Film of the Week: Brick

 

In high school, everything feels like the most important thing in the world. No matter the stakes in the greater scheme of things, every fight feels monumental, every breakup an agonizing heartbreak, and social circle navigation feels like life and death. In a way, this is absurd, of course, a natural consequence of a hormone-addled mind grappling with the awkward middle ground of childhood and adulthood, but Brick, the directorial debut of Rian Johnson, uses this idea as a staging ground for a brutally effective neo-noir story of loss and pain that closely walks the line between serious and absurd without ever giving up the game. The melodrama blends beautifully with the noir tone, making the violent escalation of the story feel like a devastating punch to the gut. 

For some, the selling point of Brick is it's heavily noir-inspired presentation, owing more to the works of Raymond Chandler and Lynch's Blue Velvet than any traditional high school drama. Protagonist Brendan Frye (Joseph Gordon-Levitt) talks like a 40s gumshoe, fast-witted and bitter, while femme fatales attempt to work their wiles on him, the vice principal functions as a "Da Chief" style figure, and a shadowy criminal conspiracy lurks from the shadows. What makes Brick work so well is the blending of traditional noir storytelling with it's high school setting. The drug ring that makes up the film's antagonists is comprised entirely of high schoolers, and in one deeply amusing scene, kingpin "the Pin" (Lukas Haas) attempts to make a deal with Brendan over milk and cookies served by his mother. 

While there is undoubtably a sense of stakes, dealing with Brendan's attempt to solve the murder of his ex-girlfriend, the cast and their manner of speaking gives the film something of a tongue-in-cheek presentation. It's clever, disarming the audiences so when the real violence and drama hits you feel every piece of the impact. These are kids acting as adults, and you're often jarringly reminded of that. Brendan's breakdown after days of both physical and mental abuse in the name of revenge is heartbreaking, and when gang enforcer Tug (Noah Fleiss) suddenly pulls a gun to execute an apparent rat, it's shocking. As soon as the gunshot fades, the characters are left to look at the very real consequences of the action, and you actively feel the film ramp up as any sense of normalcy is destroyed. 

Johnson's talents as a director are already blooming here, and he and cinematographer Steven Yedlin frame the rundown suburbia of the film's setting as something strangely beautiful and dreamlike, playing with light and shadow. It plays well to the surreal setting, and some of the film's most effective moments are just the characters framed by their surroundings. Brendan looking down the hallway of the Pin's basement, staring into the shadows in anxious paranoia as the silence exaggerates every creak of the old house, is a wonderfully tense moment, as is a very clever tracking shot showing the immediate escalation of a gang war a floor above Brendan, Tug, and the Pin. His talents as a writer, similarly, are very apparent, as he applies his now trademark subversive eye to the film's story by peeling away at the emotional layers of the characters. Brendan's relationship with Emily is revealed as a deeply toxic one, a controlling person so unable to let go of the only thing that made him feel normal that he ends up practically suffocating her, while a quiet conversation about Tolkien between him and the Pin exposes the formerly intimidating mob boss as a quietly lonely person just looking for some sense of connection. These are kids, trying so hard to figure out their way in the world that they fall headfirst into deadly consequences. 

Brick is one of my favorite directorial debuts of all time, resembling it's femme fatale Laura (Nora Zehtetner, so criminally good in this that it's a shame she didn't hit Levitt's level of mainstream success) in that it's a tragedy masquerading as something sillier to trick you into letting your guard down. Immensely creative and an ambitious start to a very strong body of work. 

Film of the Week: Banned from Broadcast: Saiko! The Large Family/The Cursed Large Family

The true trick with experimental filmmaking is committing to the bit. In order for your gimmick to work, you have to really be willing to go all the way on it, trusting the audience to "get it" rather than dumbing down the work or overexplaining it. If some don't get it, oh well. Banned From Broadcast's Large Family duology is a very good example of this ethos at place. On the surface, these are somewhat dry family drama mockumentaries, a peek into a slice of life of a troubled family unit doing their best to stay together. They're sweet, a bit dry, and at times a tad troubling. But those willing to scratch beyond the surface will find something a lot darker and compelling. They're films that reward patience, and those willing to approach with an open mind will find something worth discussing. 

Anyone familiar with the endless glut of TLC family content may find some initial familiarity in the premise of these. A documentary crew spends some time with an unusually large Japanese family, documenting their lives and discussing the upbringings of the various children against the backdrop of an apparent "curse". The "curse" torments the family in a variety of accidents, from an injury that prevents the original patriarch from working to claiming the lives of one of the family's children in a tragic drowning. All of it seemingly owes to a cursed photograph, obtained by the father, that curses anyone who looks upon it. From a j-horror perspective, it's certainly plausible, no different from the cursed tape from The Ring or the home of Kayako from The Grudge, and the film to some degree banks on that familiarity. It works in layers, a seemingly mundane family drama with elements of supernatural horror underneath it, but for the eagle-eyed viewer, the layers keep going. 

When I say the films commit to the bit, I really do mean it, with the often quiet, relaxed nature of the day to day activities of the family contrasted by harsh, jarring moments of tension. Ringo (Sayaka Fukita) is viciously dragged to another room and beaten for the crime of sleeping in, while in the sequel, matriarch Sumio cryptically barks at her smaller children that she doesn't care if they go missing, an oddly specific threat for a woman supposedly mourning her lost husband to say. The family's stepfather, a kind man seemingly largely out of the loop, is similarly beaten by teenager Riei, whose out of nowhere explosions of rage come off as deeply surprising, suggesting some sort of mistrust or abuse that we aren't privy to. It, along with the idea of the curse, effectively functions as a sleight of hand trick, drawing your eye (and thus, your mind) so heavily to these moments that you miss the smaller clues that paint a greater picture. The strange drawings of the youngest children, the quiet glances between the teenagers when they think the adults aren't watching, the way mother quietly looms in the background at crucial moments of the second film, all clues towards the real goings on. It expects the viewer to ask questions, but it very smartly also leaves us to puzzle out the answers. 

The focus on day to day life does make for somewhat dry viewing, very much relying on your investment in speculating the greater mystery, but there is a quiet, undeniable heart to the film's proceedings. The siblings dote on one another, and in the second film's most affecting moment, the stepfather stands up for Ringo when she is caught in the crossfire of one of Riei's outbursts, then tracks down the younger girl when she flees from home. "Why are you so kind to us?" asks Riei, a lifetime of abuse and fear pouring out of her as she's confronted with someone finally willing to treat her as a person even as she attempts to drive him from her home. This moment, unsurprisingly, proves to be a crucial one, a vital key to the film's apparently abrupt ending and an example of the duology's general philosophy. On the one hand, it's a sweet moment between family, but on the other, it reveals the quiet pain underneath all of the proceedings. 

Saiko! isn't going to be viewing for everyone. It's dry, understated storytelling that raises more questions than answers, but, strangely, it reminds of Kyle Edward Ball's Skinamarink. If you can meet the film at it's wavelength, it gives you something to chew on and think over, reaching your own conclusion and actively encouraging revisiting. It's an experiment, sure, but it's a damn fascinating one. 

Film of the Week: Cuckoo

 

There's few things in cinema quite as satisfying as a good creature feature. When done well, it gives particularly confident, creative filmmakers a chance to shine and introduce all manner of unique horrors on the audience. Cuckoo, the sophomore effort of Tilman Singer, is an excellent example of a good creature feature. While it hardly attempts to reinvent the wheel, one can see the blending of influences to create something unique, an eerie and disturbingly intriguing mystery box that unravels piece by piece, but never kills it's mystique by overexplaining itself. It's also a lot of fun! Hunter Schafer is endlessly battered on a quest for answers, the monsters are cool, and the GOAT Dan Stevens plays an endlessly slimy quasi-Nazi. What's not to love? 

Cuckoo's central idea is all about the idea of the "other", the outsider trapped in a situation they simply don't belong in. On the one hand, this represents Gretchen (Hunter Schafer), a queer teenager reeling from the death of her mother and forced to live in a remote German resort with her father's family, but it speaks just as much for the monsters of the film: a brood parasite-esque offshoot of humans that place their females amongst humans to raise until they come of age. Much of Cuckoo is as much about Gretchen's struggle in this environment as it her uncovering the central mystery of the resort. She is isolated, bitter, and looking desperately for a connection of any kind to anchor her through the terrifying circumstances in display, be it through a (potentially ill-advised) relationship with aloof French musician Ed (Astrid Berges-Frisbey) or her tenuous alliance with undercover cop Henry (Jan Bluthardt). This fumbling for connection in the face of deeply painful loss makes up the true heart of the film, anchoring it for very real, very earned emotional beats as the film heads into it's climax. 

Schafer, unsurprisingly, is very good at selling this struggle and desperation. She mixes both the idea of the scream queen with that of a very real, grieving person with aplomb, her expressive eyes and agonized physicality as she finds herself beaten and battered again and again. You don't just want her to succeed, you feel every single hit for yourself. Opposite her is the always delightful Dan Stevens as Herr Konig, resort owner/mad scientist, who contrasts Gretchen's scrappy, aloof reality with a restrained sense of menace and cruelty. He's quiet, polite, but dripping with condescension, carrying himself as someone who feels in power at all times. It's all in how he carries himself, imposing himself in the space of others while remaining upbeat, just as likely to smile while describing a hotel clerk job as he is while witnessing one of the creatures attempt to force itself on Gretchen. It's affable cruelty, an uncaring face on a violence that brims with both social and psychosexual commentary. Every scene between the two feels increasingly like a game of cat and mouse, Konig hoping to crush Gretchen under his boot without a second thought while Gretchen to survive. 

And like I mentioned prior, Cuckoo, despite it's grim subject matter, never presents itself as a downer. It's a lot of creepy fun, full of spooks and tense moments, slowly uncovering the central mystery of the resort, and Singer has a really excellent visual eye, framing the gorgeous locale of the German countryside as something deeply menacing and isolated while playing with the shadows to create an endless feeling of paranoia. In one particularly fun sequence, Gretchen's bike ride home from work is interrupted by an attack by the creature, it's shadow growing closer and closer behind her while she rides along, completely unaware. The creatures themselves benefit from a similarly impeccable presentation, their largely humanoid features but animalistic, snarling body language pushing them into the uncanny valley. Their screeches, used as form of hypnosis and communication, are piercing and ethereal, and the depiction of the hypnosis, a time loop the victims recognize but are agonizingly unable to escape from, is a unique presentation that plays well into the ongoing mystery, while the death of the "mother" is quietly sad, a gurgling, undignified end of a creature that simply didn't know any better. 

It's the quiet moments of emotion like that which make Cuckoo such a strong film. There's an undeniable, quiet heart to the film's quieter moments, be it Gretchen listening to half-sister Alma's (Mila Lieu) message to her deceased mom or her outpouring of grief with the similarly mourning Henry, and the film's climax is ultimately settled not with an outburst of violence, but of love and ingenuity, as Gretchen finally accepts Alma as family and works with her to escape. It's a cathartic, unexpectedly sweet finish, and it makes the ending feel like the exhale of a breath you didn't know you were holding. Tense and scary without being grim and overbearing, this tonal balance makes Cuckoo one of the strongest of this year's considerable bounty of horror efforts. 

Film of the Week: Terrifier 3

What a fascinating indie success story the Terrifier franchise is. Damian Leone's ultra-gory slasher franchise, anchored by the now iconic Art the Clown (David Howard Thornton in the role of a lifetime), once struggled to find a distributor and had to resort to indie crowdfunding campaigns to get made, and now it's outgrossing the sequel to Joker at the box office. The screening I went to (the only one within about 100 miles, if you're curious about the state of film in Maine) was completely packed with a mixed crowd of people of all ages, including a distressing amount of young people. It's truly been the little indie franchise that could, and what makes it's success even more fascinating is that hasn't come at the cost of Leone's creativity. The latest in the franchise, Terrifier 3 is, for the most part, the movie Leone set out to make, a largely uncompromised, delightfully nasty thriller that shows a clear growth in the craft from it's creator. 

Terrifier 3 manages to walk an effective tight-rope between the lean and mean structure of the first film and the more long-form, story-focused structure of the second. The film has neither the paper-thin characters of the first, nor does it suffer as much from the sluggish exposition and set-up of the second, allowing it to hit the ground running very effectively. The film's opening scene, a perfectly grindhouse-style short film in and of itself, sets the tone very effectively as we witness a family befall the unfortunate fate of catching Art's attention. As a disguised Art takes his time working through the house, Leone wields tension like a knife, taking care to ensure we never see the clown's face until the terror has already started, and the violence is surprisingly restrained until it fully erupts in an explosion of non-stop carnage. Limbs are severed, chests are caved in with an axe, and blood flies like a sprinkler before we even get the opening title. It's shocking and mean-spirited, but the message: Art is back, baby, and not a soul is safe. 

This sense of tension hangs over every scene with the clown, and Thornton continues to be fantastic in the role. Never so much as making a sound, Art looms over everything, his childish, excitable demeanor contrasting his endless cruelty, Thornton exaggerating his motions to make everything feel like he's simply playing a game as he haplessly slaughters his way through the film's runtime. In one of the film's best moments, he listens in on a conversation between a couple, blissfully unaware of the monster looming around the corner, and goes through a rollercoaster of intrigue to joy to genuine anger, the gears turning in his head as he plots his next step, while the biggest laugh in the movie is his overjoyed reaction to seeing a mall Santa sitting in a bar. The insistence on silence feeds into the ambiguity of the character. Is Art truly childlike, a monster playing with the world like toys? Is he playing us for fools as he lures his targets into a false sense of security? It's a fascinatingly physical performance, one that immediately helps one understand the character's explosion in popularity. 

Of course, one of the strong points of Terrifier 2 is giving the franchise a proper protagonist in the form of Sienna (Lauren LaVera), and this film does the character justice once more. Freshly out of a mental hospital after Art's previous rampage, Sienna is a ball of barely contained trauma and rage, trying her best to keep things together as she finds herself settling in with her aunt's family. LaVera, a near immediate Scream Queen after her work in the last film, is very good, playing Sienna's emotional state very genuinely without losing the ferocious spark that makes the character worth fighting for, and the film does well to examine her trauma before she's forced into conflict with Art without just making it feel like padding in between the kills. Like the second film, Terrifier 3 also leans into the greater idea of a deeper mythology behind Art, set up largely by the presence of the demonic presence responsible for his resurrection. Rather than it simply being an implied force, the demon takes on a voice of it's own through Victoria (Samantha Scaffidi), the sole survivor of the first film. Scaffidi has a lot of fun playing into the demonic presence, a cruel, boisterous force in contrast to the silent Art, and they make for a fun pairing in the times where the movie lets them play together. 

The peeks into the mythology, hints of some sort of cosmic war between good and evil with Sienna and Art as the respective pieces, are fascinating, and one of the film's most striking moments is Sienna witnessing the apparent forging of the magic blade that can kill Art seemingly for good. An Uruk-Hai-like demon, hunched over an anvil while a living statue of the Virgin Mary clutches a chain around it's neck, works away at the forge, and Sienna snaps back to the present before we can learn anymore. This, combined with the suitably grim ending, sets the stage for an epic conclusion in the franchise's fourth entry, and the set-up never feels like a forced pitch for a sequel. It intrigues the audience rather than demands their attention. 

Unfortunately, the ending is where the "for the most part" from the start of this review rears it's head. Leone has admitted to cutting about 20-30 minutes of the film to make it an easier theatrical experience, with the film's climax showing the most obvious sign of this. The climactic, terrifying reunion of Sienna and Art simply happens with little build-up, while two prominent characters suffer gruesome deaths entirely off-screen, a drastic departure from the series style. Another plot thread, a Christmas party attended by Sienna's brother Jonathan (Elliot Fullam), is set up with no pay-off, while Sienna digging up the sword is handled off-screen. It creates an uneven experience, a feeling that decisions were reluctantly made behind the scenes for the sake of pacing, and while it doesn't drag the film down massively, it still feels disorienting, feeling as though we're seeing an incomplete story. 

Even with it's minor pacing bumps, Terrifier 3 is a blast, standing among the strongest horror offerings in a strong year for horror already. It's kills are suitably nasty, it's inspired visuals evoke the sleazy slashers of the 70s and 80s, and while this sort of thing is obviously of an acquired taste, I'm all on board the Art train. Make way for the real Clown Prince of Crime. 

Film of the Week: Ghostwatch

Found footage is, despite being fairly cheap and relatively easy for anyone to create, a fairly difficult style to pull off effectively. On top of needing actors that are convincing (and often obscure) enough to pass as seemingly real people, it requires an often very precise control over tone and pacing. If you introduce the scares too soon, it can become comical to watch our protagonists (still inexplicably carrying the camera) flee from whatever off-budget horror they've caught the eye of. Introduce it too late, you leave the audience feeling creatively blue-balled. The best found footage films are ones that effectively use a concept that can give them a better handle on their own pacing, allowing the horror to bleed into the mundane until it becomes an invasive, overwhelming force. If you can't tell from the title of this review, I think the very cream of the crop when it comes to using this concept is none other than Ghostwatch.

One of the most notorious horror films ever made (it has never been re-broadcast in it's entirety and can be directly attributed for the suicide of a teenager shortly after airing), Ghostwatch fully commits to it's premise, a special Halloween episode of a British broadcast attempting to investigate the apparent haunting of a struggling family on Foxhill Drive. The program uses exclusively real broadcasters, such as Sarah Greene as the reporter on the ground and Michael Parkinson as the show's skeptical host, and save for the initial opening titles, presents itself as a very real piece of reporting, shooting on a real BBC studio while providing a phone number for fans to call in and provide stories or report sightings. While it can be debated as to how ethical this approach was to a public very unused to the idea (I personally deeply miss the era where a thing like this could have been possible), Ghostwatch handles this with a near masterful sense of aplomb, taking it's time to let us meet the various news crew members and their subjects and get a feel for their personality. It's a varied collection of characters, full of skeptics and believers, and as someone who works in broadcast news, there's a sense of realness in how they operate. Characters bicker and prank each other, personalities clash, and Sarah especially finds herself growing friendly with her subjects: exasperated, often frightened single mother Pamela Early and her daughters Suzanne and Kim. 

The hauntings of the Early family showcase the film's "slow drip" style, giving us long stretches of the family simply hanging out with Sarah and her crew as they wait for evidence of supernatural happenings to happen while the hosts in the studio discuss the history of the paranormal with a respected researcher and a noted skeptic. They bob for apples, they play board games, we get peeks into the strained relationships at play while strange things seem to occur out of the corner of our eye. A strange face in a window, a brief silhouette behind a paranormal researcher, phone calls that seem to go dead just as they try to share crucial information. Even the supposed ghost, Pipes, is vague, never seen directly while their backstory hints initially at the origins of the disturbing entity taking root before swerving into something far older and more sinister without ever giving us the real answer. The film feels like peeling away at something newly rotten, getting worse and worse as the film careens into it's climax. 

What truly puts Ghostwatch into terrifyingly special heights is the way in which it chooses to play with it's medium. As Pipes finally forces themselves into the forefront, outright terrorizing the Early family and seemingly driving them from the house, the broadcast itself falls under their sway. "Jesus, Mike," bemoans paranormal expert Lin Pascoe as the studio itself begins to break apart in a whirlwind of electrical failures and crashing monitors, "-We've created a national seance." The reveal that the entire film is effectively an entity, older than anyone could've anticipated, staging a coup on our very screens, effectively ripping through the fourth wall, escalates the events of it well past a simple haunting, dragging us as viewers into the story against our will. For a brief moment, Pipes stares us in the face, as if to brag of how thoroughly we've been gotten. 

From beginning to end, Ghoswatch is a masterclass in pacing, creating tension and letting us spot the scares without ever forcing on them. There's no cheap jump scares, no surprise outburst of gore, and no true reveal of what's really going on. It's a film that leaves the audience to draw their own conclusions, drawing them closer and closer until they realize too late that they're part of the show too.