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Ghoulies (1984)
Ghoulies Delivers What it Promises: Cheap Thrills, Empty Story, Monster in the Toilet Bowl
In Ghoulies, a handsome twenty-something inherits his father's decrepit old mansion, sets to dusting and repairing the uglier bits, discovers a gown, staff and hand-scrawled notebook in an old chest and uses them to summon a tribe of pint-sized servants from the underworld. His first experiments with the occult aren't exactly a roaring success - an attempted party summoning only manifests derision from his drunken, underwhelmed guests - but he soon gets the hang of it and, with glowing green eyes, allows himself to fall before the same compulsion that claimed dear ol' dad. Who, for his part, isn't entirely stationary in a shallow grave elsewhere on the grounds.
Just another participant in the flood of mean-little-monster movies that inundated theaters during the '80s (see Gremlins, Critters, Dolls, Puppet Master or The Gate), Ghoulies lands right around the middle of the pack. Which, objectively speaking, isn't a great place to be. Ham-and-cheesy even at the best of times, the tiny creature subgenre's worst entries are enough to test the patience of any dedicated moviegoer. This example's pretty bad, honestly, but it's loose and silly enough to merit the watch for folks (like me) who are into the right kind of crappy cinema. The plot doesn't waste any time getting to the goods, revealing its mini monsters in the very first scene and spreading their appearances liberally throughout the duration. We've got squat, snot-soaked beasts eavesdropping from trees, drawing pentagrams under beds, launching themselves out of closets and, in one quick shot so memorable it made the movie poster, baring gap-toothed grimaces from the belly of a toilet bowl. That last instance amounts to literally nothing, but I hooted and hollered nonetheless.
This is like an EC horror comic from the 1950s, converted to celluloid: all foggy atmosphere, dollar store scares, gratuitous slime, glow-in-the-dark magic effects and corny cackles. The critters are cheap and stiff, but smartly manipulated into a wide range of inane, hilarious poses and expressions. The story has ideas to spare, but most fall by the wayside for one reason or another. My favorite: the proposed gimmick of filming sections of the movie in 3D and signaling audiences to wear their red and blue specs each time a cast member dons a pair of sunglasses. They ditched that plan midway through production, leaving a whole bunch of puzzling scenes with the cast in shades, after dark, without any explanation.
Ghoulies sucks, but it's totally watchable.
Prince of Darkness (1987)
John Carpenter Inspects a Meeting Point Between Science and Religion
Quantum mechanics meet demonic possession in John Carpenter's independently-released return to horror, following a brief flirtation with other genres. In Prince of Darkness, he depicts a class of university physics students who enter a boarded-up church to observe the jar of swirling, simmering fluid in its basement. The team soon discovers another disturbing pool of liquid on the ceiling and, after one participant accidentally swallows a mouthful (don't ask), commence to spitting hot, jetting streams of it at one another. This turns out to be a method of mind control, the devil's means of enacting his evil plans, but Satan isn't the only one pulling strings from another dimension. When they fall asleep (which is shockingly often, considering the amount of screaming and spitting), the crew share dreams of warning and premonition. Time-skipping admonitions, we learn, from the year 1999.
That sounds like a *lot* of crazy conceptual fireworks, but it's only scratching the surface. I haven't even touched upon the acknowledged AIDS metaphors or the idea of Jesus Christ as an extraterrestrial. Carpenter must've intended this premise to serve as a multi-functional merging point between science and religion, a bizarre form of information processing for all the high-minded thoughts he found in that month's news broadcasts and specialty magazines. It covers a wide range of conspiratorial silliness, compelling enough to merit a second thought but ridiculous enough to quickly dismiss and move on with one's life. Or one's plot, as it were, since most of the scintillating bits are abandoned almost as soon as they're introduced. For all its wild n' wacky ideas, Prince of Darkness is surprisingly dry. The necessary exposition takes an hour to get through and, in the end, it all resolves into a stock-standard case of kill or be killed anyway. The devil's possessions, it seems, are most effective in bugs and homeless people (including special guest star Alice Cooper, who stabs a man to death with a bicycle), but each cast member does more than their share of standing around and looking vaguely uncomfortable.
It's the cinematic equivalent of too many cooks in the kitchen. There's something interesting stewing under the surface here, but Carpenter has loaded the script with so many competing ideas that it's tough to focus on any one particular degree of insanity. By the closing act, I felt like I'd skimmed the lot of them, eager to move past the thematic heavy lifting and get on with the freaky finale already. Kooky and creative, but overripe and often downright boring.
The Stuff (1985)
Cut-Rate But Quaint, The Stuff is the Right Kind of Terrible
Somewhere in the deep south, fluffy white liquid bubbles from a bog. Curious passing construction workers dip their fingers in the puddle, give 'em a lick, bottle what they can and create a new American sensation. Shoppers can't get enough of the sticky sweet syrup, which (with the aid of a sensational marketing campaign and some extremely well-greased palms) has taken the nation by storm. It's cheap, it tastes great, it counts no calories and it even wipes away stubborn stains in the kitchen! Shame about the whole turns-us-into-zombies thing. Cheery, consumerist zombies with gaping maws and hollowed insides. At least we're happy.
A motley troupe of resistance fighters have gathered to combat this epidemic, but they hardly seem interested. While each has lost friends and family members to the creeping goop, nobody acts with a sense of affection, urgency or even mild concern. They'll just lope casually from one wet'n'wild ambush to the next, merrily ad-libbing their way through life-or-death scenarios without a care in the world. The film's production is equally lackadaisical. Low-grade editing shortcuts and cheap special effects abound. Major plot points and recurring characters float in and out of the frame when convenient. The underlying metaphor about US excess is about as subtle as a tangerine hammer, laid out with all the color and enthusiasm of an ad in the Sunday newspaper. Equal amounts of depth, too. The Stuff makes a bad habit of blunt exposition, pushing its cast to pose hilarious questions and accept ludicrous answers. This often occurs while the speakers are off-camera, making an obvious show of just how taped-together everything is. These guys just shot from the hip and pieced together a story after the fact.
There's no good reason I should've enjoyed this movie like I did. Absurdly stupid premise. Nonsensical plot. Heavy-handed messaging. Aimless characters and terrible actors. So why did I have such a good time? Probably because it cast no illusions about its identity, nor did it dedicate any effort to taking itself seriously. The Stuff is here to lean into every bad stereotype. To push its dumbass cast into dumbass scenarios, spread a bunch of ambulatory Oreo cream around the room and split a few blatantly fabricated heads. It just doesn't give a single damn. I found that complete lack of shame relieving; an excuse to cast aside my own critical brain and just roll with the moment. This movie may not have brains or bucks, but it does have a big sense of humor and a set of brass balls. Its greatest charms lie in that mindless stupidity, especially when it comes to the flood of inane fake TV commercials that split most scenes. It's great how bad this is.
Scream (1996)
Snarky Slasher That's Deliciously Self-Aware
A piercing satire that also works as a well-formed case study, Scream fits the mold of a classic slasher movie while recognizing and celebrating the genre's most common stereotypes. Often in winking, rambling monologues that crash straight through the fourth wall. With Wes Craven behind the camera, there's no doubting its credibility, nor its working knowledge of those tropes. Craven had admittedly tired of horror movies at this point in his career, but the promise of sending one last love letter to his longest tenured fans, while also having a little fun at their expense, pulled him right back in. He must've enjoyed the experience just as much as the audience, as he'd sign on for three more installments over the course of the ensuing fifteen years. His guidance, wealth of knowledge and cheeky willingness to hold nothing sacred (not even his own body of work) are essential components that really bring this cheeky screenplay to life.
Scream's tricky mix of horror and humor doesn't always click, but its wins outnumber its misfires. In addition to the tongue-in-cheek meta stuff, it hits the right notes as a teen comedy, a moody thriller and a crafty whodunnit. That's an awful lot of hats, but they all fit, and they're all necessary; the film's diversity makes it easier to look past its weak acting and cheesy tone. Neve Campbell is nice to look at, but her stammering cadence is a huge roadblock. Jamie Kennedy's character only exists to look us in the eye and flaunt the writer's genre awareness. Matthew Lillard is the sole cast member who could reasonably pass as a teenager, but not necessarily for the right reasons. These all play into the ongoing game of nudging, ironic self-awareness, but that doesn't mean they're above critique. I'm not even sure they were intentional.
Which isn't to say it can't do subtlety. While many such homages are spelled out in bright lights for the lesser-informed, alert viewers will catch an equal number of sly hints writhing under the surface. Both do their job admirably, serving as necessary relief for the ever-present night scares and house party stabbings. The killer's wardrobe is similarly on-point; a simple but memorable guise that justifiably became an instant classic, right alongside Freddy, Jason and Michael. Watching this with my kids was a unique experience, given the abundance of '90s hallmarks like land lines, video rental stores and brick cel phones. One character is even killed by a CRT television. That it's so firmly planted in 1996 is part of its charm, and still another connection to the old slashers with which it's so infatuated. Imagine how many victims could've been saved over the years, if only there were an iPhone in their pocket.
The Blair Witch Project (1999)
Horror of an Intrinsically Different Variety
Three film students track the source of an urban legend, stomping through the Maryland woods with their gear to deliver stilted cemetery monologues and freak out when their sleeping bags are disturbed in the middle of the night. If you were around before the turn of the century, this one was tough to miss. A very early instance of viral internet promotion, it thrived on cultish word-of-mouth and a game cast of nobodies, capably playing their roles while also disappearing from the public eye to lend credence to rumors of their mutual demise. Even today, after the rise and fall of so many imitators, Blair Witch feels different. Not really a film in the traditional sense, it's more of an open-ended narrative experiment than a viewing experience, with a jostling handheld perspective that sets us down in the tent right beside those terrified twenty-somethings.
Nearly all of Blair Witch's dialogue is improvised, which works as both a benefit and a drawback. We really believe in these people as functional individuals, not just characters, but we're also annoyed when they say or do something that gets in the way of the natural flow. Take the director/interviewer's nasty habit of interrupting or talking over her subjects, for instance. But there's no denying the value of their histrionic outbursts in the heat of the moment, nor their casual rapport early in the film. Their collective descent from playful camaraderie to frantic survivalism is vivid and powerful.
The lore is pretty bare bones, just a few vague notes from "man on the street" interviews before the kids enter the forest, which adds to the sense of looming uncertainty. In the absence of hard facts, confusion feeds delusion. Although sequels would delve much deeper into the mythos, this initial chapter leaves everything open to interpretation. I prefer it that way; did this recovered footage actually capture something sinister, or was it just a case of three young adults, lost and exhausted, who panicked and thought they were seeing ghosts? The crew was clearly sleep and food deprived, and while their cameras don't lie, they also don't catch anything too inexplicable. We're more shaken by Heather, Mike and Josh's reactions because we can't see what's made them so upset. Given the budget, that was a great choice. A hidden menace (even an imaginary one) is always so much more effective, anyway.
Essentially a filmed escape room / haunted house encounter, The Blair Witch Project remains compelling even without the twinge of uncertainty that first vaulted it to popularity. With a unique voice and an enduring, underrated set of performances, it's great proof that sometimes much less can be much more, both in terms of plot and budget. Even if the relentless shakycam did give me a headache.
Jûbê ninpûchô (1993)
Super Cool, Edgy, Expressive Ninja Action From the Early '90s
A wandering ex-ninja crosses swords with a colorful team of supernatural villains, flirts with a posturing female assassin and grudgingly cooperates with a diminutive old spy in this rippling hunk of early '90s anime excess. Back in my teens, Ninja Scroll represented everything cutting-edge and cool about so-called "Japanimation." It delivered flashy swordplay and charged character designs, embraced mature themes, stripped down every member of its female cast and sprayed the countryside with geysers of blood. Everything about it screams badass, from the handsome, give-no-damns ronin protagonist to the rock-skinned super-heavyweight rapist he deposes in an early fight scene. What more could a goggle-eyed adolescent really ask for? Though I surely held it in high regard among friends, a frequent suggestion for overnight pizza parties, this is most definitely not a movie I'd have sat down to watch with my parents.
Revisiting it now, thirty years later, I didn't want to watch it with my pre-teen kids, either. I'm on the other side of the embarrassment spectrum now. Ninja Scroll is still everything I remembered, and a few things I didn't. All the thirsty, edgy indulgences are still here, every bit as superficial and titillating as they were in '93, and its visual stylings have aged like wine. No wonder there: it's an early feature film flex for Madhouse, the now-famed animation studio. I had no idea the gang behind Perfect Blue, Wicked City and One Punch Man were responsible for this, too, but now that I'm a little more experienced in the genre, I can see their fingerprints all over it. With a wild cast of elaborate character models, an intense knack for dynamic combat scenes, oodles of extreme camera selections and a thick cloak of moody atmosphere, it hits each of their hallmarks. Every frame is a killer, composed to maximize impact and emphasize exaggeration. Even now, well past my impressionable teens, I couldn't help but chuckle at the sheer, ballsy audacity of it all.
The story, by comparison, is adequate. We don't get too in-depth about the motives of its power players; why the big boss can regenerate lost limbs or how the dark shogun fits into the larger picture. Suffice to say they're bad guys, deserving of increasingly merciless ends... and now let's get to slicing them apart. There's in-fighting and squabbling in each alliance, changed allegiances and shades of gray which lend the whole picture a sense of unpredictability, so it's more than your stereotypical case of "line 'em up and knock 'em down," even if the best scenes do fit that template.
It's action aplenty, in other words, with occasional examples of breathless exposition and/or bare tits to liven the calm between bloodstorms. I had a great time remembering why I wore this particular VHS tape out, and noting its influence in the direction of popular anime since. A fairly shallow parade of grimacing samurai pin-ups and gore-soaked payoffs that's bound to please both current teens and their fondly reminiscing former counterparts alike.
Gwoemul (2006)
Joon-Ho Delivers Layered Themes and an Omnipresent Monster, But...
Poor chemical disposal practices cause mutations in the wildlife of Seoul's Han River. Worst among these is the slimy thirty-foot monstrosity that surfaces near a waterfront park a few years later. Once ashore, this strange amalgam of mixed seafood shuffles its way around the riverside, aggressively claiming some unlucky passers-by for its next meal while retaining others for future dining experiences in a secluded sewer den. Much of the plot's focus is reserved for the family of a school-aged girl who fits that second status. Hyun-seo is the rare instance of a live captive, dumped in a sort of holding cell with all manner of bile, bones and bodies, but she's able to transmit a fuzzy voice message that sends her extended family scrambling to find her before the beast's next case of the munchies.
The Host's monster scenes are great; far livelier and more convincing than the somewhat primitive, dated CG effects might imply. Writer/director Bong Joon-ho (Parasite, Snowpiercer) made it a sort of imperative to show the creature, in full, as soon as possible, to sidestep convention and allow tension to build elsewhere for a change. We catch quite a few unobstructed views, loud opportunities to show off its grotesque, unusual physique, but those details aren't nearly as unsettling as its behavior and body language. There's something different about watching this giant, cumbersome thing barrel into an overpass or swing across the underbelly of a bridge. Hints of animal familiarity, bred with exotic necessity, that tell us it might not fit into a taxonomic chart, but it's found ways to thrive nonetheless.
That big bad is present more often than one might think, but it only gets one or two chances to really cut loose. The rest of the time, it's either threatening the cast and disappearing or brushing past them in a hurry to get someplace else. Just a reminder, I guess, that this is still a monster movie. While it's away, we watch the family members squabble amongst themselves, the surrounding neighborhoods lash out in a panic, the government abuse the crisis to exert tighter controls and the World Health Organization fret over the biological ramifications. For as many themes as Joon-ho has packed in here, not to mention (again) the giant amphibian in the room, it's surprising how often it feels like nothing is happening. Apart from those climactic attacks, the plot enjoys dwelling in the in-between and subverting expectations. That last point is a welcome change - no matter how many horror movies you've seen, The Host is going to surprise you - but the slower tempo often feels spacey and unnecessary.
The good bits are really good, not to mention influential - the same pedestrian perspective and spontaneous fits of catastrophe are easy to spot in Cloverfield, two years later - but I found the narrative too erratic and inconsistent for full marks. I like a lot of what it says, just not the way it chooses to say it.
Child's Play (1988)
After a Weak Opening Act, Chucky Finds His Groove
If you can get past the inherent silliness of all the voodoo magic, spontaneous lightning storms and reincarnated serial killers, this one actually isn't half bad. In a genre that's often defined by its willingness to play fast and loose with reality, I've certainly been asked to believe in worse than a possessed Cabbage Patch Kid. Chucky is the name of this little terror, as I'm sure you're already well aware: bloodthirsty validation for everyone who was ever creeped out by the leering gaze of a forgotten baby doll in their bedroom closet. This particular red-haired monstrosity harbors the spirit of a psychopath and, after his whispering game of deception with a six-year-old boy is sussed out, he grows brazen in search of a life beyond the Playskool universe.
The first act is a tough ask, cheesy and low-rent as can be, but as the tension improves and the atmosphere gathers, the production also gets its act together. Right around the time Chucky leads his young owner into a bad neighborhood and triggers a gas explosion, leveling an old tenement building, everything hits full stride. If you've made it that far, you've earned the ensuing rewards. While I would never call it smart, the story then finds its way; knocking off former associates, the doll leverages the adults' skepticism to, literally, get away with murder. The action scenes progress from cheap, implausible jump scares to claustrophobic ambushes, much better suited to the small, slight perpetrator. Chucky's appearance, too, improves by leaps and bounds. As the doll grows more audacious, his expression gradually shifts from a vacant, mass-produced grin into something more animated and sinister, climaxing in a fully-articulated sneer that not even a raging inferno can wipe away.
I wonder how many cast members actually thought this story was going to amount to anything. No doubt, several reflected upon their professional choices as they shook a lifeless toy above their head and mustered their best tortured screams. Catherine Hicks, who plays the fraught single mother, is asked to do most of that heavy lifting and I think I caught a few hints of "what am I doing with my life" in her close encounters with the doll. She troops on, though, brows continuously furrowed in a blend of fright and disbelief, and serves as the anchor this concept so desperately needs. A little dash of recognizable humanity amidst a vortex of impossibility.
Final Destination 2 (2003)
Enhanced Kills Lead the Way to a Second Destination
Same problem, different day for the unfortunate denizens of a New York City suburb. One year after an airline disaster claimed the lives of a hundred high school seniors, a major traffic accident deals the community an additional dose of destruction. As before, one unlikely survivor escapes with the aid of a timely premonition and incidentally rescues a handful of others from similar ends. Death, however, isn't one to take a rain check and seeks his pound of flesh.
Ali Larter returns in a supporting role as lone survivor of the first incident (previous leading man Devin Sawa having unceremoniously eaten a brick between films) but the rest of the primary cast is entirely new. Which is important for a franchise that insists so many of them bite the dust in an increasingly grisly string of improbable accidents. Final Destination 2 doesn't waste time in getting to those goods. That chaotic highway pileup plays twice in the first fifteen minutes, treating audiences to all manner of twisted metal, blunt force trauma and roasting flesh, and from there we're never more than a quarter-hour away from the next inventive, violent demise. Aided by Larter's grizzled veteran, the diminishing crew of survivors sets to chasing an oddly specific series of made-up theories that make little sense and only increase their exposure to volatile new situations.
This is an ongoing problem that's carried over from the first film: the need to fit the reaper's methods into a tidy little box. The original film structured its kills in a rigid pecking order (something to do with where they were sitting in the aircraft), while this one works in reverse and can be allegedly derailed if... one of the victims gives birth before everyone's killed? That's a pretty big stretch, and it's not the only one. I'm still foggy on Death's complaints as a whole: the opportunity to harvest this handful of souls was taken, but he claimed an equal number of others in their stead. The accident still occurred, with huge, fiery fatalities; only the victims' names were different.
Whatever. It's a big, dumb, loud movie that's more about the action, anyway. In that, the second Destination certainly delivers. Its kill scenes are bloodier, more imaginative and more frequent than in the original, with less reliance on a spooky, invisible guiding hand and an added sense of darkly comedic timing. The log truck deaths get all the popular attention (good luck following one on the highway after this), but those are equaled, if not surpassed, by later scenes utilizing barbed wire, plate glass and an elevator. It's the rare case of a sequel that's one or two steps better than the first, but I still wouldn't say it's especially good.
Late Night with the Devil (2023)
A Killer Premise That Looks Just Right, But Doesn't Quite Deliver
Moderating an occult-themed episode on Halloween, the host of a late '70s midnight talk show gets more than he bargained for. In addition to an eccentric medium and a grumpy professional skeptic, the night's guest list includes a paranormal psychologist and her young ward: a creepy uniformed school girl who claims to commune with demons. As the show's been struggling to find a ratings foothold, desperate producers pressure the pair for a demonstration, get their way, and draw a huge number as the seance spins out of control.
While the show is on-air, Late Night with the Devil really looks, acts and smells like an authentic after-hours variety show from 1977. The production design is a direct hit, invoking throwback vibes with everything from the studio's brown, yellow and orange tones to host Jack Delroy's thick sideburns, tan business suit and nonchalant chauvinism. Lighting is dim and irregular; cameras old and cumbersome; air thick with cigar smoke and charged atmosphere. It's even presented in a clipped 4:3 aspect ratio, loyal to the airwaves of that era. Yet, I kept noticing little bits of unnatural polish and showmanship to yank me from the moment. A wide camera angle just in time to catch sight of a short-circuiting spotlight. Nosy black-and-white "candid" footage, inserted between the commercial breaks, that nobody seems to notice when it's right on top of them. I'd have bought in if those were mic'd up moments, laid over grainy, static surveillance footage of the bustling set, but the dead-center depiction is too much. That's a pervasive problem, an overload of right place/right time, where a missed shot or implied development would've been far more convincing. More appropriate for the off-the-cuff character of these shows, too. Carson's cameramen struggled to keep all the action in their frame, how did these guys capture literally everything?
The acting struggles with many of these same issues. Everyone looks right and acts right, but they don't *feel* right. None of the dialogue flows easily, like one would expect from a long-running show that thrives on conversation. Jack fails as both an emcee and a protagonist, wishy-washy with the guests and flavorless as an individual. Feature film first-timer Ingrid Torelli performs the best, as the eerily composed young girl with a devil inside her, but that role thrives upon its self-awareness and, as such, benefits from all the winks and nudges.
I really thought I'd love Late Night with the Devil, but it's just another case of rich premise / unconvincing execution. I appreciate all the window dressings, and the promise of what might have been, but don't fall for the buzz. This one's barely average.
Critters (1986)
Make with the Massacre Already!
Escaping from a specially-built prison asteroid, a tribe of spiny, sharp-toothed little fuzzballs land in the Kansas farmland, seeking food and mayhem in equal parts. While a local nuclear family investigates the correlating disturbances in their barn, a pair of shape-shifting bounty hunters touch down, change their appearance to pass as human and explore the town in search of the tiny fugitives.
Critters is a case of all or nothing. In a few very specific instances, it works shockingly well. The bounty hunters are a riot, deathly serious while completely oblivious to why they're raising suspicion amongst the locals. Here's a hint: even in the mid '80s, there weren't a lot of glamorously feather-haired rock stars marching around the Bible belt wearing head-to-toe red leather. One dumbfounded native sums it up succinctly: they "look like they was from Los Angeles." Which might as well be Uranus, as these folks are concerned. So the hunters are a worthwhile addition; comic relief and well-armed backup all rolled into one. The creatures look reasonably good, too. They're unique, with a few odd defense mechanisms and a quaint habit for ominously rolling through the dusty terrain like dark tumbleweeds. And we don't want for blood or guts when they're around. They even kill off a teenage Billy Zane while he's trying to get laid! That's about the extent of the good news.
The bad news is, we only catch sight of the good stuff in limited quantities. Very limited quantities. Far too much running time is dedicated to the dull little family and their dreary little community, wasted attempts at character development that go absolutely nowhere. The interminable wait for shit to hit fan is excruciating amidst so much trite, ham-fisted exposition. Where did the tiny gray demons go? Can they have these people for dinner already?
Rubber (2010)
Are We Rubber's Spectators, Or Its Targets?
Off in the remote desert outskirts somewhere, an abandoned truck tire springs to life and manifests a degree of psychokinetic force. Humming and vibrating as it rolls, the wheel bursts beer bottles, then small animals, then human heads, while a gallery of curious spectators use binoculars to eavesdrop from a safe distance. They've been gathered to watch "the film," a decidedly ambiguous special attraction, and this absurd turn of events has left the whole gang buzzing.
It doesn't take a genius to spot the metaphor. Certainly not after the opening scene, when an actor directly addresses the camera (conveniently positioned amongst the gawkers) and evangelizes about the need for "no reason" in cinema. His point seems to be this: many well-regarded movie plots feature events that happen by chance, so here's a bunch of random stuff with no explanation. Why can this tire make things explode into bloody hunks? No reason. Why did someone poison the audience? No reason. If that explanation was good enough for Spielberg and Polanski, it should also be good enough for Rubber. Right?
Well, sometimes it is. The express permission to just let go and enjoy the ride is a welcome change, especially for a premise that's so bafflingly, intentionally stupid. Gratuitous bloodshed offers cheap rewards, and in that respect, Rubber certainly pays out. Its frequent, self-aware commentary sometimes feels too cute or unwieldy, demanding at least as much time as the rolling rubber monster, but that's all in good fun and I took it as such. Everything seems to be nearing a spectacular climax, particularly when the participants of "the film" think the show's over and have some fun with the impermanence of their own roles, but that dash of irreverence is short-lived and we're almost immediately scolded for enjoying it. I can't tell if this film's hate is reserved for the tropes that power its sub-genre or the audience at large. Maybe a little of both? Hey, maybe it hates loud-mouthed film critics like me, for trying to drag something intelligent out of a big, dumb exploitation movie!
Whatever the agenda (if there even is an agenda), it meets mixed success. The wheelie bits are shallow, but silly fun. The meta stuff is sometimes thumped too hard, and the overwhelming sense of nihilism can be exhausting, but without those it wouldn't be much of a picture. I enjoyed more than I didn't, and I appreciated the impetus to try something so decidedly different. I just wish it weren't so on-the-nose.
Lik wong (1991)
Incredibly Grotesque, Crimson-Soaked Kung Fu Madness
Outrageous violence abounds in a ruthless for-profit prison, where four superhuman crime bosses run things as they see fit and the posh administrators are perfectly happy to take a cut off the top. To this scene, we introduce a proficient young challenger: Ricky Ho, a fighting machine with hands of stone and torso cut from the same. He wastes no time in fighting fire with fire, dispensing a number of notorious sub-bosses and collecting a dedicated following amongst the tortured general population before drawing the ire of top-tier gangsters and wardens alike. He cuts a swath through them, too, often leaving his more substantial opponents with fresh gaping holes in their anatomy, but at least this new level of opposition provides him with a healthy degree of challenge and variety.
Based on an extraordinarily bloody serialized manga, the live-action rendition of Riki-Oh does its best to emulate the comic's explicit tone and brutal character on a rather low budget. The end result is a film that just goes for it: no idea too silly, no stunt too improbable. Like the early Troma films of Lloyd Kaufman, The Story of Riki is told with unrestrained ambition and enthusiasm, tongue firmly planted in one cheek. And it's just unimaginably gruesome; a stunning hit parade of "I can't believe they just did that" killing blows lined up in rapid succession. The acting is terrible and the subtitles are even worse (one villain is inexplicably dubbed "Silly Lung") but, if I'm honest, there's very little need for either. If you're here at all, it's for the intertwining dance between ingenuity and carnage, and you'll almost assuredly get more than you can handle. Even thirty years later, its bald lack of discretion is shocking. Riki-Oh is gonna do some messed-up stuff, and you're gonna watch with your mouth hung agape. If you're like me, its corners will be turned in a grin.
Old school fans of The Daily Show with Craig Kilborn will immediately remember this film, as a particularly hilarious clip of a pulpy exploding head was played in just about every episode. That two-second excerpt is a picture perfect appetizer, a proudly profane omen of what's to come, should you choose to investigate any further. It's a riotous good time, incredibly inept but also incredibly gratifying, and a surefire hit for party nights with similarly maladjusted friends. I can't honestly score this any higher, but I don't want to score it any lower. It's as wonderful a bad movie as you'll ever see.
Saw (2004)
Crafty But Overloaded, The Original Saw is a Sadistic Time Capsule
To help his targets discover a better appreciation for life, a mysterious killer puts them through hell. He's already finished a number of sadistic trials when we join the story, immolating one man and leading another into a maze of razor wire. The girl who woke up wearing a rusty jaw-breaker helmet made it out alive, but she had to commit murder to do so. Basically, our villain forces impossible choices upon those he deems ungrateful and sits back to watch the fireworks, content in his self-appointment as a sort of affirmation-dishing deity. Take our featured attraction for example: two men, chained to pipes in a filthy bathroom, are provided bone saws, encouraged to cut through their own legs, and left to stew in the impending madness together.
The first Saw is gritty and crafty, but often tries to be too clever. It's plot-twist city, start to finish, with so many shocking revelations and flagrant red herrings, you'll yearn for something halfway predictable just to break the monotony. It's also quite convoluted for what can be boiled down to a simple endure / escape story. Far too many direct connections speckle the cast, with one character's flashbacks frequently overlapping and contradicting another's. The central premise would've been enough, especially given the low budget! Let these two captives bemoan their predicament, plead and argue with one another, suss out their tormentor's puzzles, hold their noses and do or die. That's where the allure lives, not with the stereotypical pair of pursuing police detectives or the surgeon's regretful almost-affair with one of his interns. Too much salt spoils the stew.
The torture scenes are grisly and inventive; ornately themed and orchestrated in the same vein as Se7en, but presented with seedier flash and flair. OK, a lot of these look like outtakes from an old Nine Inch Nails music video. Cut with quick splices of distressed x-rays and wriggling bugs, they feel dated and excessive in a modern light. But then, I guess excess is Saw's one true calling card. Once we've come to grips with its gristle and suffering in a series of unusually depraved scenarios, there's very little else to maintain our attention. Besides the strange casting decisions, that is. What an odd assortment of faded stars and Lost survivors this is.
Beetlejuice Beetlejuice (2024)
Beetlejuice 2 Looks Right, and Keaton Acts Right, But it Lacks Something Crucial
Tim Burton, Michael Keaton and Winona Ryder lead us back into the afterlife, reviving a dormant horror/comedy property after thirty-five years in the crypt. This installment follows a much older Lydia, still outfitted in black lace and mascara, in pursuit of a relatively normal teenage daughter who's been mired by a ghastly paranormal plot. As Mom's been troubled by a marriage-starved slacker ghoul for most of her own life, she does have some experience in these matters. Not that kids of this age are known for acknowledging their parents' advice.
It's impossible not to make comparisons, so we'll get those out of the way right now: much as it would like to be, this isn't a match for the original. Not even close. Where 1988's Beetlejuice boasts a tight focus, just two primary narrative threads and a host of impishly amusing (but relevant) sidetracks, the sequel fires a buckshot of mixed ideas into its audience. There's just way too much going on; too many superfluous characters and competing interests that distract from the core stories, rather than enhancing them. Some of those new bits connect - I especially enjoyed the disco-themed soul train and Catherine O'Hara's appropriately eccentric character arc - but most can be classified as flat callbacks or pale impersonations. The production may be shinier, with wider angles and more polished effects, but it lacks the acidic bite, strange charms and bold confidence of the first. This package feels like a masquerade, an outdated creature that stretches and fights to impress its intrinsic weirdness upon us, where for the original that just came naturally.
There's no shortage of name actors to help populate Tim Burton's campy little world. In the title role, I'm shocked by how accurately the 73-year-old Keaton is able to channel his younger self. His take on the slovenly "ghost with the most" hasn't missed a beat, still manic and slimy after all these years. Betelgeuse has the ethics of a car salesman and the patience of a toddler at the witching hour, and I would've loved to spend an extra half-hour on his coat tails. Ryder is only okay as a shattered midlife widow, far more tentative and flaky than she was as a teen, and thus, less interesting as a character. Jenna Ortega, who Burton recently directed in the thematic match Wednesday, provides a necessarily cynical counter-balance to all the loud supernatural types. Her story has the most heart, but spends too long on the back-burner. And, rather than deflecting attention away from its missing cast members, Beetlejuice 2 shines an odd spotlight on them. Most glaring of these is the scandalized Jeffrey Jones, who was not invited to return but sees his character emphasized and expanded anyway. That seems like a weird choice, or maybe just an offbeat running joke. How many ways can we fit this guy into a scene without showing his face?
I'm sure this remake had the best intentions, but it doesn't feel purposeful or authentic. Very much a parallel to the middle-aged nobody who still thinks they're the hip, daring kid they might have been back in high school. It's a confused picture, one which is complicated by aimless ideas with only a scant connection to the plot; burning minutes as if it has all the time in the world and then turning frantic when we near the end of the tracks. It looks right, and Keaton does his best to save the sinking ship, but it's no use. I kept waiting and hoping for this to get better... but it doesn't.
Poltergeist (1982)
Spielberg's Haunting is Brash and Noisy, But Stumbles on the Home Stretch
Set in the heart of SoCal suburbia, Poltergeist depicts a thriving young family whose third bedroom closet happens to overlap with a portal to limbo. This spells trouble when they break ground on a new swimming pool and inadvertently disturb the dead, setting motion to an increasingly nasty series of paranormal conflicts. At first, these spectral transgressions are amusing, akin to a set of simple parlor tricks, but things take a turn for the serious when a rotting tree attempts to make a meal of the boy and a violent vortex sucks their youngest daughter into the spiritual plane.
As early '80s spookers go, it's a noisy ride. Steven Spielberg wrote, produced and (allegedly) co-directed, and while his influence is noticeable in the more grounded establishing scenes - little dashes of neighborly disagreement and parent-child bonding - those don't last very long. As soon as the wilder stuff takes over, this film goes straight over the top. Shortly after snickering over a simple chair-stacking demonstration, you'll be treated to vomiting steaks, decaying faces, giant freaky ghost dogs and pulsating meat tunnels, and that's only scratching the surface. Even the team of three mediums, experienced authorities who are brought in after the girl's disappearance, is stunned by the bald theatrics of it all. They've never seen anything remotely like this; a loud and proud haunting that's so happy to be seen, it even points all the experts' digital observation equipment in the right direction before commencing with a showy midnight demonstration.
Those floods of howling insanity are tons of fun, but reach a crescendo after the powerless pros' overnight house call. At that point, the film seems to lose its way, like it doesn't know where to go or how to get there. While the effects blowout continues topping itself, the story settles into a circle of hollow repetition that makes a thunderous racket without really saying anything new. That's doubly true of the multiple fake-out endings, which feel completely redundant and unnecessary. A lively example of big-money fright that's raucous and rowdy but long overstays its welcome.
The Shining (1980)
What to Do, When the Monster is a Member of Your Own Family?
Stanley Kubrick works a psychopathic father, a child with ESP, an old murder and a haunted mansion into one dense narrative. Or maybe he doesn't, since the facts behind many of The Shining's wildest concepts are left to the viewer to validate. There's no doubting the first point, in any case, as recovering alcoholic Jack Torrance (Jack Nicholson) quickly spirals out of control when he's snowed in by a major winter storm. Fresh off a short teaching stint, Torrance has accepted a position as seasonal caretaker for a vast, remote Colorado resort as a sort of off-key working vacation. With a wife and son along for the adventure, he intends to make progress on a novel, but soon succumbs to a monstrous case of the stir crazies and begins taking bad advice from ghosts.
It can be analyzed to mean any number of things - contemporary reviewers saw it as an allegory for sexism, the extermination of Native Americans, discarded masculinity or the decline of western civilization - and, while you can find anything you like between those lines, I most appreciate it on a surface level. Even in that more limited light, The Shining might just be the best horror movie ever made. It's a simple, familiar formula for the genre: a flawed man, driven over the edge by circumstance, is confined in an unfamiliar space with helpless victims. As he loses touch with his senses, their panic levels spike. Kubrick mines that for all it's worth, stressing the totality of the family's isolation and the strangeness of their surroundings, and his cast does the rest. Nicholson is spectacular and unnerving as the increasingly broken, duplicitous father who loses his already-tenuous grip on sanity. Shelly Duvall bares stark emotion as a fragile young mother who can't accept her husband's latest psychotic break. Seven-year-old Danny Lloyd speaks in tongues and disassociates from reality, an awful, silent victim of both his father's mania and the supernatural phenomena that have affected his childhood. And the venue, a towering, swollen maze of empty halls and lavish décor, would be a character unto itself, even without its many resident spirits.
This is all told in a style and fashion befitting the famous director, not to mention his equally famous dedication to getting everything just right. Many of Kubrick's shots are equal parts beautiful and hideous, expert displays of photographic mastery paired with a deeply distressing subject matter. Jack's famous axe-swinging entry through a locked door, for example, wildly pans and veers to follow each cut while never losing its magnificent sense of composition. At once, we're dazzled, dizzied and disturbed. The soundtrack is even more essential. Each scene leans heavily on its audio cues, which build and peak with such subtlety, I'd often find hairs standing on my neck *before* a scare. A striking rumination on... something, that's portrayed with rich meaning and stirring potency, The Shining is truly one for the history books. Color me hypnotized.
Tremors II: Aftershocks (1996)
With Less Star-Power and a Slashed Budget, the Tremors Sequel is a Pale Impersonation, at Best
The Graboids evolve to walk on two legs, waving a set of heat-seeking skull flaps to find prey in the follow-up to 1990's surprisingly entertaining initial dose of desert monster mayhem. Both Kevin Bacon and Reba McEntire opted to skip this belated sequel, which led to drastic budget cuts and a shift from Universal's feature film division to its direct-to-video team. Man, does it show. So does the actors' reasoning: this script is terrible, an empty husk with none of the self-deprecating bite of its predecessor. In one fell swoop, the franchise has shifted from a campy, playful sorta-parody with a nose for tension and a gross sense of humor to just another shallow, inept horror / action mixer.
In the absence of its charismatic celebrity lead, the sequel's narrative is split between returning costars Fred Ward and Michael Gross. While together, these two immediately display an old camaraderie that's warm and refreshing, a welcome callback to the chummy redneck neighborhood vibes of the original. They're almost instantly separated. Ward goes in one direction, paired with an annoying dudebro type and a ditzy, middle-aged Playboy model turned geologist, while Gross goes it alone and talks into a handheld camera. I guess the idea was to produce his own low-rent documentary series, but that subplot is only hinted and quickly abandoned. The gang does get back together in time for the explosive finale, which is really the only time Tremors 2 generates any charm. Despite some awfully shabby CG creature effects, that climactic race around a set of abandoned outposts and over a series of rickety ladders at least provides a reasonable approximation of what worked the first time around.
There's just no denying how cheap everything feels, from the redundant location selections and bad effects work to the cruddy direction and flat, one-take performances. And again, it's not like the script would've improved if the studio had elected to throw money into it after all. Most of the time, Aftershocks isn't even amusingly bad. I can't believe they made five more of these.
The Ring (2002)
Before You Die, You See...
In the gloomy Pacific northwest, an unlabeled VHS tape awaits the curious. After they press play, unlucky viewers are condemned to five minutes of eerie film school snippets, a breathy telephoned warning and an unexplained death within the week. Mourning one of the cassette's latest victims, a tenacious newspaper reporter tracks down a copy, watches it, answers the phone and pursues the truth behind an urban legend. And then carelessly shares the curse with a few loved ones.
Maybe it's because I've been watching so many iffy-to-bad horror movies lately, but The Ring really stands out. Not just as a good thriller, but as a top-quality film regardless of genre. It can scare without going over the top. Pose complex, troubling questions and see them through. Set a tone and stick to it. That last point is a particular strength: drenched with pervasive blue-green tones, dense mists and steady rain, this is a film with an excellent knack for atmosphere. It looks and feels like a headache brought on by too little sleep; a clinical hangover punctuated by a steady fluorescent hum. Which puts us in the same dazed, panicked head space as our protagonist, who certainly lacks for a good night's rest during her increasingly hectic seven-day investigation. As the tragic ghost story unfolds, so does her own. Side by side, we learn about the cruel origins of that haunted tape and the tangled knot that's become her private life. It's an efficient, satisfying plot, one that succeeds on multiple fronts and doesn't press the audience too far beyond the limits of their disbelief.
We catch some frights, but the camera never lingers. In fact, it often relegates the biggest, nastiest stuff to a spot on the fringe or a quick, fleeting glance. The Ring is an intelligent horror film, one which understands that what we thought we saw is often far worse than what we did. And when the time finally comes to pay out, it does that very well, too. Our climactic meeting with the dank, bedraggled little girl in the video - literally crawling through the CRT screen and shimmering with dirty static - is an unforgettable slice of cinematic trickery. The rare case of a big budget Hollywood horror movie that actually gets it, this one goes to some crazy places and most everything still makes sense in the end.
Final Destination (2000)
Come for the Death Scenes, Stay for... Well, Stay for the Death Scenes
When a teenage student, about to depart for an international field trip, gets *that feeling* on the tarmac, he abruptly exits the aircraft. Five other kids and a teacher follow suit (including one classmate who's weirdly eager to throw hands over the matter), then observe from the gate as the plane goes fireball a few moments later. Not long after that, death comes seeking his due, mowing through the survivors in a string of unfortunate "accidents" while the kids flail about, desperate to make sense of the predicament before it's their turn.
I could've done without the grim reaper as a creeping physical entity (especially when it inexplicably cleans up after itself in one absurd post-murder scene) and the whole nonsense about a master plan that insists these kids die in a certain order is awfully stupid. Conveniently leaking toilets, sparking power lines, teetering kitchen knives, those are also silly, but I'd be willing to suspend disbelief and let 'em slide in the name of good fun if not for the added touch of so many shadowy silhouettes and tell-tale gusts of wind. Subtlety is not among Final Destination's limited virtues. Besides the girl who gets up-close and personal with a city bus, you'll see every kill coming a mile away. They're virtually telegraphed in full frame, step by step, in the preceding minutes. This doesn't make the payoffs less rewarding, necessarily, but it's so blunt and obvious about everything that I felt like I'd lost a few IQ points before the story was over.
Originally written as a spec script for The X-Files before being expanded into its own standalone film, the plot doesn't feel much heavier for the experience. It even retains a set of Scully and Mulder stand-ins to chase loose threads and narrowly miss the action. With a bad script, bad acting and bad production values, Final Destination is only partly rescued by its wonderful flair for death scenes. Otherwise, it's about as loose and dumb as it gets, and its tendency for beating us over the head with prophecy made me wonder if we were the next victims on death's little itinerary.
The Gate (1987)
Crappy, Pulpy '80s Horror with Brass Balls
The so-called Satanic Panic, a mainstream fear-mongering campaign staged by out-of-touch parents against disagreeable board games and music, was going pretty strong back in 1987. I'm not sure if The Gate was an effort to reinforce those points or just to have some fun with the hysteria, but there's no denying the influence. This represents everything a clean, god-fearing, white suburban family could imagine going wrong when they leave their teens unattended for a long weekend. The kids throw a party(!) with smoking(!!) and members of the opposite sex(!!!), and after that blows over, they also kill the dog and open a portal to hell in the backyard. Unrestrained chaos immediately ensues - melting, flame-spewing telephones, disembodied arms under the bed, corpses in the walls and more (much, much more) - but the youngsters aren't totally defenseless. By leafing through the liner notes of a heavy metal album and playing the record backwards, they learn how to seal the fissure and expel the monsters. Okay, I'm ready to make a decision now. The Gate was definitely on team rock'n'roll.
It takes a while to get to the good stuff, no thanks to the excruciatingly sluggish first act, but once the pit in the yard starts spewing dry ice and emanating a low howl, it's on. The fireworks are worth the wait; a boundless font of creative nastiness that lays everything on the table. The tribes of squat little hog demons, roughly the size and color of a plucked chicken, are probably the film's most memorable, lasting image. Scampering around the house, biting hands, clambering over stairs and glaring with malevolence, they're both unnerving and hilarious. Other intruders, like the aforementioned drywall-dwelling zombie or the towering, penultimate boss fiend, are no less effective. If you've come for a proficient plot, I've got bad news, but if you're here for off-color ideas and balls-out special effects, it's going to hit the mark.
No two ways about it. The Gate is decidedly not a good movie, but it makes for spectacular entertainment and the show's most heralded star - its convincing creature effects - have weathered the years admirably. Though I was petrified by several scenes during the late-night HBO airings of my youth, nightmare fuel for an eight-year-old me, my slightly older kids cheered and howled right alongside me during yesterday's screening. It works in each context, sufficiently valid as both a frightful jolt of childish terror and a raucous example of see-through movie absurdity. I got what I was looking for, and then some.
Signs (2002)
Gibson and Shyamalan Try to Avoid Threats, External and Otherwise
Mel Gibson joins M. Night Shyamalan in hiding away from all sorts of aggressive unpleasantness. The primary threat may be a race of intruding extraterrestrials, but Gibson's lapsed reverend also dodges the memory of his recently-departed wife, the gaze of the guilt-ridden neighbor responsible, and the crisis of faith that event has stirred in his soul. With two young kids and a lethargic brother along for the ride, Gibson sleepwalks through his day-to-day. His emotions are so drastically compartmentalized, he almost seems autistic. In sealing off his feelings, however, he's also pushed his family away, alienating each member of the household just when they need to band together.
That heaviness isn't always front and center - in fact, it's often out of mind entirely - but this doesn't mean Signs ever really lightens up. Most of the plot's focus is on the aliens' influence, both at home (where they cut crop circles and rummage through the cornfields) and on the international stage (where the 24-hour news cycle can't get enough of their disappearing armada). That's the more colorful subject, and the one Shyamalan pursues with the most vigor. His take on a global invasion is creepy and curious, a nice blend of looming tension and gradual revelation that's careful about maintaining its veil of mystery, and its smaller perspective makes for a fresh angle. As Gibson comes around to the idea that this thing is for real, and his family (famously) dons a set of tinfoil hats, they experience much of the unfolding situation through TV and radio. This allows their imaginations to run wild, especially when the aliens show up at their little house to kick doors and break windows.
The monsters don't look great in full frame, which is why it's so important we catch sight of them in our peripheral or not at all. Signs does well to respect this limitation, to spin it into an advantage, but loses patience and blows it at the very end. The same is true of the religious symbolism that anchors Gibson's character. For ninety-five percent of its running time, the film effectively toes that line, maintaining a delicate balance before tumbling on its side in the climax. Ah well. A flat ending isn't the end of the world, but it is a little disappointing.
Midsommar (2019)
An Exhaustively, Suffocatingly Bleak European Vacation
Avoiding the subject of their inevitable breakup, a mismatched young couple bickers and goes through the motions while friends encourage them both to face the music. That hard conversation becomes downright impossible when the girl's entire family is killed; you'd have to be a real asshole to dump somebody in that scenario. As a sort of olive branch, the boyfriend invites her on a formerly guys-only trip to Sweden. Maybe a dramatic change in scenery is all they need to process the grief and make a decision about their romantic future. It doesn't exactly work, but things aren't going badly, either. That is, not until they start picking up queer vibes from the small, folksy, ritual-laden European festival they're attending.
In his follow-up to the acclaimed horror film Hereditary, writer/director Ari Aster has chosen similar thematic territory. That means bad news for the couple, and their little band of pals, and a steady ramp of disturbing omens for the rest of us. Midsommar wastes little time in slapping the screen with ugly premonitions and ominous undercurrents, then doesn't let up until we see credits. The whole purpose seems to be cultivating bad air and negativity until it smothers us all. The awful atmosphere grows so dense, even the shroom-tripping cast can feel it, but the awkward natural discomfort of being a stranger in a strange land (and the polite urge to appease their sunshiny Swedish host) convinces them to let the warning signs slide and stick around until it's way, way too late.
Like a Scandinavian Wicker Man, Midsommar is a bad scene that never quits. As the cheerful songs and festivities devolve into ritualistic groans and chants, we're beaten to a bloody pulp by all the symbolism and foreshadowing. Aster's film dwells here, celebrating its moody nest of discomfort, forever. I was impressed by that at first, effectively skeeved by the ascending weirdness and creepy premonitions, but hit my saturation point around the one hour mark and lost interest when it became clear that's all it has. It's very good at playing that one note, creatively filmed and effectively directed, and it doesn't shirk from anything when it comes time to pay the piper. Whether it's appalling gore or discomfiting nudity, you'll get an eyeful. By the end, though, I was thoroughly numbed and distinctly underwhelmed.
Inside Out 2 (2024)
Pixar's Latest Sequel Hits the Same Beats as the First, Finds Them Less Rewarding
Personified emotions wear furry, colorful skins and mash a mental control panel in Pixar's latest half-baked sequel. Apart from the Toy Story franchise, which excelled in its second and third entries before succumbing to the law of averages (can you tell I'm not excited about the forthcoming Toy Story 5?), the studio doesn't have a great track record with follow-ups. This example doesn't buck the trend. Where the first Inside Out was primarily concerned with Joy and Sadness, forced to cooperate in an uneasy metaphorical alliance, Inside Out 2 wrangles the whole gang into a very similar extra-cranial adventure. Everyone apart from Sadness, that is, who's volunteered for an off-screen stealth mission and forgotten for large portions of the film.
The bigger party doesn't make for an improved rapport. These characters have already worked through most of their issues, so there's very little internal conflict, and their relations aren't as diametric and well-matched as the previous expedition. It also seems that many of their core attributes have been softened in the interim. Joy loses hope; Anger doesn't blow his top so easily; Disgust nearly becomes Lust when she meets a masculine video game character; Fear... well, okay, Fear remains in a constant state of alarm. They're confronted by a new set of emotions, sprung by overnight puberty: Anxiety, Jealousy, Embarrassment and Ennui. Of these, only Anxiety has any real bearing on the plot, spinning her nervous energy into an attack (get it?) that threatens to ruin the inner harmony our original crew worked so hard to maintain. If I thought the first supporting characters were disposable, these guys already have one foot in the can.
There's always ripe fruit to be picked on the tree of adolescence. That's especially true for a film series that's so essentially connected with emotional turmoil. On a few occasions, we can feel Inside Out 2 touching those sensitive strings. Then it draws back, as if afraid to institute any major changes to the status quo. It's primarily a kids' movie, so I can somewhat understand that reluctance. Problem is, without any heady spiritual beats, the heavy lifting falls to the film's more creatively-inclined aspects. And those, by comparison, are just a weak impersonation of the first film. We visit many of the same locales and find them significantly reduced in color and energy. The story is a mildly re-heated iteration, at best. The old team feels played out (especially with a pair of unwelcome re-castings) and the new members add very little. It took me a couple viewings to really warm to the original, so maybe that'll also be the case for Inside Out 2. Until then, my thoughts can be summarized in just two words: nothing special.
Lung foo fung wan (1987)
The Undercover Story Tarantino Borrowed, and Improved, in Reservoir Dogs
On the verge of pulling a major heist, a small crew of Hong Kong gangsters discover an undercover cop in their midst. After a bloody public execution, they think they've squashed the issue for good, but then welcome a new member to the crew... who's also a double agent. This recruit proves more convincing, likely because he's so continuously harried by a squad of misinformed detectives from a competing department, and he wriggles his way into the crew's confidence as they prep to grab another, bolder score.
When he's not in hot water with one side or another, Ko Chow (Chow Yun-fat, the story's linchpin) is a goofy twenty-something who tries to paper over his fear of long-term romantic commitment with silly antics and empty assurances. We spend an unusual amount of time reinforcing this point, eavesdropping on casual nights at his girlfriend's apartment, which makes for an awkward paradox. How could such a serious, hard-boiled guy just flip the switch like that? This duality eventually serves as additional complication when the girl offers him a take-or-leave proposition at the same time his case is nearing its crescendo, but it's still a weird mix.
While it's visionary and influential in some respects (more on that in a moment), an awful lot of City on Fire's vibe is stuck deep in the cheesiest conventions of the 1980s. That's especially true of its visual and aural identity: a heavy blend of midnight neon, gigantic trench coats and wailing saxophone riffs. Lord, there's a lot of saxophone. One especially violent confrontation even goes out of its way to depict a blind sax player busking in the background, his groove only momentarily interrupted by the speeding cop car that eats lead, flips and explodes a few feet away. This type of era-specific cultural drenching is both amusing and distracting. Good for a few knowing smirks with your fellow viewers, but I think it actively harms the story.
Perhaps most noteworthy in the eastern hemisphere as an early win for Yun-fat's career, its greatest legacy to the west is as the "inspiration" behind Quentin Tarantino's Reservoir Dogs. I place that word in quotations because it's a bit of an under-sell. Large chunks of the plot are directly copy+pasted, including the scenario (and several crucial lines of dialogue) that fuels its powerful climax. Reservoir Dogs is a much better movie - more focused, with sharper performances - but without City on Fire, there would be no Reservoir Dogs. How do you rate that kind of influence? I'll try to do so without passing too much credit for its better-known ancestor. City on Fire is great when it's great, but too often it's not. I'm glad Tarantino chose to tighten it up.