getting it (not on streaming either) is to shell out for a physical copy. The box set I bought is prohibitive for taking a punt so ebay for a DVD might be the go. Sorry I can't be more help.

THE GOONIES @ 40

A local bad guy escapes from prison. Across town, a group of friends gather at one of their houses to help prepare for the move due to the imminent buy-out from the local real estate money grubbers. The Goonies from the Goon Docks, they stumble on an adventure which could get them out of the move. It leads them to the bad guy's lair. When the bad guy finds out about the Goonies' treasure map, things collide and the adventure just won't quit. Through old houses, waterslides, caves rigged with traps, and an old pirate ship and a cast from the sidelines of a Spielberg movie, this is everything that a mid-'80s American movie needs to be.

While characters are clearly defined with text book keynotes and the world building is of the magical suburban that was sold to audiences from the Spielberg stable and its imitators, we are treated to a plot that works a treat and moves at a clip. If you have seen Stranger Things but not The Goonies you might be struck with an odd deja vu. You might also notice that this PG rated piece with its hard on jokes and sex references got away with that. If anything the rating system has become more protective of the sensibilities of the under fifteens. Then again, with a cast dominated by that group, for whom else was this movie made?

Answer: for the family night at the movies and then the home video night. John Hughes had already nailed the teen and young adult date night market, Spielberg's concerns went straight to the audience that got into everything else he'd made or oversaw. The Goonies is a kids Raiders of the Lost Ark. It won't have the goofy Nazis but it can have the kind of baddies that would later appear in the likes of Home Alone. You don't get a single Indy Jones but why would you need him when each of the kids has his or her own quest?

The difference between just squeezing it down to essentials and making a movie that the kids want to see again and again is a director who can bring some serious mainstream muscle to the project, so that it never gets too cute. Richard Donner did the prestige TV to big screen journey like Frankenheimer or Lumet, only Donner kept at the big movie side of things, hitting huge with The Omen and Superman. Reigning in the cutesy tendencies of a Spielberg story that were allowed too much bloom in things like Gremlins, was part of the assignment for him. What we get from this is a non-stop fun ride with some acceptable life lessons for the little 'uns along the way.

As much love as this movie gets from Gen Xers with nostalgia, there is an elephant hanging around in the corner. The Goonies fulfilled the need for a second bite at the Indy Jones cherry but it was also doing service for the lack of a property that was claimed so hard that it was in development and negotiation purgatory for a time beyond the patience of the great marketeers of the Spielberg stable. The TV mini-series of IT would not get to screens until five years after The Goonies but the book was burning a hole in the yearning of its fans. Concentrating on the kids adventure theme allowed the team to avoid too close comparisons and any copyright headaches while churning out yet another rollercoaster ride on film. 

As rides go, it's a good one. Donner, clearly appreciating the bigger budget, pulls out some dazzling set direction and complicated camera moves along with a host of practical effects which work without needing an apology. However, for me, this is like Christmas, wondrous as a child but meaningless without kids of my own. I didn't bother with it as a new cinema release at the time as Spielberg and co. had long worn out their welcome for me. I saw it on TV in the '90s and then for this on streaming. It did kick better on the recent revisit. It's a film for an appetite; if yours doesn't crave it, you'll never pick it up but if it does, you'll be eating warmth.

Viewing notes: The Goonies is available on DVD and 4K through retailers but currently streamed through SBS on Demand. 

TEEN WOLF @ 40

Scott sucks at basketball. When we first meet him he fails his shot at the hoop in front of his schoolmates. The other thing that's happening is his body is changing. He yanks straggles of hair from his chest, his nose can detect a liverwurst sandwich through a layer of socks in his friend's locker and his ears are going pointy. Sent in to buy a keg of beer a a liquor store he scares the old guy behind the counter into selling it to his underage self. Then one night there's a full moon and he finally goes full werewolf and his father comes to him in his own werewolf form and tells him they need to talk.

At first, he keeps this from everyone as he's a teenager and self conscious but, a few accidental moments later, everyone soon knows and in a bizarre twist, he is accepted as a werewolf. His game improves and he is finally getting the attention of the alpha chick. So, as long as he's ok with it, he's a lycanthrope daywalker who's come into his body and style. Well, the alpha chick has a sporty alpha boyfriend whose jealousy is growing faster than the hair on Scott's body. Also, his childhood friend with the tomboy name of Boof is becoming much more than that. And he still sucks at basketball. And now everyone wants him to be the werewolf all the time. This is going to take some working out.

Rod Daniel's amiable teen comedy takes the nebbish coming of age tale a step into magical realism with a more absurdist tinge than anything related to horror. The insistence on Scott's life tests in his basketball skills is a continuing undercurrent that feels warm rather than cute and his growing negotiation with Boof feels natural rather than the brittleness that a John Hughes would have made it. In fact, in its own way, Teen Wolf is an effective counter to Hughes's self-important teenage epics. Not as much as Heathers would prove to be but in its developing celebration of teamwork rather than peer-enforced conformity earns it a lot of points.

Michael J. Fox, still high on his Alex role in the hit com Family Ties and a smash in the recent Back to the Future is perfect casting for Scott. Credibly good looking and affectless, his charisma seems effortless next to most of the cast of stock characters. Jerry Levine slots into the kind of identikit Ferris whacky guy who surfs car roofs and comes up with publicity and money making schemes. Seldom has a high schooler looked so thirty something. Lorie Griffin as alpha Pamela shows promise but is written so flat that all she has to do is look pretty and be casually bitchy. Susan Ursitti as Boof is the only younger cast member that meets Fox on his own level. Her quiet persistence and nuanced longing are masked with the kind of day-to-day relaxed face that her character does a little too well. Of the adults, James Hampton plays a lightly whacky werewolf dad to Scott which offers both gravitas and era-typical bizarreness to a comedy parent.

For a score we get a dominance of what Americans still think of as '80s music with a kind of Neanderthal take on yacht rock broken up by sugary electronics. That's the way you had to sell it at the time, even after some promising looks away like the Risky Business score (mind you, that was Tangerine Dream). What are you gunna do, it works for the party and prom scenes.

Teen movies from this context are dominated by John Hughes whose pontificating style imposed itself on everything not touched by the Spielberg stable. This is what makes a film like Teen Wolf feel so light. The ersatz Ferris Bueller, Stiles feels like a loser without the Bueller sociopathy and when Scott does his more gynmastic turn surfing on the car roof it feels more ho hum than it should. Instead of light I got the sense that this, like everything in the same vein, had to pass the Hughes test to get funded. There is unrealised seriousness here that might have broken it out. It would be years until Heathers and decades until the power of Ginger Snaps but who's complaining, Teen Wolf was a world wide hit which is what it was meant to be, it just happened to have been made at a time when looking away from the assembly line just felt too dangerous.