THE COLLECTOR

Director - Marcus Dunstan
Starring - Josh Stewart, Michael Reilly Burke, Andrea Roth, Juan Fernandez, Karley Scott Collins

Four viewings and this one still excites me. Easily one of the best horror flicks of 2009, The Collector is also amongst the upper echelon of North American horror in recent memory. (A couple more viewings and this one may cement itself quite high up the chain of horror, period.) Director Marcus Dunstan, and co-writer/partner in crime Patrick Melton, grow far beyond their capable work on wrapping up the Saw franchise, and construct an intense-as-hell twist on the recently popular sub-genre of "home invasion" films, inverting the threat so that it now comes from within. An arsenal of cinematic elements are all masterfully manipulated to amp up the tension, and that is the true beauty of the film; stripping away the amazing kill/torture scenes (of which there are numerous) would still leave the viewer with an established anti-hero, stunning cinematography, stylish editing, and an effective soundtrack. Just one more example of superior film making that will inevitably go widely unheralded due to negative connotations associated with this genre. (Sigh.) Combine these elements with a whole mess of blood and pain, and top it all off with an iconic killer, and the result is one of the best pieces of high-concept horror I have ever seen.


Even the snobbiest non-horror fan would have a difficult time denying the beauty of the most memorable shots; two separate overhead sequences spring immediately to my mind, but I certainly don't want to detract from any of the other segments, overhead or otherwise. The striking, straight down aerial shot as Arkin's car pulls off the back road, headlights cutting through the mist to illuminate scattered flora, remains a quietly foreboding marker of his final separation from the outside world. The second is the overhead circular pan as Arkin and the Collector press upon opposite sides of a door, the wall bisecting the frame, reinforcing the close proximity of the threat and the minimal amount of protection actually afforded by one's home. (Shattering the illusion of the home as sanctuary is one of the many thematic elements prevalent throughout not only this film, but also the entire sub-genre.) I do find it a bit curious that amidst all the skin ripping, lip sewing, and gut spilling, I was continuously taken by the shots of aesthetic value...how very uncharacteristic of me...I must be growing up... From the inserted close-ups of the curling arm hairs or the blood oozing out the keyhole, to the low angle of Larry's blood mixing with water, to the wonderfully disorienting interior of the rolling ambulance with Arkin stationary at the bottom of the frame, many visually innovative choices are made with resounding success. Kudos to cinematographer Brandon Cox and a host of other names I didn't bother to look for during the credits.


Of course, any final product is the sum of it's parts, and their subsequent relation to one another, and The Collector adeptly utilizes all surrounding elements in its construction. The lighting is very notable, taking full advantage of any intruder's necessity for a flashlight or the impending lightning storm. Flashes expose otherwise invisible threats, often providing the viewer with a piece of omniscient knowledge; a classic means of creating suspense. The soundtrack is punctuated with some over-amplified diegetic background noises (ie. the ticking clock or the ever-present crickets,) stressing the notions of urgency and isolation. All of it is seamlessly cut together, often employing rapid crosscutting, always in the name of intensity, and never as a cheap means of copping out on gore. I counted 5 scenes that alternate between simultaneous yet separate zones of action, (too excessive?), and given that I love indulgence, found they all worked extremely well. Most impressive of the batch was the three-point standoff between Jill and her boyfriend (oblivious of everything), the Collector (intently watching them), and Arkin approaching, surveying all parties. It creates a very precarious bond reliant on being unaware of the observer, culminating in Jill's inverted P.O.V. of the lascivious Collector, and explodes into chaos.


Both Josh Stewart and Juan Fernandez lead a strong yet numbered supporting cast, fleshing out their characters as they alternate between the roles of predator and prey. The correlation between the two is much of the reason as to why this isn't simply "cat-and-mouse" fare. Stewart's "Arkin" is well realized, foreshadowing his calmly calculating demeanor and protective tendencies through his early dealings with the wasps and the spider; no coincidence that the Collector is an exterminator... The look on his face as he concedes to re-entering the house to save Hanna exudes as much bravery as it elicits pathos. Fernandez shapes the titular antagonist, face obscured for the film's entirety (as any good serial killer should be), relying on postures and body movements to denote emotion. The salacious manner in which he licks his lips, or anxiously tosses the blade from one hand to the other, or the way he moves purposefully when the situation demands countered by the delicate, almost effeminate, fashion in which he releases the spider, all add small, specific characteristics to a man whose greater details are shrouded in mystery.


International "home invasion" flicks have been exploding in both quality and notoriety, with Funny Games, Inside, Martyrs, and the American-made yet distinctly un-American remake Funny Games breaking ground and making waves, (at least within my own circle-of-one,) while North America anted in with the mildly amusing and fairly safe The Strangers. The Collector marks an effort that ranks alongside its formerly superior brethren. It blends the great elements of film-making without ever losing sight of its gore flick sensibilities. And the blood is fucking awesome. Often in close-up. There's something inherently special about a movie that kills off both a cat and a dog. It also excels in the necessity to feature an iconic masked killer; if the killer is wearing a mask, he better be memorable, otherwise fans won't have something to latch onto. Paint me excited for the sequel, in 3D no less, but what Dunstan and Melton need to avoid here is another Feast 2 debacle; more CGI and silliness did not prevail then, and it will not prevail now. Regardless, The Collector is one more in the growing number of very strong English entries in the realm of horror, exemplifying the re-invigorated respect for the genre.

HARPOON: WHALE WATCHING MASSACRE

Director - Julius Kemp
Starring - Gunnar Hansen, Pihla Viitalia, Nae Yuuki, Miranda Hennessy

Allow me to be the first person to express my relief over the title change that occurred for this film's North American release; sure, the Whale Watching Massacre moniker remained unaltered (and firmly denotes this flick's roots), but what the fuck could I have expected from a Reykjavik? Harpoon...now there's a term upon which I can build great expectations. Very clearly the by-product of maniacal-family slasher films of yesteryear, Harpoon is generally quite successful in capturing that low budget, atmospheric tone and sensibility as is alluded to in its subtitle. Hell, it's even got Gunnar Hansen signed on in a fifth business role, though he did get top billing in order to reiterate the major inspirational forces. (Of course, you and I both know that Captain Leatherface suffers a pretty nasty boo-boo about 25 minutes in, and is never to be heard from again...I wonder if old Gunnar was originally going to appear in the film as the father of the family, but had to go home after a half day of shooting on the open water wrought havoc on his arthritis...)


Director Julius Kemp and friends (wisely?) ally themselves with the prestigious Icelandic Film Company and take a very tried and very true formula, usually relegated to the backwoods or a cavernous desert, and set it atop ships on an ocean. Which sounds a little questionable, but works surprisingly well, and just goes to show the versatility of the "backwoods bumpkin" sub-genre. (It also makes me excited for the inevitable upcoming feature set in outer space.) The ship's confining spaces and dirty, interchangeable hallways play quite admirably to the strengths and necessities of this type of material.


The film opens with some grotesquely tantalizing stock footage shots, (nothing provides an opening title backdrop like some old fashioned stock footage...) and then spends the first third of its running time introducing a whopping ten whale watchers. Add to that the four family members and it equals a whole lot of harpooning...I do so admire a film with a double digit kill count... A great percentage of these characters are no more than a loose stereotype indicative of their nationality, and a considerably deep melting pot is featured here. It is during this build that viewers may find the film a mite slow and disjointed; jumping around to so many characters affords the filmmakers very little time to spend with each one, forcing their development out of a couple minutes of screen time and 3 or 4 lines of dialogue apiece. I personally maintain complacency in these situations by likening them to a ritualistic parade of appetizers being carted before me prior to my settling in for some messy consumption.


Moreover, looking past the drunken, annoying French guy and the middle aged German women rewards with some playful creativity; Endo, the assistant with the brutal survival instinct, and the "blonde-survivor" competition both standout due to development that is reliant on stereotypes, the former of a cultural nature and the latter of a cinematic one. The chilling stoicism of the scene in which the assistant coldly straps the kamikaze bomb onto her boss' wife whilst chanting "Kill, kill, kill..." could not have attained such power had it not been the polar opposite of her subservient character unto that point. Though, I found the most intriguing case to be the secondary blonde, whom I would consider to be a counter-character; on the surface, she has all the qualities of the lead female, simply by being attractive, helpless, charming, and sharing some intimate moments with the lead male, (who also breaks some stereotypes via his sexual preference.) Yet, it's the scenes which showcase her selfishness and manipulations, directly contrasting the actions of her female lead rival, that fool the viewers' preconceptions of how this particular character should act. I was mildly/pleasantly stunned when she apathetically walked away from Annett's attempted raping, and by the time she's spitting in her face, I felt bad for feeling anything for her at all.


Unfortunately, the writers overlooked what should by all rights be the most important characters in a film like this, namely the family of lunatics. Admittedly there were a couple of disgustingly pleasing moments , like the younger son rubbing his mother's crispy flesh all over his face, but not only did they lack that coveted iconic status, they weren't even memorable. They most definitely should have been filthier, not only of body from a hard day of whaling, but also of mind. The capture and subsequent torture of Annett would have only benefited were the situation much more lascivious. Anybody worth a nickle knows the name Leatherface, but I couldn't begrudge someone for having never heard of Marilyn Burns...I can't even remember what this family was wearing...


Petty complaints and self-indulgent ramblings aside, the film's real power stems form its oft-stunning cinematography, reserved not only for the kill scenes, (although they are the lynch-pin) but also in showcasing the containment of the ship and the vast expanse of the surrounding ocean. Wonderful horizon pans reinforce the complete isolation of our unlucky tourists, and I found the silhouetted Asian man mounted on the bow to be absolutely gorgeous. Build onto that an extremely satisfying beheading, head explosion, and flare/finger to the eye, (just to touch on the highlights,) and the result is a set of visuals overcoming the instances of poor writing. (Just one more piece of data to add to my ongoing investigation into what cannot be overcome by good kill scenes, and my overall desire to be alive to witness the first movie that is comprised only of kill scenes...)


Not a bad piece of work if you're looking to take a trip back to the heyday of midnight drive-ins or VHS walls in the rear of dark convenience stores. I would have gladly traded in the pointless scene in which Annett contacts her hipster friend at her Bohemian dinner and all that Bjork nonsense, (goddamn Icelandic opportunists,) in order to see Hansen die proper and his shipmate get his bloody comeuppance, but I'll happily take this tour again in a year or two. Hell, they may even squeeze a sequel out of this provided they extend the family a bit, or feature some of them all deformed, or with metal replacements for their wounded fleshy bits...that they poke at with a straightened hanger...it could happen...

ZATHURA

Director - Jon Favreau
Starring - Josh Hutcherson, Jonah Bobo, Dax Shepard, Kristen Stewart, Tim Robbins

The first time I read the words "A new adventure from the world of Jumanji" on the cover box of Zathura I was quite titillated; Jumanji was a lot of fun, and I inherently prefer space-stuff to jungle-stuff, so how could I lose? Then I wondered how many reality-altering board games could possibly exist out there. Then I remembered the time I played "Mouse Trap" and found rat shit under the kitchen sink and wondered if maybe I wasn't living an adventure of my own. Turned out I wasn't. Halting this digression, I must profess at the outset of this particular interpretation that I did quite enjoy my "new adventure", though the marketing think-tank neglected to include the term "moderately inferior." Now, it could be argued that each film is an independent piece of art and I don't really have the right to draw comparisons between the two, and I can't vehemently disagree with that notion. In this case, however, it seems as though the latter is leaning very heavily on the shoulder of it's predecessor; is Zathura a sequel? A loose remake? An accompaniment piece? Or does it even matter so long as the viewer accepts the preconceived mythology set forth in Jumanji? That way, Zathura the movie doesn't have to spend any time developing the existence of "Zathura" the board game, because we viewers have already accepted the probability of said board game. Truth be told, I'd say the real answer is that this is supposed to be an entertaining kids movie about fighting robots and aliens, with a couple of life lessons blatantly tossed on top, and any over-analysing is obviously the action of a somewhat obsessive, somewhat pretentious, somewhat nerdy film fanatic with way too much brainstorming time on his hands. (This probably isn't a good time to note that I saw this movie twice to ensure I didn't miss any subtleties.)


The above cast list of five comprise the entire ensemble of human characters, but the vast majority of the screen time is shared by Hutcherson and Bobo. (Hell, Tim Robbins may have been strolling by on his way home from softball practice and had a free Sunday evening.) Hinging your film on two kids is often treading some dangerous ground; the actors have to maintain that childlike naturalism and banter, without coming across as too precocious or simply annoying. Our two heroes seem to hit the mark about half the time; I found some of their repertoire to be fairly humorous, particularly in the scenarios involving the reading and deciphering of the game cards. But it was always carefully checked by a healthy argument and round of name calling, and these are the scenes in which the acting succumbed to yelling and the grating began. Though I do appreciate the mild cussing spewed forth by the youngsters; it's not like the good old PG days, but it is one step closer to de-coddling the youth. Fortunately, Shepard and Stewart are introduced to break up the bickering; unfortunately, in both cases, it's about 7 minutes too late. Not that their chemistry is really that much better, despite the fact that the best one-liners do belong to Shepard. Stewart ran around in close-to-inappropriate lounging attire for a teenager, (which I'm actually okay with, not for the gross reasons one may assume, rather because I support the fueling of the imaginations of children,) perfecting the weak delivery and jerky head motions that would one day make her wealthy.


Moaning aside, the overall spectacle of the film is pretty bang on, with a bright colour scheme, grand exterior shots of the perils in the vastness of space, and a bunch of rip roaring destruction. The robot and the Zorgons hold onto that pseudo-retro design as realized with modern technology, and all of the threatening situations unfold extremely well. It was those scenes that made it easier to overlook the irritations brought on by the cast or script. The chaotic fun is more accentuated as it hones in on that forbidden fantasy of decimating one's private residence. However, by committing the bulk of the action to the actual house (and to the impending moral of "An adventure can happen without even leaving your own home..."), I feel there may have some missed opportunities to take this destruction on to broader horizons. I've got a lot of curiosities about what else was on board that Zorgon ship...It can't all be furnaces, conveyor belts, and 4-eyed goats...I don't wanna rub it in, but in Jumanji I got to see an entire town get ravaged.


And then the conclusion comes along. And things get a little weird. Some sort of metaphysical nonsense involving parallel universes, or something. I've seen a variety of movies that warn against the dangers of interacting with a past or future self, but very few have encouraged it as a means of personal growth. There's something about absorbing oneself into oneself that just doesn't seem like a healthy idea.


Generally, I couldn't help but feel as though every time something in the film went right, something else went "not right"; not terribly wrong, mind you, just "not right". There were many lessons laden throughout, and a little less focus on these may have been the sacrifice required to tweak those missteps. The movie had some very bright moments when it flirted with old tyme space serials, and I'm compelled to imagine the potential of the Astronaut character had he followed the same mold; full of bravura and 1950's idealism. Of course, this would greatly impact the "Take not thine sibling for granted..." lesson, and eliminate the potential existential crisis that it may inspire, and would that not be for the better? I also feel that I may owe Mr. Favreau an apology; I enjoyed myself, (twice, even) and it may not be fair of me to draw constant comparisons to it's superior predecessor. His intentions may have been differentiation, but is it worth it if the inevitable reaction is that "Jumanji did it better"? The only thing that is certain is that I'll never again haphazardly poke around the open game boxes at the Value Village.

MEGA SHARK VS. GIANT OCTOPUS

Director - Ace Hannah
Starring - Deborah Gibson, Vic Chao, Lorenzo Lamas

Finally, the direct-to-video, extra low budget, painfully lame underwater deathmatch we've all been waiting for. And who better to mediate the bout than washed up 80's icons Debbie Gibson and Lorenzo Lamas, thus resulting in not one, but two check marks on my "Match Ups I Never Thought I Wanted To See" list. (Actually, if Gibson and Lamas rode the Shark and Octopus and chased me around a swimming pool, it would have made reality of a nightmare I had when I was 4.)


Mega Shark Vs. Giant Octopus, or MSVGO as us cinema hipsters refer to it, falls into the same category as it's two-bit predecessors in the Super Animal A vs. Super Animal B shit-genre, in that the best thing about any of these movies is always the title. Probing (unnecessarily?) deeper into these "Vs." oddities, one discovers that they follow the same basic plot structure, and this one sure isn't breaking any new ground; as per usual, Super Animal A is found in one part of the world, Super Animal B in another part of the world, scientists fail miserably in their efforts to destroy them separately, then come to the logical conclusion of pitting them against each other. I long for the fateful day when one of these companies asserts their creative superiority by implementing an A vs. B vs. C formula.


Opening with a couple of aesthetically pleasing stock footage shots of mountain tops and underwater reefs, the film disintegrates, literally within seconds, into a revolving parade of shitty CGI attacks, medium shots of people crammed into cardboard underwater vessels, and Gibson and Vic Chao swooning over each other amidst unfinished-basement command posts and Toys R Us laboratory sets while Lamas lurks around acting tough.


I can't help but assume that had the cast and crew not gone to the vending machine during their lunch break, they would have had twice the budget to work with. Anything and everything that can be done to pinch pennies is attempted, and seemingly without shame. All of the supposed "hi tech" background equipment has been replaced with Commodore monitors and Lite Brites, and are disinterestedly poked at by some key grip's nephew. Shots remain stationary, panning as little as possible and filling the frame with our heroes, avoiding the even further embarrassment of accidentally showing the limitations of the sets. Though I do appreciate the actors' collective efforts to stare intensely off-screen in order to cover up the lack of proximity between them and impending doom, be it in Shark-form or Octopus-form.


But who really gives a shit about all that stuff? When you sit down to watch a movie called Mega Shark Vs. Giant Octopus you really only care about two things, and they better be versusing the hell out of each other. Alas, much like it's "Vs." brethren, the animal chaos is kept to a minimum, and upon witnessing all of the CGI glory, these omissions may be regarded as a mercy skimping. The Shark and Octopus have four scenes in the film (granted, the Octopus does seem to take a noticeable back seat); an introduction which frees each from it's underwater trappings, (when will misguided humans learn to not tamper with the unforgiving environment?), an attack on innocents to illustrate their threat, them defeating their respective government assaults to punctuate their superiority, and their final, un-epic, fin on tentacle face off. All told, it combines to make up just about 10 whole minutes of screen time...and what screen time it is... One has to suspend a lot of disbelief in order to accept the notion that a Mega Shark has some sort of beef with a Giant Octopus, and I'm okay with that; I love suspending stuff, and my disbelief is usually the first thing blowing in the wind. But when the supposed menace looks like it was the product of a High School software assignment, one that may have received a generous C+, it's difficult to embrace the prehistoric terror. Most of the actual confrontation consists of healthy doses of teeth gnashing, ink squirting, and general squozen twisting; there's even a tentacle-bite that the filmmaker's were so enamored with, they mirrored the image and used it a second time. Not intense enough for you? Plenty of rapid editing and shaky camera work should provide the desired amount of squinting/head scratching.


The other hour of screen time, (hour-five max,) have Gibson and Lamas desperately trying to hold onto fame (slipping into infamy) as they go through the motions of "brainy-but-not-bad-looking scientist" and "impulsive, hardened military type", and much of the dialogue is either science-based or military-based mumbo jumbo blandly filling the feature length time quotient, with the odd nature sentiment thrown in by the benevolent Chao. At least the obligatory romance is fueled by firey passion, expressed in nearby utility closets and through kisses so steamy the participants don't even care that Lamas is hovering over them.


Everything about this movie is deserved of mockery. Everything. Which may very well make it the perfect flick to get drunk and laugh at. I laughed at it. A lot. Thus bringing about the question as to how many people behind the scenes were laughing, and how many had faith in their art. More pressing, how many people were laughing when the profits came in, as I imagine they did. Between the bad-movie lovers and the easily appeased suckers, the audience is always there. Personally, I reside somewhere in the middle; sure it's really just a mega-shit vs. a giant piece of crap, but I'll keep watching in hopes that one day a "Vs." will come along that isn't utterly and laughably pathetic. It is also now abundantly clear that no aircraft is safe without a can of bat-shark-repellant...

GROUPIE

Director - Mark L. Lester
Starring - Taryn Manning, Eric Roberts, Hal Ozsan

Imagine yourself in this scenario: you're front row center at your favourite wuss-rock concert, awe-struck by your demigods "The Dark Knights", displaying their talents to simultaneously suck and avoid copyright infringement, holding up your sign or zippo as they belt out the chorus of their astonishingly number one hit "Firing Line", when they predictably do not close the show with an admittedly cool stunt that they've refused to do since it caused the death of an innocent teen over a year ago. Are you outraged? Do you join the crowd in their halfhearted booing? Would you tear up your sign in anger, go home, and begin constructing a new one in preparation for their next show which you've already bought tickets for, thinking to yourself "This time for sure..."? After all, a year is a long time to perfect pyro-technology. If you somehow cannot picture yourself amidst said surroundings, then sorry, kiddo, you cannot be a fan of "The Dark Knights".


Unluckily for us, some quasi-wealthy people are fans of "The Dark Knights", or at least actor/singer/songwriter/fictional front man/Jack-shit-of-all-trades Hal Ozsan, otherwise we wouldn't have been blessed with this shitty excuse for him to mope around and showcase his "skills". Apparently two of his fans are fellow co-stars Taryn Manning and Eric Roberts who offer not only their acting prowess but also associate produced. (Which makes me wonder if Roberts had any say in the band's name, attempting to remind viewers of the last decent movie he was in.)


The flick opens on what turns out to be one of many rock 'n' roll montage sequences built on cocaine, joint smoking, sexy midriffs, tour buses, and hotel rooms, repeatedly illustrating the decadence and overall awesomeness of this lifestyle. It's also a good setting/excuse to get a number of hot chicks topless. Little does the band know that their hard-rocked life is about to come to an abrupt end via vengeful former-fan, Manning, and her satchel of bronzing utensils. (Including the stubbiest pitiful knife ever wielded by an on-screen killer.) I'd almost feel bad for spoiling the mystery were there any mystery to spoil; who could have imagined that the ominously cryptic newcomer who glares directly into the camera and triggers flashbacks to the opening concert chaos was out for revenge? Big fucking shocker.


I expect more from Manning, and am pleasantly surprised on those rare occasions when I do get more from Roberts...though I no longer expect it...Given that their names are all over this mess, you'd think they would've ensured themselves a bigger budget in which to frolic around. Everything from the poor CGI fire, to the same thirty-five people at every concert, to the almost complete and utter lack of blood during the kills, reeks of loose pocket change. Try wrapping your head around the logistics behind that guitar thrown into the overhead lighting...despite the crowd's disdain, it would be a real cool stunt provided the guitar didn't just disappear in a hail of 128 bit frugality. To answer Travis' question as to who gives a shit about face masks; nobody...because face masks make for cheap, shitty kill scenes. One of but many examples of the abysmal writing...


Cheesy dialogue peppers the laughably basic story elements, attempting to make meaningful statements about artistic integrity and emotional expression, but really just allowing Ozsan some sulking time between gigs, whilst pointing giant, flashing arrows at the supposed mystery killer. Riley's "Wake up...you don't wanna miss your own death" is pretty quotable, but why'd the sound guy have to go and plant the seeds of murder by looking directly at Riley and stating about Davis: "He'd better watch out, with his bad heart and all...one shock and he's a goner..."? Fortuitously for Riley, in case she missed that subtle tidbit of information, someone went to the effort of labeling Davis' (and only Davis') guitar chord. One might be inclined to think that there's more to this sound guy than meets the eye...perhaps I underestimated the overall mystery here...Doubts are quelled come the final climax when crappy writing and generic struggling intertwine; Travis disobeys orders and neglects to tie himself up, possibly baffled by the mechanics of the demand, and opts to simply tackle Riley. It seems like a pretty sure bet, until he somehow loses a physical confrontation with this 100 lb. monster, though his pregnant wife is on top of the situation, allowing for one final sarcastic quip. Cue alterna-weep-rock and croon goodbye to one hour and fifteen minutes of your time.


Rock 'n' roll movies are supposed to be fun. This movie may be, at best, masochistic fun. I can remember the good old days, when I was 7, and could trust seeing the name Mark L. Lester on a cover box. As a rather self-comforting digression, I can't help but reminisce about the year that I watched Commando at least three times a week, and wondered to myself what the future would hold for this budding auteur. Should I limber up my hi-fiving hand in anticipation of a Class of 2084? Have I respectfully waited long enough to pitch my script for Showdown in Little Tokyo II? All of those James Remar/Coolio/lesser Baldwin brothers based thrillers through the 90's must have been practice for something. Well, the future has come. The wonder has ceased. The answer is Groupie. Allow me a moment of silence.

HOMECOMING

Director - Morgan J. Freeman
Starring - Mischa Barton, Matt Long, Jessica Stroup

I like to imagine this piece of drivel as the by-product of a case of wine and a game of "You Know What Movie's Good..." Close your eyes and permit me to whisk you off to creation-land;
Writer Kate L. Fetting - You know what movie's good...Misery.
Director Morgan J. Freeman - You know what movie's good...Fatal Attraction.
KLF - You know what movie's good...Single White Female.
MJF - You know what movie's good...The Hand That Rocks the Cradle.
KLF - You know what movie's good...Obsessed.
MJF - You know what movie's good...American Psycho 2.
KLF - Hey, I got an idea...
MJF - ...and I have Mischa Barton's home phone number...
(Chuckles had by both parties.)


Ahhh, where to start? So much chastisation, so little time. The biggest concern here is that with access to a not bad budget, a not bad actress, and not bad equipment, everything was still so goddamn formulaic. When will people learn that formula can remain stagnant only when outweighed by spectacle? So much more could have been delivered using so much less...


The storyline is by-the-numbers ex-girlfriend pining over ex-boyfriend and plotting to remove current GF to regain her once perfect life. But the catch is, and this'll throw you for a loop, she's crazy! Go figure. The movie may think it's a little smarter than it actually is by opening on a somewhat cryptic flash forward of Barton's Shelby simultaneously driving, smoking, and weeping, but it's not. Possibly a desperate attempt at invoking sympathy before we watch this character plummet into madness; possibly a reminder of who the star of this thing is; possibly a showcase of Barton's multi-talents. But it's also the first instance of the ongoing trend of shitty and obvious foreshadowing that permeates this film. Throughout Shelby's quest of stolen true love, as long as one is watching the screen, one can predict what will inevitably happen down the line. From the introduction of Roy the banker, to Shelby improperly chopping wood, to Shelby's discovery of the lamest blazer ever, each piece of this "Ages 2-6" puzzle is spoon fed to us with the fear that we've never seen a movie before. (Honestly, who would wear a suit jacket with the number 7 embroidered on the lapel...unless maybe attending a formal dinner on The Island...) My favourite example of this "technique" comes in the form of Billy, the amalgamation of what is normally two stock characters within this obsession-thriller sub genre; a not-so-carefully woven tapestry of disbelieving authority figure and interfering family member. Of course, when he's on the receiving end of what I call "the old Scatman Crothers", what would formerly have been two kill scenes is reduced to one. Though Shelby does also shoot him. And burn him. So maybe it all equals out.


The other consistent presence, and general curiosity, is the inclusion of Shelby's character constantly vocalizing her Mike-based infatuations at seemingly inappropriate junctures, much to the nonchalant, unnoticing reactions of the other characters. No one seems concerned over the fact that she often starts phrases with sentiments akin to "When Mike and I get married...", and apparently nobody bothered to sit her down and tell her to get over it. Perhaps they're all on board the same train of thought as I am, and can't fathom the notion that an extremely attractive, albeit overly slender, blonde chick that owns a bowling alley and likes to drink could possibly be hard up for love.


I feel a little sorry for Mischa Barton. She's not really that bad an actress. The other two I could care less about; they're pretty enough and deliver lines adequately enough that they can both be in Homecoming II: Coming Home.(Copyright pending.) But Barton has somehow tumbled down the chute after climbing the ladder of Lost and Delirious. One look into those wounded and menacing eyes as she maniacally plots from the haven of her Fortress of Stockroom, and I can't help but wish that this vehicle was anything more than just stupid characters making stupid decisions that lead them into stupid scenarios. Given the resources to include overhead rotating camera zooms and multi-space music montages, but two of the many weapons of cinema, an individual may be inclined to utilize more innovation than simply adding football helmets and maple syrup to the cadre of blunt object beatdowns. I find it very difficult to believe that Stroup's Elizabeth would opt to hobble away from the toilet tanked Shelby rather than finish the job, (having discovered that scrapbook of murderous memories and all), or that the final stage of her escape plan was to cower in fear rather then fight back; it's as though she changed her mind mid-risk. Admittedly, it is feasible that this ignorance of verisimilitude was a (purposeful?) blessing in disguise as it did culminate in the snipping of Elizabeth's Achilles tendon, ultimately resulting in the film's most entertaining 2 seconds of screen time.


What a waste; not only of Barton, but also of what I presume to be a grand total of about one million dollars. A psycho love bitch with some imagination behind it could've been a good role for Barton too, but in today's day and age a raspy voice and a passionate high school montage just doesn't cut it.
You know what movie's good...not this piece of shit.

THE BIG HIT

Director - Che Kirk Wong
Starring - Mark Wahlberg, Lou Diamond Phillips, Christina Applegate, Bokeem Woodbine, Antonio Sabato Jr.

I know, I know, we all wanted this one to work; action-comedy with a smattering of tongue-in-cheek satire produced by John Woo. Unfortunately, though a bunch of small things do go right, the majority of the comedy falls flat, some of it painfully so. At least one, preferably two, more action scenes would have also gone some distance in lifting this film out from the hole in which it fell.


This is an earlier American entry to foray into the realm of over the top, greatly exaggerated, gravity defying action, and the "bang bang boom boom" stuff is generally a success. Provided, of course, that you can swallow the idea of dead bodies soaring through the air and deceptively non-threatening explosions. Personally, I'm a huge advocate of gratuitous violence and can swallow just about anything that involves limitless bullets. We get Marky Mark rolling down hand railings, bungee jumping out of explosive blasts, being chased down a mountain by a flipping car, and (icing on the cake) knife-fighting Lou Diamond Phillips in a video store. There is literally a little something excessive there for everyone. The only down side to all this action hubris comes in the from of a few pointless, unnecessary jumps...and I don't mean "jump cuts"...I mean actual insert shots of the gang simply jumping...which doesn't seem immediately beneficial during a gunfight...


Such a pity that team Wong Woo failed to provide me with that which I so purely desired...50 or so minutes go by with nary an action sequence in sight. In it's stead, I'm subjected to a barrage of jokes ranging from mediocre to lame as shit and involving a running masturbatory gag, a forgetful homeboy, and a domestic comedy of errors. Timeless subjects, all of them. Not that those things are necessarily un-funny, but in these particular situations they too were exaggerated, and proved to turn themselves more silly than anything. Case in point: the "chicken stuffing/sweet sweet loving" juxtaposition. I get the allusion, but some softer lighting and more seductively subtle shots of the chicken's glory (i.e. taking the ridiculousness of the scenario just a bit more seriously) would have turned the whole sordid affair into a joke being played by the filmmakers, not just a cheap laugh being had by them. I don't even want to get into the travesty that was the "trace buster" gag.


Not that the actors themselves can't be held at least partially responsible for their beyond-caricaturistic deliveries and overall performances. Even when the odd couple of chuckles are induced (I did enjoy watching Cisco kill Gump...maybe because I hated him so much...even his name is obvious...), those are quickly squashed by the downhill boulder that is bad acting. Everything out of Gump's mouth is cringe worthy, as is usually the outcome of bad parody, and Phillips' Latino tough guy comes across as laughable and incompetent. He needs to go back and re-watch Stand and Deliver. Top that all off with China Chow as Keiko, pitifully uttering classic love tomes such as "I'm feeling it, Skipper," and you can't help but long for someone to get shot. Anyone. Quick.


The really great moments are far outnumbered by the really weak moments, and when mixed all together everything is merely moderately amusing. So much potential washed away in a hail of playground humour. Not even the good playground humour. Kudos on the soundtrack however. It's nice to see Molotov getting a little notice.