While James Merendino definitely mines the same isolationist/paranoiac territory Polanski so effectively excavated in "The Tenant" and preys upon our fears of occult rituals to good effect ala "Rosemary's Baby," don't think he has nothing new to bring to the table here.
Part of the brilliance of this film lies in the denseness of its low-fi, LA ersatz-bohemian scene. The acting is natural, the characters are utterly believable...there are no stand-out creeps among the cast that would lead you to believe something very strange is actually outside the mind of its protagonist, the neurotic, agoraphobic, insecure Eric, played with brilliant self-consumption and commitment by (now very successful in real-life) screenwriter Sebastian Guitierrez.
It was obvious the love and energy that went into this production. What it lacks in technical virtuosity and budget it more than makes up for in cahones and heart.
Eric's a down and out author of pulp novels who spends his days and nights squirreled inside the bottom floor of a two-unit walk-up in an anonymous concrete-infested burg of LA. It starts out as simple annoyance with the guy above...loud footsteps, moving furniture, the usual crap of apartment nightmares. Gradually though, things escalate to crank phone calls, wiretapping, and some seriously effed-up mental mind games that get Eric's already unstable, nervous personality and persecution complex working overtime.
Or is it? As the movie progresses, it gets harder and harder to differentiate the nightmares from the realities, the absurd from the possible. As Eric's mind continues to imprison him, his fatalistic fantasies get more grotesque, more vivid, and more disturbing. For a film made with chewing gum and redeemable soda cans, it can cast a spell on you unlike many movies with 100 times the budget.
That's where this powerful indie really succeeds. As I mentioned before, the other supporting performances by Rustam Branaman especially, as Eric's "nemesis," are so neutral and californiacated that they can be taken as either sly insinuation or laid-back boredom. Christina Fulton, has a hilarious turn as Eric's hyperactive beatnik girlfriend, who thinks everything's one big joke, and special props should go to Kane Picoy as perhaps the only character with his head on straight in the whole picture...and he's stoned half the time.
By turns clever, funny, inventively shot, cut with just the appropriate amount of jumpiness to throw you off kilter, and with a script that barely falters in pacing or story-drive, "The Upstairs Neighbor" deserves a spot in the history books for awesome bang-for-the-buck guerrilla film-making. With a dreamy, doomy score by trumpeter Bruce Langhorne, that recalls Mark Isham at his best and most ominous from "The Hitcher."
Isn't it time it was released on DVD in the USA so more people can experience the nightmare for themselves?
Part of the brilliance of this film lies in the denseness of its low-fi, LA ersatz-bohemian scene. The acting is natural, the characters are utterly believable...there are no stand-out creeps among the cast that would lead you to believe something very strange is actually outside the mind of its protagonist, the neurotic, agoraphobic, insecure Eric, played with brilliant self-consumption and commitment by (now very successful in real-life) screenwriter Sebastian Guitierrez.
It was obvious the love and energy that went into this production. What it lacks in technical virtuosity and budget it more than makes up for in cahones and heart.
Eric's a down and out author of pulp novels who spends his days and nights squirreled inside the bottom floor of a two-unit walk-up in an anonymous concrete-infested burg of LA. It starts out as simple annoyance with the guy above...loud footsteps, moving furniture, the usual crap of apartment nightmares. Gradually though, things escalate to crank phone calls, wiretapping, and some seriously effed-up mental mind games that get Eric's already unstable, nervous personality and persecution complex working overtime.
Or is it? As the movie progresses, it gets harder and harder to differentiate the nightmares from the realities, the absurd from the possible. As Eric's mind continues to imprison him, his fatalistic fantasies get more grotesque, more vivid, and more disturbing. For a film made with chewing gum and redeemable soda cans, it can cast a spell on you unlike many movies with 100 times the budget.
That's where this powerful indie really succeeds. As I mentioned before, the other supporting performances by Rustam Branaman especially, as Eric's "nemesis," are so neutral and californiacated that they can be taken as either sly insinuation or laid-back boredom. Christina Fulton, has a hilarious turn as Eric's hyperactive beatnik girlfriend, who thinks everything's one big joke, and special props should go to Kane Picoy as perhaps the only character with his head on straight in the whole picture...and he's stoned half the time.
By turns clever, funny, inventively shot, cut with just the appropriate amount of jumpiness to throw you off kilter, and with a script that barely falters in pacing or story-drive, "The Upstairs Neighbor" deserves a spot in the history books for awesome bang-for-the-buck guerrilla film-making. With a dreamy, doomy score by trumpeter Bruce Langhorne, that recalls Mark Isham at his best and most ominous from "The Hitcher."
Isn't it time it was released on DVD in the USA so more people can experience the nightmare for themselves?