FullMetal_Atheist - Filmblog

Peter Jackson's Witchfinder General, anyone?

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Solomon Kane (2008)

If Peter Jackson deemed it a good idea to remake Michael Reeves classic WITCHFINDER GENERAL, the result might look an awful lot like SOLOMON KANE.
Based on Robert E Howard's 17th Century Puritan pulp fiction character, SOLOMON KANE begins in media res, with Solomon and his ill-fated ship crew coming face-to-face with the grim reaper himself. This particular reaper, unfortunately, is in the employ of Satan himself and damns Kane's soul for a life of wickedness, greed and throwing knives into peoples faces in a really cool way.
A year later Kane, now living in an English monastery, is kicked out when the head monk senses our hero will only bring trouble for the 16th Century peaceniks. On the road Kane hooks up with Pete Postlethwaite and his brood, a family of puritans headed for the coast and a persecutionless life in the New Worlde. Needless to say, the family have 'victims' written all over them in huge, medieval script, and things don't go well.
Thematically, the story borrows elements from the Howard story RED SHADOWS, but it's really its own beast. Which is a shame, in a way, because the author knew how to weave a damn good tale and SOLOMON KANE's script is certainly the weakest thing about it. We're never really sure why Kane's soul is damned, or how that's connected with the evil magician who has taken over his father's (Max Von Sydow) castle. Oh yes, Kane is also a member of the aristocracy, banished from the land by his dad in true Joseph Campbell fashion.
Director Michael J Bassett also seems just a little TOO fond of a certain fantasy trilogy. A horseback chase sequence, while exciting, was even more impressive first time around in FELLOWSHIP OF THE RING, while the final assault on Kane's ancestral castle involves a battle in torrential rain, part Helm's Deep, part SEVEN SAMURAI. Most egregious of all is the final showdown between Solomon Kane and, really this is giving nothing away, Old Nick himself. Considering how creative much of the makeup and design work is in the film, and it really is quite striking, it comes as something of a shock to see a certain fire demon turn up for the finale. "You shall not pass!" indeed.
And yet....there's so much to like about SOLOMON KANE. As mentioned above, the design work is outstanding. This is a grimy, gritty middle ages that has rarely been seen outside the early work of Terry's Jones and Gilliam. The snowy, grey landscapes of England's West Country (actually Prague, for the most part) are frequently breathtaking. The action scenes are satisfyingly low tech, with seemingly little CGI but plenty of decapitations and arterial sprays. It's a shame they weren't put in the service of a better story, but when the action scenes kick in you're unlikely to be overly concerned.
The films biggest asset, however,is its lead actor. It's a little disconcerting watching James Purefoy in this role when you know that he left the production of V FOR VENDETTA having already filmed some scenes as the eponymous character. In some of the many shots where he's silhouetted against the ubiquitous grey and rainstreaked Somerset sky, all flowing cape and stovepipe hat, he's uncannily similar to Alan Moore's anarchist anti-hero. He also shares a similar penchant for dispatching England's enemies with the throw of dagger to the neck. Purefoy plays Kane as if he's in a state of persistent physical agony, which is quite fitting. He's really rather magnificent in the role and brings Hugh Jackman levels of charisma to the part. No small feat considering Kane is the sort of chap who makes Matthew Hopkins look like a member of the ACLU. Purefoy's Solomon Kane may also be the first swashbuckling, sword wielding hero with a British West Country accent since Nigel Terry's King Arthur in EXCALIBUR. Purefoy is the main reason that, at the end of the film, with the suggestion of more adventures to come, you hope SOLOMON KANE will do decent enough box office to warrant a franchise. This first outing is far from perfect, but there's considerable potential and the distinct promise of better to come.

Posted Saturday, May 16, 2009 3:11 AM by FullMetal_Atheist | with 0 comments

The Devil & Roky Erickson

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You're Gonna Miss Me (2007)

Seminal Texas Psyche-Rock band The 13^th Floor elevators were an influence on artists as diverse as Janis Joplin, Patti Smith and ZZ Top. If you’ve never heard of them, don’t feel too bad. After heroic doses of various psychotropic substances lead elevator Roky Erickson suffered a nervous breakdown and the band imploded, remaining little more than a cult footnote in the history of psychedelic pop. The Who jamming with The Doors might be a, somewhat unsatisfying, description of the Elevators sound although we don’t really hear enough of their music in You’re Gonna Miss Me – the story of Erickson’s burnout, wilderness years and gradual rehabilitation.

Diagnosed with schizophrenia at the height of the bands success Erikson fled to San Francisco and began a devastating heroin binge. Busted for possession on his return to Texas he was declared insane and sent to the infamous Rusk mental hospital.

However, this wasn’t exactly the end of Erikson’s musical career. While in the hospital, which at the time seems to have been more Victorian bedlam than place of rehabilitation, he formed a band with a motley crew of murderers and rapists. Released in 1972, Erikson attempted to articulate his experiences by writing and recording some extraordinary sounding music that went largely unnoticed.

The documentary is predominantly made up of recent footage of Roky, now living in relative obscurity with his elderly mother, at home in Austin, Texas. With seemingly little interest in his previous life it remains unclear how much of Erickson’s muddled state is the result of drug abuse, shock therapy received at Rusk or other factors. We see him sitting around listening to white noise on the radio or watching bad Saturday morning anime. A British music journo, working on a biography, comes visiting but Erickson answers his questions in a staccato manner and declines a copy of the early draft. His mother, a devout Christian, discourages her son from psychiatric help or taking medication insisting he must seek aid from the divine.

Erikson’s two brothers have an extremely frayed relationship with mom (who, frankly, comes off as mad as box of frogs) culminating in a ‘custody battle’ of sorts for guardianship of their sibling. You’re Gonna Miss Me really wants to be as much about the breakdown of this family unit as the breakdown of its protagonist, but it only partly succeeds. One problem is that this sort of thing has been done before and far more dramatically too. Brian Wilson, the patron saint of music genius burnout, had his story told in Don Was’ fascinating I Just Wasn’t Made For These Times and the breakdown of the family has, most recently, been handled in documentaries as diverse as Capturing The Friedmans and Crumb. It’s strongly reminiscent of the latter, in particular, although the creepy voyeurism that made Crumb so compelling is absent here. As harsh as it might sound, the other problem is that this story just isn’t that interesting. There really doesn’t appear to be much to differentiate Erikson’s story from any one of a thousand others that could have been picked randomly from the big book of Rock’n’Roll history. The film has an unfussy, almost downbeat, style which be commendable if the material were stronger. As it is, You’re Gonna Miss Me doesn’t really have the crossover appeal of The Devil & Daniel Johnston – another recent documentary about a semi-obscure Austin songwriter with mental health issues. Whereas Johnston has a sort of quirky charisma it’s actually rather depressing to spend 90 minutes in the company of Erikson and his squabbling family. File under: Die-hard Elevators fans only.

Posted Thursday, August 23, 2007 5:01 PM by FullMetal_Atheist | with 1 comments

War without end

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No End in Sight (2007)

First time writer/director Charles H. Ferguson‘s documentary concerns the post-2003 US occupation of Iraq. It covers the toppling of the Saddam-led Ba’ath government, the rise of a Muslim fundamentalist civil war in the country, and the violent insurgencies against coalition forces. Most specifically No End In Sight tells the story of an ill-prepared American-led occupation that was fueled by incompetence, misinformation and lies.

Ferguson’s approach is to utilize talking head interviews with military personal, local journalists, and (in most cases refreshingly frank) occupation coordinators interspersed with newsreel footage of the increasingly chaotic breakdown of Iraqi society, post-Saddam. While this could have made for a dry, uninvolving piece, it is a cleverly structured story with sharp editing that is truly exceptional. By letting the facts speak for themselves, Ferguson and his collaborators have made a compelling indictment of the Bush administration's treatment of Iraq; a nation it claims has been delivered from tyranny and bloodshed.

The evidence of US blunders presented within is enough to bring even the staunchest pro-war, Bush lovin’ Republican’s blood to boil (governmental dismissal of expert evidence that Iraq would collapse into anarchy without sufficient policing, a total disregard for civilian welfare, fresh-out-of-Harvard graduates in charge of Baghdad traffic control). Most disturbing of all is the suggestion that coalition forces squandered the good will of the Iraqi people leading to the rise of extreme fundamentalism in the region. For anyone who wondered what happened to those smiling children waving US flags and screaming ‘Thank you America’ at passing Humvees on CNN after the initial takeover – the heartbreaking answer will be found here.

The documentary’s impartiality extends to its treatment, or lack thereof, of ‘Gulf War II’ itself. This is a picture which firmly concerns itself with events after the overthrow of Saddam, with the exception of a brief Post-9/11 history lesson for anyone who may have been shipwrecked on a desert island for the last six years. There is no talk of the ethics, morality or hidden agendas of the war itself and no overt politicizing. It could be suggested that the arguments are a little one-sided but inter-titles make clear that the most well known and culpable figures (Cheney, Rumsfeld, Rice, etc.) declined to be interviewed.

That said, anyone who has remained informed on events in Iraq may not find any new or enlightening information in the film. Ferguson's real achievement, however, is to bring all the facts together into a cohesive history – and to do so in a way that is both riveting and devastating.

This is, of course, a story without conclusion. The real, unanswerable question that the film poses is “What happens now?” but in the meantime this essential, vital piece of reportage will stand as a definitive document, and along with Eugene Jarecki’s Why We Fight, one of the very finest non-fiction films of recent years.

Posted Saturday, August 18, 2007 6:39 PM by FullMetal_Atheist | with 0 comments

A West Bank Story.

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Campfire (2004)

Israel, 1981. Recently widowed mother-of-two Rachael (Michaela Eshet)
applies for a position on the founding committee of a new settlement
on the West Bank. Meanwhile, her eldest daughter has embarked on an
ill-fated relationship with an army conscript while the younger is
beginning to come to terms with her own sexuality.
Given the setting and the above synopsis, one could be forgiven for
thinking that American-born Joseph Cedar's Campfire would be a rather
po-faced, worthy affair. However, any fears in that department are
quickly put to rest with the opening narration from the younger
daughter, Tami (Hani Furstenberg), who assures us that this year she
means to 'Be happy, no matter what.' It's ironic then that the sweet
and appealing Tami gets the roughest deal of the three as the film
progresses towards the titular campfire.
Cedar's cast of characters is uniformly likeable, with strong
performances all around and a fine sense of time and place, hideous
eighties fashions included. Having said that, the framing device of
Tami's narration suggests a coming-of-age tale that never really
materialises. Cedar himself seems to like his characters too much to
allow anything really dramatic to happen to them and, although there
are some standout scenes (especially between Rachael and would-be
suitor Yossi - a fine, bittersweet performance by Moshe Ivgy) they
don't really build to an emotionally satisfying climax.
The setting, too, has a vague air of novelty about it. The politics of
Rachael's decision to move her family to a new settlement are never
explored, apart from her remark that she 'believes in the cause',
although it's never made clear if even this remark is truthful or an
attempt to sway to male-ccentric settlement committee to allow her to
join. Campfire could really be set anywhere, at anytime, in the last
thirty years and perhaps that's the point. Certainly Rachael is a
strong-minded woman in a society where such things are frowned upon
but even this is not examined with much depth. Possibly Cedar, mindful
of the slew of films on the Middle-East conflict, chose to steer clear
of the era's politics but a little more context would have benefited
the film greatly.
All of which is not to say that Campfire isn't worth your time. The
excellent performances alone are enough to recommend the film, just
don't expect anything particularly original or enlightening.

Posted Thursday, August 09, 2007 11:03 PM by FullMetal_Atheist | with 0 comments

Superior non-zombie (nonbie?) shocker.

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28 Weeks Later (2007)

Foreign film makers seem awfully adept at coming up with new ways to bring the apocalypse to the British capital these days. In the course of a few months of each other there was Aussie James McTeigue's silly, but enjoyable, V for Vendetta, Mexican Alfonso Cuarón's majestic Children of Men and Spain's Juan Carlos Fresnadillo with his sequel to Danny Boyle's 2002 pseudo-zombie shocker 28 Days Later.

Synopsis:

Seven months after the population of mainland Britain was almost totally wiped out by a manmade 'rage virus' the country is slowly being repopulated. A 'green zone' is set up on London's Isle of Dogs where refugees, under the aegis of the US military, are brought back to the country to rebuild their lives. Robert Carlyle's Don is one such returnee. Haunted by the memory of his wife, who he abandoned to save himself and whom he believes is dead, he awaits the return of his children who were holidaying in Spain during the initial outbreak. When the virus breaks out again, a US army doctor (Rose Byrne, also seen recently in Boyle's Sunshine) begins to suspect that Don's children might hold the key to a cure for the infection. She realises that protecting them at all costs, from both those that have the virus and the military, is vitally important.

The concept of making a follow-up to Boyle's modest, but effective, original might seem a curious one. It was suggested in the coda of the UK original that the Infected (screenwriter Alex Garland's shorthand for those who had contracted the virus) were dying en masse of starvation. To work around this dramatic dead end, Fresnadillo and his screenwriting collaborators, had to come up with an ingenious but unwieldy & clunky initial premise. To say more on that particular plot point would ruin some of the best twists in the tale, however. It's true though that unlike the original film this one doesn't drop the ball in the final quarter. In fact it's refreshing to see such a relentless, unashamedly scary horror movie after seemingly endless remakes and 'torture porns' clogging up the genre in recent years.

Fresnadillo does contradict the original in a couple of minor ways. The Infected are no longer photosensitive – the first time we see them they're happily rampaging across the Essex countryside in broad daylight. Danny Boyle went to great lengths to point out that 28 Days Later was not a zombie film per se, and yet in the sequel's most celebrated sequence, the helicopter scene (you'll know it when you see it!) we see dismembered torsos kicking about as if they'd just stepped off the set of the Dawn of the Dead remake. Although there's nothing in 28 Weeks Later to match the terrifying attack on Cillian Murphy's childhood home in the original, it's a much better paced film. Also, Fresnadillo never makes the mistake of using humor to give the audience room to breathe.

There are some obvious parallels with US military incompetence in Iraq of course but the primary focus throughout seems to be continually upping the ante in order to terrify the viewer. By the time the continually dwindling group of survivors reach an abandoned underground station, your fingernails should be firmly embedded in the arm rests. A brief but humorous final shot suggests the story is not done yet (28 Months Later?) but this is one horror franchise that has more than earned the right to become a trilogy.

Posted Wednesday, July 25, 2007 3:26 PM by FullMetal_Atheist | with 0 comments

Disconnections.

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Hawaii, Oslo (2004)

Hawaii, Oslo begins with the image through a kaleidoscopes viewfinder, segueing into an aerial shot of the Norwegian capital. It’s a neat, if not particularly original, allegory for the diversity of human lives. A man runs through a downtown street pursued by another on a moped. The runner veers into the road straight into the path of a speeding ambulance. There is a collision witnessed by several onlookers. Over the course of the next two hours, via flashback to the previous day, Hawaii, Oslo presents the stories of those present in this opening scene.

There's nothing new in using multiple storylines to reveal the complexity and interconnection of people's lives. Robert Altman adapted unrelated Raymond Carver stories and poems to make Short Cuts, and p. t. Anderson borrowed that film's structure for his own Magnolia. Hawaii, Oslo has been frequently compared to both but this might be a little unfair. If those movies are about the way in which lives are connected, then Erik Poppe's second feature suggests what happens when those connections unravel. Where Altman and Anderson weave their disparate tales together culminating in climactic earthquakes and frogfalls, Poppe starts at this point and then rewinds 24 hours.

So, we have the two young, delinquent, boys estranged from their mother. The psychiatric patient, with jailbird brother and long lost girl, who is so unable to deal with life that he runs, literally, from even the most minor of stressful situations. Most heartbreakingly, there is the young couple whose newborn child cannot survive outside the womb. If there has ever been a more potent cinematic metaphor for the pain of separation, I’ve never seen it.

Most heartbreakingly, there is the young couple whose newborn child cannot survive outside the womb. If there has ever been a more potent cinematic metaphor for the pain of separation, I've never seen it. Poppe and his screenwriter Harald Rosenløw-Eeg clearly feel a good deal of sympathy for their characters – something that is essential in making the film work so exceptionally. This is helped immeasurably by fine performances and beautiful, luminescent photography from frequent Lukas Moodysson collaborator, Ulf Brantås. Some of the nocturnal, deserted Oslo scenes have the texture of a dream. Along with the Yann Tiersen-esque minimalist score, the cinematography lends the film an almost hyper-real aura at times. There are also some sly nods to Wong Kar-Wai (current master of multi-part tales of urban alienation) along the way. Several minor plot elements seem to have come straight from Wong's early Chungking Express. With its final glorious shot, the film pulls together all of its storylines yet still manages to be wonderfully ambiguous. If you found Magnolia both overblown and pretentious or last years Babel risible and obvious, then Hawaii, Oslo might be the perfect antidote. Very highly recommended.

Posted Tuesday, July 24, 2007 9:05 PM by FullMetal_Atheist | with 0 comments

13 with a Bullet

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13 Tzameti (2006)

A young immigrant roof tiler in France is witness to a conversation concerning a dubious-sounding ‘game’ in which vast sums of money can be won. When the house owner (a former player of the game) dies, leaving the immigrant’s handiwork unpaid for, destiny seems to hand him the opportunity to take part himself.

To say much more regarding the storyline of Géla Babluani’s remarkable debut feature would be a huge disservice to both film maker and viewer. At a mean, lean 90 minutes Tzameti cuts pretty much straight to the chase and it’s wonderful to experience a thriller so lacking in the flabby storytelling found in Hollywood equivalents. If you’re looking for subtext, well it could be argued that the film is a grim satire on the exploitation of a migrant underclass at the hands of the wealthy and powerful. The obnoxious, cabalistic individuals behind the game with their briefcases of cash and clear indifference to human life would certainly support that hypothesis. However, like a precision built machine designed with a sole purpose, here is a film custom built to keep you riveted, desperate to know what’s going to happen next but dreading each impending plot revelation.

Tzameti isn’t a perfect movie. There’s some shaky acting, perhaps a sign of the inexperience of both director and much of the cast, and the motivations of some of the characters seem rather murky. These are minor, forgivable points however. With its blacker-than-black humor and a protagonist who begins as voyeur before, willingly, stepping into the heart of darkness there’s a clear Hitchcockian influence here. Aided immeasurably by beautiful black and white photography, which actually seems to get more noirish as the film progresses, and clever editing (note the use of close-ups), Tzamati is a real white-knuckler. A must-see!

Posted Monday, July 16, 2007 6:04 PM by FullMetal_Atheist | with 0 comments

Getting Clean with Maggie Cheung.

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Clean (2004)

There are vague echoes of Kieślowski’s Trois Couleurs: Bleu in Olivier Assyas’ tale of a dead musician’s lover piecing her life back together and coming to terms with her own demons. Maggie Cheung Man-Yuk is Emily, whose partner – a hasbeen British rocker who was big in the eighties – dies of a heroin overdose in a US motel room. After a spell in prison and losing custody of her son she flees to Paris to kick her own habit and escape the, infamously rabid, British music press who blame her for her lover’s death.

Those who’ve only seen Cheung in kooky Jackie Chan slaptick mode, or dreamy, Wong Kar-Wai existential dramas, might find her transformation here startling. As in ex-hubby Assayas’ earlier Irma Vep Cheung speaks English with a distinct ‘Sarf London’ inflection (She grew up in the UK) and her French is pretty convincing, too. If one can criticize her performance in any way it could be said that, and this applies to the film generally, it is rather detatched and clinical. Having said that, Clean’s real strength is the unsentimental approach it takes to subject matter that is, more often than not, treated as melodrama. There is a quiet affection between Emily and her child’s paternal grandfather, played in his copyrighted grizzly man style by a wondeful Nick Nolte. The scene where Cheung and her little boy, reunited after several years, take a trip to a Parisian zoo comes close to being dangerously underplayed but feels utterly convincing. Although Clean is less naturalistic than some of Assayas’ earlier work it sometimes feels less like drama and more like a fly-on-the-wall documentary about real people, with some of the dull bits left in.

Having said that, and despite some mis-steps along the way (Cheung’s singing, a bizarre, albeit brief, subplot involving Brit Trip-Hop’er Tricky) Clean is a, rather refreshing, slice of real adult cinema. Those who expect a big, emotional climax in this type of thing might end dissapointed but if your idea of a great night out at the movies is a Denys Arcand double feature you’ll probably love it. Despite its faults, Clean is a genuinly human drama of redemption and reconcilliation.

Posted Friday, July 06, 2007 4:00 PM by FullMetal_Atheist | with 0 comments

"Don't let us get sick, don't let us get old..."

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Sicko (2007)

In which Michael Moore dons rubber gloves, lubes up and prepares to give a rectal examination to the Unites States' health care system. For the most part, this is a far better film that either Bowling For Columbine or Fahrenheit 9/11 although, ever the polemicist, Moore does rather derail some of his arguments with questionable material.
Like Columbine, which used gun control, or a lack thereof, as the springboard for a discussion of broader topics, Sicko isn't really about the 50 million or so Americans without medical insurance. In fact the writer/director points this out in the opening moments. Moore concentrates on those who are, apparently, lucky enough to be covered by insurance policies and the bureaucracy they face when attempting to claim on them. This material, which takes up the first half of the film, is some of Moore's strongest work since Roger & Me, almost two decades ago. The anger, incredulity and, saddest of all, resignation of those crippled with debt or living in physical and emotional pain due to the greed of their insurance companies make a much stronger case for socialised medicine that the later, already infamous, shenanigans in Cuba.
In one early segment Moore gives us a brief synopsis of the stories of several people whose claims were rejected. The viewer might expect these to be precis of the more in-depth analysis to come. Instead, Moore simply explains that these individuals died before they could get the treatment they needed, treatment their healthcare companies claimed was not urgent.
Moore's argument - that healthcare run, unashamedly, as a business benefits nobody but the shareholders is a compelling one. At this point I should probably lay my own cards on the table and state that, as a recent migrant to the United States myself, I still find it shocking to see doctors advertising their services on television, or huge billboards plugging some new, space-aged hospital. The stories in Sicko, anecdotal though they may be, offer plenty of ammunition for those claiming that America's healthcare system is both ineffective for those who need it most and just plain unethical.
The problem with Sicko, the film, however might be rather easier to diagnose. Moore takes off for Canada to look at a near-neigbor of the U.S that has a policy of universal healthcare for everyone. Then Moore's off to London where he stops in on retired MP Tony Benn and the Royal Hammersmith hospital where everything is just fine. Across the channel in Paris it's the same story - Why, in France the goverment even provide new mothers with someone to do the ironing! The problem with these sequences is that, although there is nothing essentially innaccurate about them, they are very selective in what is shown. Moore has provided, early in his film, a scene in an American E.R. where people wait 9 hours for treatment but he doesn't so much as mention that things are the same, or worse, in the U.K. - or that waiting lists for non-life threatening operations can be years.
By the time Moore takes a group of 9/11 volunteer firefighters to Havana (with a short, rather pointless, detour to Guantanamo Bay) even the most liberal minded viewer might suggest the red carpet treatment they receive is nothing more than a Castro-organised publicity stunt. They even get an audience with the paediatrician daughter of 'Che' Guevara!
It's a shame because at the heart of Sicko is a justly angry, yet quietly devastating examination of a system that just doesn't work. If Moore could have kept his more disingenuous impulsions in check Sicko could have been a truly great film. That said, it's the best thing he's done in years.

Posted Sunday, July 01, 2007 9:54 PM by FullMetal_Atheist | with 0 comments

You can check out any time you like, but you can never leave...

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1408 (2007)

"I often dream about the Dolphin Hotel. In these dreams,
I'm there, implicated in some kind of ongoing
circumstance. All indications are that I belong to this
dream continuity."
So wrote the nameless protagonist of Haruki
Murakami's novel Dance, Dance, Dance of his supernatural
encounters in a room of the aforementioned hotel. Words
that could just as easily have come from John Cusack's
paranormal debunker in Mikael Håfström's adaptation of a
Stephen King short.
Cusack is Mike Enslin, skeptical ghosthunter and
remaindered novelist. Haunted by his own ghosts, and the
kind of spirits that come in a bottle, Enslin travels to
Manhattan to spend the night in the, supposedly, haunted
eponymous room of the Dolphin Hotel - site of over
fifty assorted suicides, murders and deaths attributed
to 'natural causes'.
This, of course, is something of a throwback to those
old 'writer spends a night in a haunted house' movies
that many of us would watch on late night TV as kids - a
subgenre which, surely, reached it's peak with Robert
Wise's original, supreme The Haunting.
Sam Jackson is the hotel manager who tries to talk
Enslin out of it but this is really Cusack's film. Like
other recent horrors (Bug, Vacancy) most of the action
takes place in a single room.
Unfortunately, Cusack's performance alternates between
sonambulism and gurning hysteria. Jackson, in what's
really an extended cameo, phones in his performance from
the hotel reception and, in one bizarre scene, turns up
to enigmatically scold Cusack from the room's minibar.
By the time blood starts leaking from the walls and
plumbing you feel the movie has descended into haunted
house cliche, with only the incessant sound of Karen
Carpenter's 'We've Only Just Begun' providing any real
horror.
The, laughably simplistic, attempt at theological debate
doesn't help matters, either. As if the recent The
Reaping wasn't bad enough, here's another atheistic
skeptic getting their just desserts - this time, with
the added guilt trip of a terminally ill child whose
father denies her the glory of a heavenly life eternal.
It's all rather a shame really. With a decent cast and
it's old skool scenario 1408 could have been a
contender. Sadly, those looking for some creepy Stephen
King haunted hotel thrills had best dig out that old VHS
copy of The Shining.

Posted Thursday, June 28, 2007 10:33 PM by FullMetal_Atheist | with 0 comments

You can check out any time you like, but you can never leave...

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Under discussion:

1408 (2007)

"I often dream about the Dolphin Hotel. In these dreams,
I'm there, implicated in some kind of ongoing
circumstance. All indications are that I belong to this
dream continuity."
So wrote the nameless protagonist of Haruki
Murakami's novel Dance, Dance, Dance of his supernatural
encounters in a room of the aforementioned hotel. Words
that could just as easily have come from John Cusack's
paranormal debunker in Mikael Håfström's adaptation of a
Stephen King short.
Cusack is Mike Enslin, skeptical ghosthunter and
remaindered novelist. Haunted by his own ghosts, and the
kind of spirits that come in a bottle, Enslin travels to
Manhattan to spend the night in the, supposedly, haunted
eponymous room of the Dolphin Hotel - site of over
fifty assorted suicides, murders and deaths attributed
to 'natural causes'.
This, of course, is something of a throwback to those
old 'writer spends a night in a haunted house' movies
that many of us would watch on late night TV as kids - a
subgenre which, surely, reached it's peak with Robert
Wise's original, supreme The Haunting.
Sam Jackson is the hotel manager who tries to talk
Enslin out of it but this is really Cusack's film. Like
other recent horrors (Bug, Vacancy) most of the action
takes place in a single room.
Unfortunately, Cusack's performance alternates between
sonambulism and gurning hysteria. Jackson, in what's
really an extended cameo, phones in his performance from
the hotel reception and, in one bizarre scene, turns up
to enigmatically scold Cusack from the room's minibar.
By the time blood starts leaking from the walls and
plumbing you feel the movie has descended into haunted
house cliche, with only the incessant sound of Karen
Carpenter's 'We've Only Just Begun' providing any real
horror.
The, laughably simplistic, attempt at theological debate
doesn't help matters, either. As if the recent The
Reaping wasn't bad enough, here's another atheistic
skeptic getting their just desserts - this time, with
the added guilt trip of a terminally ill child whose
father denies her the glory of a heavenly life eternal.
It's all rather a shame really. With a decent cast and
it's old skool scenario 1408 could have been a
contender. Sadly, those looking for some creepy Stephen
King haunted hotel thrills had best dig out that old VHS
copy of The Shining.

Posted Thursday, June 28, 2007 10:33 PM by FullMetal_Atheist | with 0 comments

New Dawn Fades.

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Sunshine (2007)

Sunshine, the latest collaboration between director Danny Boyle and novelist Alex Garland, is a sci-fi flick that proudly wears its influences on its gold lamé spacesuit sleeve. It's production design and cast of international astronauts are straight out of Alien. It has a plot that can't help but remind the viewer of a more cerebral take on Armageddon or The Core and there are passing references to 2001: A Space Odyssey and that films antithesis, Dark Star, along the way. Perhaps the movie it borrows most enthusiastically from, however, is Peter Hyams largely forgotten and underrated 2010: The Year We Make Contact.
Sometime in the near future, and for reasons unspecified, our sun is dying. A crew of eight are sent, aboard spacecraft Icarus 1, to deliver a huge nuclear payload in an attempt to reignite the star. Then something goes wrong, Icarus 1 loses contact with Earth and, seven years later Icarus II, with another crew of eight is sent with a bomb "the mass of Manhatten Island" in a final attempt to save mankind.
Quite why anyone would name a mission that has to fly close to the sun 'Icarus' (let alone doing so twice) and expecting things to go smoothly remains a mystery throughout but Boyle and Garland, aided by an impressive ensemble cast (including Malaysian superstar Michelle Yeoh and Japanese Sanada Hiroyuki - perhaps best known in the west for his role in all fouru Ring films)
do wonders with a tight budget and even tighter direction. Cillian Murphy, who starred in the same teams pseudo-zombie shocker 28 Days Later is Capa, the young physicist charged with overseeing the delivery of the payload, Chris Evans is the clearthinking second-in-command who realises every one of them is expendable for the greater good of pulling off the, purely theoretical, trick of rekindling the dying star.
In an early, telling, scene there is debate as to whether the mission should take a detour in order to search for the missing Icarus 1. When a crew member suggests taking a vote Evens points out that 'This isn't a democracy' and elects Capa to decide. It's a great scene because, like several others in the film, it shows clearly how science works, how informed decisions are made within the scientific community and, later in the film, how logic and clear thought will always trump religious dogma (Interestingly, Murphy has spoken openly how working on Sunshine set him on the way to atheism).
Having said that, some of the science in the film itself is highly debatable, if not downright daft. No reason is given for the sun's burnout - you may be reassured to know we have at least 4 billion years before it goes all Red Gianty - and a bomb with the mass of Manhatten would be woefully inadequate to kickstart the star back into action, anyway.
However, the film's real trump card is the Sun herself. Sunshine finds a truly spiritual beauty in the power and ferocity of the star that is, at times, highly moving. The crew's comms officer (Troy Garity) is so taken with the celestial body that he has sunburn from spending so much time on the observation deck. Boyle and Garland draw a clear line directly from what are the Earths first belief systems - those of sun worship - to the nontheistic scientists aboard Icarus II.
Unfortunatley, these comparisons are part of the - quite severe - problem with Sunshine. For the first two thirds this is a riveting, exciting human drama, and an unusually adult science fiction film. Then, in the last act it all goes horribly wrong. I wouldn't want to spoil the film for anyone tempted to see it (and you absolutely should see this film) but the film makers throw an element into the story that not only makes no sense whatsoever but goes a good way to undermining everything that has gone before. I can only imagine it was done in an attempt to attract the young teen crowd who might go to see this expecting it to be Alien or, god help us, Event Horizon. The only other explanation is that Alex Garland simply doesn't know how to write final acts for Sci Fi pictures (Exhibit A: 28 Days Later). Whichever it is, I felt quite angry that the last third of such a fine film plunged into slasher movie tackiness - a real shame because smart, thought provoking and ultimately inspiring science fiction films have never been in shorter supply.

Posted Tuesday, June 26, 2007 1:40 PM by FullMetal_Atheist | with 0 comments

Did Jesus actually exist?

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The God Who Wasn't There (2005)

Brian Flemming (who co-wrote BatBoy: The Musical, for which his soul shall be eternally damned) wrote and directed this funny and irrevelent look at what he considers to be the myth of Jesus Christ.

For sure this is a polemical film, although Flemming does allow a handful of Christians to give their views on what the big J means to them. Various talking heads offer the view that the tale of Christ was, in fact, based on earlier, pagan myths such as those of Mithra and Dionysus. Flemming, clearly working on a small budget, imaginatively uses stock footage and public domain film clips to get his point of view across and noted atheists such as Sam Harris and Richard Carrier are on hand to add their opinions.

The 60 minute film ends with Flemming (a lapsed fundamentalist) confronting his old school principle on the nature of his faith-based high schools teaching methods.

The God Who Wasn't There isn't likely to convert anyone who isn't already a disbeliever, but Flemmings personal, likeable style is very watchable, especially given the short running time. Flemming and his interviewees make some extremely potent points about why the Jesus story must, at the very least, be questioned for historical veracity and the film is pretty funny too (at least it is if you're already a hellbound heathen like myself, God botherers may be offended).

Special note should be made of a fantastic score by DJ Madson, which is available - for free!!! - from the films website.

Posted Saturday, May 26, 2007 9:22 PM by FullMetal_Atheist | with 0 comments

The slow death of humankind.

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Children of Men (2006)

Whether you buy its central premise or not, Alfonso Cuarons adaptation of PD James novel is, without doubt, one of the most technically startling pictures of the year. Even viewing it on a DVD screener copy, as I did, the films atmosphere of a world on the brink of total human extinction is both intoxicating and overwhelming.

An excellent Clive Owen is Theo Faron, ex political activist and world-weary everyman in 2027 London, capitol of the last remaining outpost of civilization. For reasons unknown every single human woman on the planet has been infertile since 2009. As Faron himself so succinctly puts it "In fifty years it'll all be over". Children of Men's London makes that of the silly, but similarly totalitarian V for Vendetta look like a holiday camp. Or maybe it's the other way round, depending on how you feel about holiday camps. The government rounds up all foreigners and cages them before they are shipped to the Guatanamo-like Bexhill-on-Sea internment camp. Suicide kits are freely available, martial law reigns and political activists are, seemingly, framed for acts of terrorism in order to discredit them. Faron begins the film completely apolitical but quickly becomes a fugitive when he is charged with protecting, and hiding, a young black girl who is the worlds first pregnant mother in eighteen years.

It's hard to describe the plot without giving away more than one would wish but there are also star turns by Julianne Moore as a member of the 'Fishes', who are determined to secure equal rights for the mass of immigrants entering Britain and Michael Caine as an old pothead who was once a political cartoonist in the Steve Bell mould.

What Cuaron suceeds so brilliantly in doing with Children of Men is creating an utterly believable vision of the End of the World. Unlike most films, where it's all over in a flash, this is the slow death of humankind and it's truly nightmareish. It's interesting that we, as individuals, are essentially selfish creatures and yet if faced with the total extinction of our species it's easy to imagine this kind of resigned apathy taking place. With no generation to replace your own, whats the point in creating anything new? Art, technology, literature would all be a waste of time without anyone to pass them on to.

The film never explains why this calamity has occurred. Indeed, it's unclear whether this is some Divine Retribution for humankinds evil ways or the result of some manmade catastrophe. As with much of the film, the beauty lies in the ability to read it in either a spiritual or purely secular way. Having said that, some of the religious allegory can get a bit much. The morally ambiguous 'Fishes' employ the famous Ichthys logo as their symbol and ,at the risk of giving away a major plot point, the baby is born in a stable-like enviroment, complete with braying horse on the soundtrack and middle-eastern folk crossing themselves and bowing down to mankinds possible saviour.

Yet Cuaron pulls the whole thing together brilliantly. Let's not forget this was the only man who has managed to make a truly entertaining Harry Potter movie, so he's clearly a cinematic miracle-worker himself. Much of the films backstory is told using snippets of dialogue, newspaper clippings and the ubiquitous plasma screens that cover every square inch of central London. Technically, as I stated earlier, the film is simply astouding. A first-act scene inside a moving car employs what appears to be a continuous camera shot from inside the vehicle whilst chaos ensues outside. You really have to see it to fully appreciate how mind-bending it is. The fact that Cuaron also throws a real shock into the scene, plotwise, means that if the movie hasn't hooked you already there's no way he won't have you now. It's a measure of how masterly this scene is that Spielberg did much the same thing, in a much showier way, during a relatively quiet moment in War of the Worlds but with far less impact but, one suspects, considerably more CGI.

Then there's the, already celebrated, last-third tracking shot through a war-torn internment camp. Even now, 48 hours after seeing the film this scene is seared on my brain. I don't want this to turn into a 'Cuaron is better than Spielberg' rant but this sequence, while similar to shots in Saving Private Ryan is much more poweful than anything in that film, and it has one hell of an emotional payoff, too.

But Children of Men is considerably more than the sum of its parts. I've seen some reviews from England (where the film is old news now, having been released back in October) claiming that this isn't an action movie, it isn't a sci-fi movie. Well, actually it's both and it seems totally unashamed to be a genre pic. It is sci-fi, and the most harrowing and convincing vision of the future since Blade Runner (and that's some accomplishemt). It is a thriller, and its thrills are terrifying (is there anything, in the annals of horror film history, more disturbing than an abandoned school?) It is an action flick, and it's the most exciting and hearstopping of the year, by a very large margin. But Children of Men is also a story about the very real world we live in now, what we are doing to ourselves and the way we might be heading. It's a warning, an extremely sobering one. For all it's bleakness, however, I believe the films real message is this: It's not too late for us to change things around, but it may be tomorrow.

Posted Monday, May 21, 2007 10:35 PM by FullMetal_Atheist | with 0 comments

Sympathy for Monster Vengeance

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The Host (2007)

Korean cinema has been wowing us (well, some of us) for the past few years now. The advent of democracy and generous state handouts to aspiring young film makers have been major benefits for film fans across the globe.
Whether it's the live-squid eating existentialist ultraviolence of Park Chan-wook or the wordless humanism of Kim Ki-duk South Korean cinema is presently the most dynamic and exciting in the world.
And now, lumbering onto the screen like its titular star, comes Joon Ho-bong's The Host (Gwoemul), the most domestically successful film in South Korea's history.
Getting straight to the point, The Host is an unashamed monster movie. A giant monster movie. From Asia. So, if you're thinking 'Godzilla' one could hardly blame you. In fact, Tokyo's favourite radioactive reptile is very much a precursor to The Host's mutated river beastie. Most of us, of a certain age, probably assume we saw the original Godzilla movie, Gojira(1954) on TV as kids. Chances are, however, unless you've sought out the recent, excellent, DVD collectors edition or grew up in Asia, you've not really seen it at all. The 1956 US re-edit loses much of the original political allegory due to missing scenes (replaced with Raymond Burr and assorted 'Yanks in White Coats') and inaccurate dubbing. Although this was partly done to tighten the film up a little for a western audience there must also have been the intent to hide some of the Japanese anger present in the film, aimed squarely at US atomic testing in the Pacific, not to mention the destruction of Hiroshima and Nagasaki less than a decade before.
Like Gojira, The Host springboards from actual events, in this case the US dumping of formaldehyde into Korea's Han river several years ago. The enviromental effects were considerable and were still fresh in the public consiousness when the film was released last summer.
Of course, in the film the formaldehyde mutates some river-life (a fish? Salamander??) into a large, pissed-off monster with a taste for human flesh. Joon wastes no time in introducing his beast, not for him the slow revelation via scenes of people being mysteriously dragged under water or overturned fishing boats. Ten minutes in and we've already had a long, hard look at his star. This could been disasterous if The Host didn't have so much more going for it. The effects work, by San Francisco-based The Orpanage (who worked on The Phantom Menace) and Peter Jackson's Weta Digital, are excellent and lend a real personality to the monster. However, the real soul of the film belongs to four members of a deeply dysfunctional family who only begin to operate on anything like a normal level when their youngest member (a little girl) gets eaten by the creature in the opening minutes.
The father, played by Song Kang-ho (who seems to make a habit of losing his daughter in rivers, see also Sympathy for Mr Vengeance) is convinced the girl is still alive. Unfortunately the authorities, under the request of the US military have quarantined him, convinced the monster has infected him with a biohazardous virus. Escaping along with his father, his 'intellectual' younger brother and their bronze-medallist-winner-at-archery sister they head for the sewers of Seoul in an attempt to find the child before she either starves to death or ends up as dinner for the mutant fish-thing.

To say anything more about the plot would be to give the game away. Enough to comment that Joon's mixture of sci-fi staples, high comedy and human pathos works even when it shouldn't. Much has been made of The Host's supposed anti-American sentiment and there's certainly some digs at US imperialism and the myth of WOMD, yet the Korean authorities don't come off much better. The police are portrayed as inhuman and uncaring and the government as unquestioning stooges to American superior knowhow. This could well be a satirical dig at South Korea's 'buffer-zone' status in the continuing US/North Korean cold war. In fact, 'Dearest Leader' Kim Jong-il (a known cinephile) is reported to be a big fan of The Host, extremely unsusual given the anti-south sentiment in his country. Whether he prefers it to, say, Team America: World Police however, we may never know.
Despite all these poitical and social touchstones (which also include references to the SARS scare and governmental media manipulation) The Host never forgets to be, first and foremost, a big, fun, creature-feature. And it's a fantastic one at that. It's tense, it's scary, it's funny, moving and plays with your expectations from the opening minutes. It's also one of the absolute best films of the past year.

Posted Monday, May 21, 2007 10:32 PM by FullMetal_Atheist | with 0 comments

Here comes the Bride...

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Kill Bill Vol. 1 (2003)

Tarantino's fourth (and fifth) film as director see's him blatantly working through his cinematic obsessions in a whirlwind of bloodletting and wire-fu. Tarantino's movie mixes Japanese Yakuza, Samurai and Hong Kong martial arts genres together and even throws in a little Anime segment (By Tokyo's 'Production I.G.' studio) and somehow it just about holds together. There are some nice cameo's too, from Tarantino hero Sonny Chiba and Battle Royale minx Kuriyama Chiaki. Miike Takeshi favourite Kunimura Jun also has a small role too, winding up on the wrong end of Uma Thurman's 'Japanese Steel'. The film is full of cool, nerdy injokes for fans of this kind of stuff. It even opens with the old 'Made in Shawscope' logo that adorned Hong Kong's Shaw Brothers productions in the 70's. Somehow though, despite the fact the movie is terrific fun for fans of Eastern exploitation cinema and newbies alike, it leaves you feeling slightly unsatisfied. If you're a Tarantino fan you might find yourself wondering where all the witty dialogue is (That a good proportion of the movie is in Japanese won't help, either) with only the occasional trademark witty one-liner (Thurmans to young gangster wannabe while smacking his ass with sword "This is what you get for f**king around with Yakuza's Now go home to your Mommy!")although we're assured there's lots of it in volume two. Which brings us on to the other real problem. It's no secret that Kill Bill was originally a three hour movie that Miramax has sliced in half with their marketing katana. Unfortunately, this is exactly how it feels too. The movie just stops, albeit on a plot revelation, and up come the credits. Not quite the damp squib of Matrix Reloaded but perilously close. And whereas that film had far too much plot and not enough action, this seems to be the exact reverse. Even the dodgiest Shaw Bros. vehicle revealed more motivation for it's characters actions that Kill Bill does. Ultimately it's a film that cannot be judged until we've seen the complete thing. Unlike the Matrix or Lord Of The Rings trilogies Kill Bill was never meant to be sliced up this way and, despite it's being divided into chapters anyway, it doesn't seem to do the movie any favours. Personally I was always destined to enjoy this, it panders to some of the things I like most about cinema, and Tarantino clearly 'grew up' (Possibly the wrong words, come to think about it) on the same eastern grindhouse cinema I did myself. My advice then, rent out a couple of Fukusuku Kinji Yakuza movies, or Miike Takashi's Dead Or Alive films, or Shurayuki Hime (AKA Lady Snowblood) which this film borrows from most of all and have a marathon screening session with them and THEN see Kill Bill Part one. You'll enjoy it so much more once you know which films it's referencing, and you'll get to see some wonderful movies along the way.

Posted Monday, May 21, 2007 10:27 PM by FullMetal_Atheist | with 0 comments

Nakata's leaky roof has hidden depths.

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Dark Water (2002)

'Dark Water'(Honogurai Mizu No Soko Kara) is Nakata Hideo's follow-up to his internationally acclaimed Ringu and Ringu 2. Yes, it's another horror movie and it's also based on a story by Suzuki Koji who wrote the Ringu cycle of novels. Both in style and theme Dark Water is remarkably similar to the previous movies. There's a little girl, her face obscured by long black hair, there's an obsession with water (In Ringu it was the ocean and, of course, the 'Well'. Here's it's leaking pipes and the mysterious Well-like water tower on the roof of heroine Hitomi Kuroki's apartment block.) Nakata also builds on the theme, present in Ringu (the movie but not the original novel) of a single mother determined to protect her child at all costs. In Ringu she was, ultimately, willing to sacrifice her own father. Here she's prepared to give up her sanity. The collapse of the nuclear family runs through all of these films but here it's given center stage and Nakata seems even more concerned with his theme than building up the atmosphere he did with the previous film. This is a character piece, it's more about terror than actually terrifying. Polanski's Repulsion comes to mind. This has the odd effect of making Dark Water strangely moving but not nearly as frightening as you know this director is capable of. The film gets it's tense, creep-out factor from seducing you into really caring about Yoshimi and her young daughter Ikuko (Another great Nakata-directed child performance from the cute Rio Kanno). The film also pilfers quite blatantly from Nicholas Roeg's Don't Look Now! with it's drowned Macintosh-clad ghost-child. Dark Water then, it's got nothing in it that'll mess with your nerves as much as that scene from Ringu but you'll never look at a leaky ceiling the same way and it's got the emotional resonance Nakata's earlier horror classic lacks.

Posted Monday, May 21, 2007 10:26 PM by FullMetal_Atheist | with 0 comments

A tale of ordinary madness.

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American Splendor (2003)

American Splendor' is based on the autobiographical comics written by Harvey Pekar and illustrated by many celebrated 'underground' comics artists. Pekar's stories of everyday blue-collar life (Until his recent retirement he was a mailroom clerk in a hospital) have sat next to Batman and X-Men titles in Comic Shops for the best part of thirty years now. Pekar also found minor celebrity as an occasional guest on David Letterman's show until an infamous incident - dramatised in this film - where he let rip with a particularly pointed attack on NBC's connections with arms dealing and what he saw as his own exploitation by Letterman for comedy value. The film dramatises segments from Pekar's life, including a wonderful mid-sixties moment, when he meets a fellow Jazz enthusiast by the name of 'Bob' Crumb, along with scenes taken straight from the comic book itself. These are intercut with interview segments by the directors with Pekar, his wife and collaborator Joyce Brabner and workmates. Paul Giamatti, who plays Pekar in the dramatised scenes, is an extremely credible Pekar. although he's a bit chubbier and less abrasive than the real thing, the mannerisms and, crucially, the voice (Pekar himself narrates many of the scenes) are dead ringers for the man himself. A moment when the real Pekar and his mailroom colleague Toby Radloff (Who deserves a comic book, not to mention a movie all to himself) are chatting with the actors who portray them cracking up in the background is both disorientating and strangely moving. By it's very nature the film is a slow burner. Being an adaptation of a work about the minutae of everyday life, the mundane and the struggle to just get up each morning (Something Pekar claims was a particular effort for his wife) it isn't exactly filled with action. But 'American Splendor' is a delightful and touching tale of a man who's very ordinariness makes him a unique voice. Pekar comes across as a, slightly cleaner living, Bukowski. Or maybe Homer Simpson (There's an uncanny physical resemblance). 'American Splendor' itself is an accomplished piece of film making that isn't showy about it's complex intertextual structure. Plus it's refreshing to see that with the current boom in Comic book movie adaptations there seems to be room for some of the more 'obscure' titles out there to make it to the big screen. 'Love And Rockets' anyone? If you're a fan of Terry Zwigoff's films I guarantee you're going to love it!

Posted Monday, May 21, 2007 10:25 PM by FullMetal_Atheist | with 0 comments

The feelgood movie of the century. With singing zombies.

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The Happiness of the Katakuris (2001)

Last night I saw The Happiness Of The Katakuri's. I have to tell you, this is a film I DEMAND you see. Yes, YOU! You owe it to yourself, to your loved ones and to humanity to seek out this wonderful, insane piece of art and savour every second of its 2 hour running time. Happiness Of The Katakuri's is quite simply awesomely good. If you already know the films of Miike Takeshi then you'll need no further encouragement. This incredibly prolific (Around 8 films a year, sometimes more) director makes wild Yakuza pictures(Shinjuku Triad Society Trilogy), reprehensible action thrillers (Ichii the Killer) and deeply disturbing 'feminist' - for want of a MUCH better word - horror (Audition). Where does Happiness Of The Katakuri's fit into this? Well, it's a family musical horror comedy drama. With stop motion animation, a Zombie dance number and an active volcano. And it totally rocks. I'm not sure if Miike just woke up one morning and said 'Hey, today I think I'll rewrite the language of film!' or he just got off his face on ketamine. In the light of this possibly both. I adored this film. After it ended I just wanted to watch it again. The most amazing thing is, he takes all this wildly different elements from many genres of film, melds them together and somehow gets away with it. (Not always the case with the boys work, but when you're as prolific as him you can't always score gold.) I don't want to go into the plot here, although if you've seen Shallow Grave then this is some kind of alternative universe take on that. It's also a remake of a Korean film called 'The Quiet Family' but in Japanese. With songs and Karaoke interludes. It's also quite a sweet drama about how close-knit one family becomes when faced with multiple crisis. I honestly believe Miike is making a serious point here. The fact that he does it so magnificently in a film that is, undeniably, completely barking just adds fuel to the fire of his reputation as a wayward genius. I LOVED this film. I am going to make everyone in the world see it. I swear, if everybody saw Happiness Of The Katakuri's, if we showed it on huge screens all across the world at exactly the same time on exactly the same day, there would be no more wars, or famine, or crime. We'd all realise in a huge collective-unconscious moment that hey, everything is going to be okay. Seriously. It's that good. It's that life-affirming. Do yourselves a huge favour this weekend. Go down to Blockbuster, fire up Bittorrent, do whatever you can to see this film. And watch it on a double-bill with Wild Zero for a true brain-melting experience. A genuine cinematic wonder of the modern world.

Posted Monday, May 21, 2007 10:23 PM by FullMetal_Atheist | with 0 comments

In the realm of the senseless.

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9 Songs (2005)

Michael Winterbottom is possibly the most exciting director to emerge from the United Kingdom in the last ten years. Prolific (by U.K standards) and already responsible for an eclectic oeuvre Winterbottom seems determined not to be shoe-horned into being seen as a purveyor of any particular genre. 9 Songs follows the arc of a relationship between a young American girl and an Englishman who meet at a Black Rebel Motorcycle Club gig at the Shephards Bush Empire. At the screening I attended Winterbottom introduced the film as his attempt to tell a love story minus what he considers the superfluous elements such as storyline, character development or any real narrative structure at all. What this leaves us with are a series of vignettes devoted almost entirely to the couples lovemaking, intercut with concert footage of various bands performing at the Empire (The aforementioned B.R.M.C,Franz Ferdinand etc.) by way of suggesting the passage of time. It's an audacious conceit and the hardcore sex scenes and highly physical nature of the relationship have a clear precedent in Oshima's Ai no Corrida but Winterbottom's experiment is an almost total failure. Sadly, the problem lays less with the idea and more with the execution. The dialogue (such as it is) is clichéd to the point of banality and there is a noticeable lack of both humour or passion between the two characters. The music sequences seem awkwardly slotted in to the film in order to up the running time and give the audience a brief respite from the dull and, frankly, rather ugly sex scenes. However, even these concert scenes have a listlessness to them unlike, say, the fabulous musical sequences in the directors 24 Hour Party People. Winterbottom should be commended for constantly experimenting with what can be done with film narrative but with 9 Songs it, unfortunately, feels like he's not even trying. Given his eclectic back-catalogue we could say Winterbottom has added another string to his cinematic bow - his first truly bad film.

Posted Monday, May 21, 2007 10:22 PM by FullMetal_Atheist | with 0 comments

Celebrity Death Match

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Alien vs. Predator (2004)

The knives were out for AvP before a single frame of film was shot. The news that Paul W. Anderson was going to follow in the footsteps of Scott, Cameron, Fincher and Jeunet was met with disbelief in some of the more rabid corners of fanboydom. They needn't have worried though, their beloved xenomorphs have such a minor presence in AvP that it barely registers as an official part of the Alien cycle at all. Things actually start rather promisingly, with the intriguing premise that the Predators may actually be responsible for the first sparks of human development and civilization. This was touched upon in the first Predator movie (and lifted, of course, from 2001) but is expanded on here. In a piece of casting that suggests some intriguing plot twists (Which, needless to say, never materialise) Lance Henriksen plays Bishop Weyland, a billionaire industrialist whose spy satellites discover an ancient temple under the Antarctic icecaps. In opening sequences blatantly reminiscent of Jurassic Park he assembles a group of 'experts' to join him on an expedition. This long-ish introduction sets up the predictable, but enjoyable, scenario. Unfortunately they're a rather colourless gang with only Henriksen and Ewan Bremnar's Geoff-Goldblum-Alike having any spark about them. Once they reach the site of the temple both logic and interest begin to wilt somewhat. Why has nobody previously mentioned the whaling station which by amazing coincidence was built slap bang on the top of the site? Of course, the whole thing is a cunning Predator trap to breed new Xenomorphs for an intergalactic game of Battle Royale. It's giving nothing away to say that Anderson kills off his best characters far too early and leaves us with a very poor Ripley clone. The films real problem however is that it is actually a premise in search of a plot. This is real video game material but the film's wafer-thin storyline simply can't stretch even to a meager 90 minute running time. The title, too, is more accurate than you might imagine - those expecting huge swathes of aliens and legions of predators in some kind of Helm's Deep style kick-ass showdown are going to be sorely disappointed. Rarely do we get more than one of each species on screen at a time, which is probably why the movie isn't titled Aliens vs Predators, but feels like a con nonetheless. Anderson appears to believe that his trump card is the big Alien Queen/Predator/Ripley Clone showdown but he then completely flubs it with the most unspectacular of anti-climaxes and an alien queen who seems to have borrowed her motion capture from Jurassic Park's T-rex. Ultimately AvP provides such a poor use of both franchise's that one can almost forgive the slow decline into mediocrity that has previously blighted the Alien cycle.

Posted Monday, May 21, 2007 10:21 PM by FullMetal_Atheist | with 0 comments

Mr Campbell has left the building....

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Bubba Ho-Tep (2002)

Don Coscarelli, the brains behind PHANTASM and its sequels, and Bruce Campbell, star of the EVIL DEAD series, virtually guarantee this unique horror-comedy a cult following. What surprises is the sharpness of the script and the depth of Campbell's performance as a geriatric, nursing-home dwelling Elvis contemplating his twilight years and missed opportunities to bond with Lisa-Marie. There's little time for melancholy, however, with a re-animated Egyptian mummy on the loose and Elvis's sole ally being fellow nursing-home resident Jack (the late, and wonderful, Ossie Davis), an African-American convinced he's JFK ("They dyed me this colour!"). The plot is purposefully slight allowing the two leads to carry the film, aided by sparkly dialogue and the film's knowing sense of it's own preposterousness. Campbell, in particular, seems to relish the opportunity to play The King as a variation on his Ash/Evil Dead persona and if the film occasionally belies its low budget that only seems to make it more delightful. A poignant meditation on the need for a meaning in the autumnal years of one's life? Well, maybe. A cool horror flick with an ass-kicking Elvis and a snakeskin-boot wearing Egyptian soul-sucker? For sure! With the end credits promising a prequel (BUBBA NOSFERATU, anyone?) this might be the beginning of one of the most wonderfully bizarre horror movie franchises yet.

Posted Monday, May 21, 2007 10:19 PM by FullMetal_Atheist | with 0 comments

Seven days...

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Ringu (1998)

Nakata Hideo's twisty-turny horror movie, based on series of novels by Suzuki Koji, borrows motifs from such diverse genre pics as VIDEODROME, CANDYMAN and ONIBABA. Mix in a healthy dose of one of X-FILES better episodes and a closing shot ripped straight from THE TERMINATOR and you'd probably expect an unholy mess. Well, you'd be half right because this is one of the most disturbing cinematic experiences in recent memory. The premise, a cursed videotape that dooms the viewer to a bizarre death exactly one week after watching it, may seem hard to swallow but Nakata plays it straight and an atmosphere of dread pervades the film. Characterisation is minimal but effective with good performances from the two leads as an estranged husband and wife fighting against time to save themselves and their young son from the curse. What really makes this film work though, in ways that superficially similar Hollywood efforts (including this films own remake) often don't, is a plot that constantly throws suprises at you right up until the final scenes. There is also some startling and genuinly unsettling imagery and very clever editing. RINGU may be nothing more than an effective little shocker but it makes most big budget Hollywood "psychological thrillers" look as anaemic as Sadako, the melancholy spirit at the center of the madness.

Posted Monday, May 21, 2007 10:17 PM by FullMetal_Atheist | with 0 comments

Robyn Hitchcock starts making sense.

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Storefront Hitchcock (1997)

When Jonathan Demme made the Talking Heads concert movie Stop Making Sense in 1984 he set a standard that no director since has been able to match. The stark visuals and unique music of the band along with an amazing performance by main man David Byrne created an experience that many consider to be the last word in "rockumentary" film making. Fourteen years on Demme returned to the genre with StoreFront Hitchcock, a concert movie of arguably one of Englands finest, certainly one of it's most idiosyncratic, singer/songwriters Robyn Hitchcock. Filmed over two days StoreFront has Hitchcock performing his music in a NYC shop window, a bizzare concept but totally in touch with the singers famously "unusual" sensibilities. Demme films Hitchcock, along with Violinist Deni Bonnet and Bass player Tim Keegan, with their backs to the window as bemused passers by stare in (look out for producer and regular Demme cameo player Kenneth Utt!) As in Stop Making Sense we can hear the audience but not see them, instead sharing their Point of view to give us the feeling of being part of the live experience. Hitckcock himself is far less a visual performer than David Byrne which may be part of the reason Demme gives him an ever changing New York street as a backdrop. Instead of big suits and stage acrobatics, inbetween songs, Hitchcock includes some of his bizzare monologues and surreal observations. These tend to grate after a while although some are quite amusing. And there's always the knowledge that they're probably going to be followed by a fabulous, if completely unconnected, song. Many of these are taken from Hitchcocks then current Moss Elixer album with a few oldies and some of his work with The Egyptians thrown in. For those of us who feel that Hitchcocks music always sounded at it's best in it's most pared down, stark incarnations this is a joy. The fact that this is in essence an "unplugged" session brings his voice to the fore and it's rarely sounded better. A good example is the version of "The Yip Song" - that insanely manic number with it's "Vera Lynn" chorus appears here as a far more melancholic piece, aided by an on-screen dedication to Hitchcocks father Raymond. Maybe comparing this film to the Talking Heads movie is a little unfair. Demme may have used a similar technique but it does have it's own distinct flavour, perhaps unsuprising considering it has such a colourful artist as its subject. It never reaches the exhilarating levels of seeing Stop Making Sense in a movie theatre but Demme should be congratulated for having the smarts, ability and just plain good taste to bring such a unique talent to the big screen.

Posted Monday, May 21, 2007 10:14 PM by FullMetal_Atheist | with 0 comments

Hello Kitties!

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The Cat Returns (2002)

Hiroyuki Morita's THE CAT RETURNS is a delightfully engaging children's fantasy from Japanese animation powerhouse 'Studio Ghibli', creators of SPIRITED AWAY. Resurrecting 'The Baron', an aristocratic feline from previous Ghibli release Whispers Of The Heart, this has schoolgirl Haru being, well…spirited away into the bizarre 'Kingdom of the Cats' and forced into an arranged marriage with Prince Lune, heir to the moggy throne. As this was the first film from Ghibli since the Academy Award winning Spirited Away, and as the two movies as similar in premise comparisons are inevitable. Although THE CAT RETURNS lacks the thematic depth and lush animation of Miyazaki's film it does possess a certain charm of its own. Sequences such as a nocturnal kitty parade through the sleeping streets or a breathtaking aerial escape with the help of some friendly crows reveal this unassuming little cartoon to possess more undiluted imagination than three Harry Potter films combined. Plenty of sly humour for mum and dad, no mawkish Disney-style song-and-dance numbers and a brisk 75 minute running time combine to make THE CAT RETURNS a family film in the best possible sense. Once again Studio Ghibli prove that rumours concerning the death of traditional cell animation have been wildly exaggerated.

Posted Monday, May 21, 2007 10:13 PM by FullMetal_Atheist | with 0 comments

Mostly humorless

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The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy (2005)

The road to a cinematic Hitch-Hikers has been well documented as long and tortuous. What began as a BBC radio show way back in 1978 has seen incarnations as a series of novels, a TV show, interactive fiction and several stage versions. A film has been on the cards for at least two decades and now, at last, we have what Hitch-Hikers creator Douglas Adams always hoped would be the ultimate imagining of his SF-comedy. Let's get right to the point here, this movie is going to be a huge disappointment to the "trilogy's" many fans. The casual film-goer is unlikely to be too impressed either. It seems incredible that something that has languished in turnaround so long has come out so half-baked and semi-formed. Maybe the length of time it's taken to get this show on the road is much of the problem, though. Disney clearly spent a fair amount on this production (although the SFX are variable) and they've really tried to appeal to the lowest common denominator. The problem is it's all too rushed and confusing for the uninitiated yet severely lacking in true Hitch-Hikers spirit for aficionados. Bizarrely many of Adams best lines and jokes are left in - but without the punchlines. A good example is the, hugely truncated, opening where earthman Arthur Dent's house is to be demolished. Adams, of course, had this scene mirror the bigger picture of the bureaucracy-obsessed Vogon destruction of the Earth. Here this doesn't play out at all and the whole sequence falls flat. Another example is Ford Prefect's (Mos Def) constant use of his towel in moments of danger. Fans will know where this comes from but to anyone else it just looks like very desperate slapstick. A subplot, original to this movie, concerning the quest for a 'Point of view gun' is pointless and goes nowhere at all, seemingly added to give John Malcovich something to do in one of several wasted cameos. The late Adams himself is credited as co-author of the screenplay, and it would be fascinating to know just how much of the script can fairly be attributed to him. The movie isn't without it's pleasures. There are some nice touches such as the beautiful Magrathea interiors, an appearance from TV's Marvin and the original radio shows Arthur (Simon Jones) plus any fan is going to get goosebumps hearing The Eagles 'Journey of the Sorcerer' as we are first introduced to 'The Book' itself. Having said that, the 1981 BBC TV show, which Adams never much cared for, had far wittier graphics to illustrate the Guide than anything this film can muster up. The cast battle valiantly with a generally inane script and flat direction but in the end this just wasn't worth the time, effort and love than so many people spent on it over such a long period. It pains me to quote Marvin the Paranoid Android here but as far as The Hitch-Hikers Guide To The Galaxy goes - "I've seen it, it's rubbish."

Posted Monday, May 21, 2007 10:12 PM by FullMetal_Atheist | with 0 comments

A beautiful, disturbing modern Russian classic

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The Return (2003)

Former commercials director Andrei Zvyagintsev's stunning film debut is the ideal antidote to all those twee American coming-of-age flicks. This beautiful and sometimes harrowing tale of two young boys on a road trip with a father who 'dissapeared' twelve years before has a surface simplicity that belies it's deeply complex heart. Or, perhaps it's the other way around? There are shades of 'Martin Guerre' to the story but the director, and his co-screenwriter Vladimir Moiseyenko, have created something quite fresh and unique. A quiet and contemplative journey that ends as enigmatically as it begins. The, unnamed, father (Konstantin Lavronenko) returns after more than a decade to the Russian village where the two boys and their mother ,Natalya Vdovina, (it's never clear whether the couple were ever married) reside. He takes his children on a journey, ostensibly a fishing trip, which appears fraught with minor mishaps – the car, and later a boat, break down, the fathers wallet is stolen from the boys etc. It's never clear to what degree the father is manipulating these events, or indeed what exactly his motives are. Does he genuinely care about his sons and want to spend the weekend attempting to 'bond' with them? Or is his desire to reach a remote island connected with the abandoned ruins of a house there? Whatever his motivation, dad has a unique line in 'tough love', which tends to manifest itself in a bloody nose or the threat of decapitation with an axe. The two boys, brought up by mother and granny aren't overly eager to be on the receiving end of their 'new' fathers affections, although the older of the two (Vladimir Garin, who tragically died in a drowning accident a fortnight after filming completed) seems to desperately want to believe that his father cares for him. They're suspicious, too, of where he's been for most of their lives yet they're cautious enough to keep their curiosity between themselves. It's not giving anything away to say that, from the outset, you're aware there's not going to be a happy ending to all this. What really impresses about The Return, aside from the beautiful, washed out cinematography and the pitch-perfect performances (the two, non-professional, boys are astoundingly good) is Zvyagintsev's awareness that there is no need to spoon feed all the 'facts' to his audience. The 'why's and the 'where's' are something we can decide for ourselves, as individuals. Zvyagintsev presents us with the bare facts of his tale and leaves the interpretation up to us. There's more to it than this, of course. For all its concentration on the minutiae of this week-long journey the film is absolutely riveting and ravishing to look at. Zvyagintsev leaves it to the viewer to decide whether what they've just seen is a deceptively simple tale or an overwhelmingly complex one. Whichever, it could well be a minor masterpiece.

Posted Monday, May 21, 2007 10:10 PM by FullMetal_Atheist | with 0 comments

Never the twain shall meet?

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East is East (1998)

Damien O'Donnel's bright and colourful comedy drama is, for the most part, an entertaining and nostalgic tale of the conflicts within a mixed-race family in early seventies Manchester. A hit in the UK upon release the film also did modest business in the US helped by a marketing campaign that promoted it as a breezy comedy but the film also tackles the serious question of what it was, and what it is, to be young, Asian and British. It's curious, and perhaps a little disappointing, that despite the early seventies setting the film steadfastly refuses to tackle the broader issue of racism in any depth. At a time when Enoch Powell was extolling the virtues of repatriation and the nations favourite sitcom was 'From Death Us Do Part' (or possibly 'Love Thy Neighbour') the worst any character in East Is East has to contend with is a shifty look from a nightclub bouncer. Powell does have a brief cameo, as a poster on a window that the family's daughter Meenah (Archie Panjabi) smashes in a defiant demonstration of her footy skills. It's a nice moment, a teenage Asian girl kicking in Enoch's head with a soccer ball – What would Alf Garnett say? Unfortunately we don't get to find out as the films only really abusive white character (Who bears a suspicious resemblance to Johnny Spate's 'lovable racist') only appears a couple of times to mutter something about 'Bloody Pakis' or 'Pickininies'. The conflict between Indians and Pakistanis is given a similar treatment, with George expressing his distaste for "Those cow worshipping bastards" and the contemporary conflict on the subcontinent being relayed on the family's radio. Again, however, this seems more to add colour and humour than for any other purpose. Perhaps O'Donnell felt that a deeper examination of these issues would detract from the theme of Asian/British identity and it's true that other British features have dealt with the subjects in greater detail. Having said that it might have been an idea to make a passing reference to the fact that racial prejudice, while not necessarily any more commonplace than today, was certainly seen as more acceptable. Of course, despite the considerable attention to period detail, 'East Is East' lays no claim to painstaking factual accuracy. There's a fairytale like quality to the film heightened by the Bollywood-style primary colours that frequently contrast with the drab Salford landscape. This viewer was reminded of Hettie MacDonald's council estate love story 'Beautiful Thing', like this based on a stage play with a script by the original author. Both of these films employ a subtle heightened sense of reality that suggests a half remembered childhood memory. One marvellous sequence set in a Bradford Asian flea pit (The 'Moti Mahal') sees the entire Khan clan sitting transfixed during the latest Bollywood epic. It's that rare occasion when the conflicts within the family can be forgotten in favour of a fleeting moment of escapism. And conflicts there are, because the real meat of the film concerns the alienation that exists between the rigidly traditionalist George and the other family members. Played, with a mix of bumbling comedy and genuine menace, by Omi Puri George is certain he knows what's best for his children, not to mention his wife. He wants the kids to learn Urdu but they refuse to study, his precious sons should marry into another Pakistani family of his choosing but they want to screw around with white girls and his wife refuses to show the respect that is demanded in a Muslim marriage. George, while not exactly an anachronism – he gets plenty of understanding from the like minded down at the local Mosque – is a man who cannot see that his children are not like him. Their only sense of the 'homeland' is through their father and the traditions he imposes upon them. It's not surprising then that they consider themselves unequivocally British. Upon arrival in Bradford one of the youngsters takes a look at the locals and shouts excitedly "There's 'undreds of 'em!" In a way it's a shame that the family is mixed race. Not enough is done with this to really justify it and how much more impact the conflict between George and Ella (Linda Bassett) would have been were she also Asian. The fact that the Khan children are half Caucasian also simplifies the question of British-Asian identity a little too needlessly. All of this might suggest a rather dry, even depressing film, but like the colourful feature playing at the Moti Mahal 'East Is East' never forgets it's primary function is to entertain. This is, after all, essentially a comedy and it's frequently very funny indeed. The humour ranges from extremely broad – a scene involving the 'banished' sons new life as manager of a 'swinging' London Boutique and another involving a latex vagina could both have come from an 'Austin Powers' movie – to the grimly dark. The best example of this might be youngest son Sajid's (Who lives permanently inside his Parka like a prototype for 'South Park's Kenny) trip to hospital for a circumcision. Towards the end of the film, in a moment mirroring this, he has the hood of his jacket unceremoniously ripped off and is finally exposed to the outside world, or as close to the outside world as George allows the family to get. Clearly Khan-Din's surrogate in the film (Himself a Salford boy who would have been ten in 1971) much of 'East Is East' is viewed through his eyes and from this perspective the film can be seen as something of a 'coming of age' tale. While not entirely successful 'East Is East' is still a welcome addition to the increasing ranks of British-based Asian cinema and television. Seemingly made with a broad audience in mind it, nevertheless, takes up some serious issues. It's just a shame the filmmakers weren't willing to stick their necks out just a little bit further.

Posted Monday, May 21, 2007 10:08 PM by FullMetal_Atheist | with 0 comments

Flowers of fire

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Fireworks (1998)

Hana-Bi, Kitano Takeshi's 7th film as writer/director is something of a departure from the (albeit quite poetic)Yakuza pictures for which he is known in the west.It is a beautiful, lyrical story of an ex-cops coming to terms with his last shot at personal redemption. Kitano shows a warmth and humanity not displayed in his previous films,the scenes between Nishi and his wife being particularly moving. All of Kitano's films have a tableux quality with their long static shots and here he takes this to the logical extreme by using paintings (his own) to display the emotions of a crippled cop considering suicide. Kitano employs his usual deadpan humour carefully at key moments throughout the film, often in the most violent scenes.And nobody else can film a scene set on a beach like "Beat" Takeshi. Special mention should also be made of Joe Hisaishi's beautiful jazz influenced score. This is Kitano's most mature work, a marvellous intelligent picture from one of the major talents in modern Japanese cinema.

Posted Monday, May 21, 2007 10:05 PM by FullMetal_Atheist | with 0 comments

Going Underground

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Kontroll (2005)

Nimród Antal's directorial debut opens with a disclaimer from the chairman of the Budapest Metro System explaining that the following film is 'obviously symbolic' and does not bear any relation to the activities of the real ticket inspectors who work the lines of the cities underground railway. One suspects the director added this scene for the amusement of the audience, the chairman seems clearly perturbed that he aided the film maker to produce a work that hardly shows his company in a positive light. However, this rather awkward bureaucrat has a point. Kontroll is a film that works on several levels, none of which ever pretend to be a realistic portrayal or even, for that matter, satire. The film works best as a fairytale, the fable of youngish ticket inspector Bulscú (Sándor Csányi) who, we discover, was a project leader in a research company before unexplained events drove him to work and live in the subterranean metro system. Bulscú never returns to the world above, preferring to sleep on the station platforms and eat from the vending machines. The team of inspectors who work under him include a narcoleptic junk food addict, a short-ass with an attitude problem (and strong shades of Trainspotting's 'Begbie') and a rookie who has yet to undergo the complex initiations of the veteran 'Kontrollers'. Into this mix Antal throws a rival team of inspectors, a mysterious girl in a bear costume and a spate of apparent late-night suicides, perhaps the most interesting element in the film. The suicides are, in fact, the work of a mysterious 'pusher', a Grim Reaper who appears from nowhere to throw people to their deaths in front of speeding trains. There has been much speculation as to the identity, or meaning, behind this character. Is it the alter-ego of the (similarly dressed) Bulcsú, a la Fight Club? Or is a battle for one mans soul being fought out in the dark tunnels of the subway between the angelic Teddy Bear Girl and the spectral Pusher? Whatever the meaning, it's clear that Antal is borrowing motifs from a long tradition of supernatural-subway pictures that goes back to Quatermass and The Pit, Deathline and that memorable American Werewolf moment. The references don't stop there either, as well as the aforementioned Fight Club, Kontroll is reminiscent of the hyper-real world of Alex Cox's Repo Man or Terry Gilliam's Brazil. Regular commuters on the Budapest subway might have trouble recognizing familiar stations as the names have been replaced with cryptic numbers, in Kontroll the clocks that announce the arrival of the next train count down when the actual platform clocks count upwards and all of the advertisements that adorn the walls and escalators of the system have been replaced with sheets of colored plastic creating an eerie familiar-yet-alien atmosphere. Even the vending machine that Bulcú drinks from has coded puns to replace the names of the refreshments (T42!!!). I should mention too that the film is often very funny and stylish. The editing and cinematography make Kontroll look extremely slick and the use of some wonderful subterranean locations belie the low budget. The Run Lola Run-esquire techno score by the band NEO helps to give the film the breakneck pace of a speeding train, especially in several heart-stopping chase sequences. If the film runs out of steam towards the end and the final scene is rather predictable and cliché'd then these can probably be forgiven considering the achievements of Antal's debut feature. Without doubt a talent to watch and, possibly, the first international cult film from Hungary.

Posted Monday, May 21, 2007 10:00 PM by FullMetal_Atheist | with 0 comments

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FullMetal_Atheist's movie tags

Peter Jackson's Witchfinder General, anyone?

The Devil & Roky Erickson

War without end

A West Bank Story.

Superior non-zombie (nonbie?) shocker.

Disconnections.

13 with a Bullet

Getting Clean with Maggie Cheung.

"Don't let us get sick, don't let us get old..."

You can check out any time you like, but you can never leave...

You can check out any time you like, but you can never leave...

New Dawn Fades.

Did Jesus actually exist?

The slow death of humankind.

Sympathy for Monster Vengeance

Here comes the Bride...

Nakata's leaky roof has hidden depths.

A tale of ordinary madness.

The feelgood movie of the century. With singing zombies.

In the realm of the senseless.

Celebrity Death Match

Mr Campbell has left the building....

Seven days...

Robyn Hitchcock starts making sense.

Hello Kitties!

Mostly humorless

A beautiful, disturbing modern Russian classic

Never the twain shall meet?

Flowers of fire

Going Underground

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