Never a company to let something like historical accuracy get in the way of some good ol' fashioned blood shed and some barely covered breasts, Hammer Studios went all-out anachronistic in 1967, telling the tale of The Viking Queen, Salinas (Carita), a British druid who was not a Viking and seemed to worship the Greek god Zeus. It's a rather dull tale about Salinas' love affair with invading Roman general Justinian (Don Murray), whose truce causes both the Druids and the Romans to heavily oppose it and wage war against each other. With Justinian raising taxes of the rich merchants, and lowering them for the poor small-folk, a plot is forged between the merchants and the usurping Roman Octavian (Andrew Keir) to overthrow Justinian and conquer the Druids.
Shot with an almost sickening lucidity, The Viking Queen is certainly an example of Hammer's strives for visual lushness and oily-skinned beauties, possibly to compensate for the sheer monotony on show. This was Finnish fashion model Cairta's only starring role (she appeared in small roles in a couple of other productions), and although she certainly looks the part (in terms of what Hammer were obviously looking for), her inexperience shows and zones in a rather flat performance. The wildly historical inaccuracy can certainly be forgiven if the film was entertaining, such as it was in Hammer's Rasputin The Mad Monk (1966), but there is nothing going for this film apart from the odd amusing camp performance, and the sight of Nita Lorraine's (credited as Nubian Girl Slave) shiny flesh. Strictly for Hammer completists and those bored on a Sunday afternoon.
If, at the start of Time of the Wolf, you are aware of Michael Haneke's 1997 shocker, Funny Games, you may believe that this film will be treading similar grounds. Opening the film, the 2 point 4 children Laurent family arrive at their holiday shack in the wilderness of an undisclosed location. On entering, they are confronted with a man holding a shotgun towards them (his own family peering from behind him). After demanding that they hand over any goods they have, he shoots the father (Daniel Duval) dead. However, unlike the familial hostages of Funny Games, the remaining Laurent's make their way to a local for help, and the audience is startled by the matriarch, Anne's (Isabelle Huppert), admission that they had buried the father. We are certainly not in the regular world; this place is different, a point that is further exacerbated when Anne is asked if she is aware of what is going on.
Time of the Wolf is unfamiliar territory concerning its central concept of a post-apocalyptic landscape. Whilst the catalyst for this disaster (?) is never revealed, there is no indication of the generic science fiction tropes of disaster. No zombie/alien, or natural catastrophe's are highlighted. The ambiguity of the nature of the devastation creates a tension that is completely absent from the ordinary, explicit films of this nature. As the family trudge their way through the countryside, they cross the distinct furnaces of bonfires, sometimes the only light source in the darkness - at one time the legs of burning cow carcasses protrude from a fire. Their final stop, a building inhabited by "survivors" waiting for a train that may never arrive.
Perhaps Time of the Wolf states more about the consumer society we live in today. The shackles of consumption, and the artefacts of the modern world become useless in this context. Jewels and watches are pointless commodities, whilst lighters, water and clothing are worthy of exchange. Maybe the apocalypse is the result of dwindling resources, a reality that Earth will have to face in the future (perhaps the near), where agriculture, manufacture and natural fuel have all but disappeared. With this lack of resources, comes the desperation of the people, bringing out the worst in humanity. The strong male figures take control, whilst women are often reduced to trading in sex, and are largely marginalised in the fold. Our natural affinity as pack animals falls apart, and xenophobia erupts, targeting anything that might break the monotony and fraught situation.
With a distilled colour pallet, often only lit with fire, and the bleak wilderness of fog, Haneke creates a realistic world, heaving with pain and anxiety. His precise camera movements and compositions frame the disaster as beauty. Time of the Wolf would probably not suit the regular sci-fi frequenter of post-apocalypse, it does not present itself with the same signifiers and does not portray the Hollywood hero or saviour, and it absolutely does not offer the resolution that most would need to be satisfied with. This is the hopelessness of humanity in all of its desperation, with the modern luxuries obliterated, and reduced by the lack of necessities. But with this bleakness comes horror, and the complexities of humanity. It is a hard view, but one that rewards in aesthetics, and the confluence of characters.
"I'm still young and yet it sometimes seems to me that I've reached the autumn of my life." This tragic statement, taken from the diaries of Adele Hugo, daughter of Victor, is both the doomed statement of a young girl driven mad by love, and an ironic testament to the performance of a then 20 year old Isabelle Adjani. Francois Truffaut takes us back to 1863, with the American Civil War in full swing, and France and Great Britain still undecided in participation. Young Adele Hugo arrives at a camp in Nova Scotia seeking out her great love Lieutenant Pinson (Bruce Robinson), who she had embarked on a love affair with and whose potential marriage had been frowned upon.
What may have become a rather frustrating depiction of a desperate woman in love, Truffaut takes special care to create an air of Greek tragedy, as we witness the emotional deterioration of our protagonist, and her desperate pursuit of the unwilling Lieutenant Pinson. Adjani, simply unnervingly beautiful (seriously, how do the French keep doing it?), gives everything to the role. Adele herself, as depicted in the picture, is a time-bomb of emotions, giving every ounce of her strength into the tidal wave of pure love she feels - possibly a result of her father's grand romantic poems and novels - so anything less from Adjani wouldn't haven't done Adele justice.
This is a different kind of work to what I've previously seen from Truffaut - I'm more familiar with his New Wave productions. Adele H. is filmed in dark lighting, acting almost like a character itself signifying the darkness clouding in Adele's emotional torment. Victor Hugo's presence can be felt throughout the film, although he is never seen. Adele's story was taken from her diaries and the frequent letters she wrote to her parents, both of whom were concerned for her well-being. She attempts to keep her identity a secret, but friends are shocked when they uncover her secret, and the film works almost as a testament to Victor Hugo, a bow to his sheer immensity. But whether this is an ode to tragic intellectualism, or a human story that grabbed Truffaut's heart, I'll never know, but this is a gently haunting tale, and one that will make you want to personally open the eyes of Adele to the possibilities that are all around her, were she not so swept away by madness and love.
"The entire universe depends on everything fitting together. If you can fix the broken bit, everything can go back." This simplistic but profound statement forms the imaginative basis of the world and ecology, as interpreted by six year old Hushpuppy (Quvenzhane Wallis). Living on the outskirts of civilisation, on the wet plains of the Louisiana Delta, in a ramshackle community named the Bathtub, the residents are fully aware of the approaching dangers of nature. Through the teachings of the local shaman-like woman, Miss Bathsheba (Gina Montana), the Bathtub's children are taught of the power of nature. As she tells Hushpuppy and her peers, "The fabric of the universe will tear", as she describes the changing world, where the polar icecaps will melt, and their community will be flooded, and prehistoric beasts (the Aurochs) will be defrosted and set free. Hushpuppy takes these mythological tales literally.
Living in parallel to the "civilised" world, their world is divided by the levees (the same levees that failed New Orleans in the tragedy of 2005, and the allegorical nature of the film reflects this modern apocalypse). In the opening Hushpuppy and her father, Wink (Dwight Henry), travel down the river next to the levee, looking at the industrialised world of chimneys and smoke, and ponders on the beauty they live in, whilst reproaching the ugliness of, what they call "the dry side". When Hushpuppy follows her father across a field in an early scene, the audience knows that Wink must be a sick man, she asks him why he is wearing a dress and a bracelet - inevitably her narrow image of the sterile world, is stunted, as Wink wears a hospital gown and wrist-tag - but with her translation of the world, the little parts of the universe are inextricably linked. After an argument with her father, Hushpuppy punches him in the chest, as he falls to the ground the signs of an approaching storm rupture in the sky. She believes she has broken this little part of the universe, bringing catastrophe with it.
As the fantasy elements of Hushpuppy's world-view entwines itself within the very real aspects of the narrative, we see her as a force of nature, and one who has to learn the importance of strength, love, and responsibility. And like the forceful, determined character, Wallis (only 6 herself when filming) gives an incredibly determined and powerful performance, almost as if she were born to inhabit this very character. With a beautifully toned down screenplay by Benh Zeitlin and Lucy Alibar (based on her one-act play, 'Juicy and Delicious'), Zeitlin's direction (his debut feature in fact), displays absolute understanding of the central ideas, and balances (like Hushpuppy balances nature) the very harsh realities of life outside of civilisation, with the pure, and astounding fantasy of a six-year-old girl.
The soundtrack by director Zeitlin and Dan Romer mixes the emotional components with the more folksy, geographically specific music of New Orleans jazz, and fits perfectly within the context of the story. In the last ten minutes or so, the confluence of image, context and music, creates a rare biological experience where the goosebumps run up the back, providing a cooling shiver up the spine. Beasts of the Southern Wild is a profoundly beautiful and touching experience, and as Hushpuppy says on a few occasions, that when she dies the scientists of the future will know. We certainly know by the end, that there was a Hushpuppy, and she lived with her daddy in the bathtub.
Looking back on Hard to Kill - a film if released nowadays it would surely be lying in the straight-to-DVD bargain bin at Tesco - it is actually quite sad to see the once tall and lean Steven Seagal showing off his bone-breaking Aikido skills, given the flabby has-been that now graces the covers of movies such as Belly of the Beast (2003) and Maximum Conviction (2012). These movies tend to appear in the supermarket every other week and then seemingly disappear into obscurity, but the flappy-handed, pony-tailed beast that runs like a girl was once able to draw a cinema crowd. Yet watching Hard to Kill, one of his most popular titles from his early 90's heyday, it certainly poses the question of how?
Go it alone cop Mason Storm (Seagal) records a meeting between a gang of mobsters and Vernon Trant (William Sadler), and flees when they spot him. He divulges this information to one of his policemen friends, unaware that a couple of crooked cops are listening into the conversation. Arriving home to his wife and kids, he is greeted by a group of masked gunmen who kill his wife, and shoot Mason to within an inch of his life, while his young son escapes. Falling into a coma, Mason's death is faked by his best friend Lt. O'Malley (Frederick Coffin) to keep him out of reach of the mobsters. Seven years later, he awakens to a police force now overcome with corruption, and Trant now Senator. Along with nurse Stewart (Kelly LeBrock), who has been looking after him during his coma, Mason escapes the hospital to recuperate his strength and exact revenge on the people who murdered his family.
The action movies of the early to mid-90's were generally quite dull affairs, with television-quality attitudes to film-making, and the sound of machine-gun fire seen as an easy substitute to anything resembling genuine tension, and Hard to Kill is no exception. Apart from the delight taken in seeing Seagal being shot to shit, very little happens for a good fifty minutes. The silly and quite diabolically unrealistic plot is nowhere near engrossing enough to justify this, and Seagal's quite repulsive protagonist failing to provide a lead to care about. There is, however, one of the best one-liners in action history, when Mason overhears a television commercial for Senator Trant in which he uses the line "and you can take that to the bank!", Mason replies "I'm gonna take you to the bank. The blood bank!". Genius.
On the face of it, Rian Johnson's thriller Looper, utilises many conventional visual signifiers of recent science fiction films, with a high concept idea at its centre. But unlike the many other dystopian future films, it doesn't get held back by the importance of the technology within the world it creates. Set in Kansas in 2044, the opening scene sees Joe (Joseph Gordon-Levitt) standing alone in a wheat field with a blanket spread out a distance in front of him. Appearing instantaneously is a kneeling figure with his head covered in cloth, and Joe shoots. Like many other genre films, Looper has a reliance on narration from its main character, a necessity of complex narrative, but it is an important element, and one which further exacerbates Johnson's passion for film noir (as seen in his debut high school noir, Brick in 2005).
Thirty years in the future, time travel has been invented. For unexplained reasons, this technology has been outlawed, but is being used exclusively by crime syndicate's who are using people like Joe to assassinate people they send back in time. Joe, like the other loopers he works with are narcissistic, taking recreational drugs, simply living in the moment, with no apparent concern for the future, and particularly with the world they inhabit. A looper will eventually be retired, but once a looper is no longer required, this is known as closing the loop. What this involves is their future selves being sent back in time to be killed by his younger self. In a quirk of control, a being known as the Rainmaker, is attempting to put a stop to loopers altogether by closing all the loops. Panicking when confronted with the unclothed face of his future self (Bruce Willis), young Joe is knocked aside, and old Joe escapes the find the Rainmaker as a child, and stop the death of his future wife.
Whilst many other time travel films become often convoluted in their complexities of paradox, Looper manages to disregard the codes of science fiction paradoxicals and presents a refreshing layer of humanity. In a pivotal scene, when young and older Joe occupy the same time and space, they meet in their favourite diner - ordering the same meal - and older Joe complains at his younger self at his attitude towards life (I'm pretty sure we would all participate in this diatribe presented with the same context, to tell your younger self: "You're a dick"). Whilst the young Joe has no future outlook, future Joe has an image to cling to, specifically the woman who will eventually save his life. It's a scene fraught with tension and high chances of danger for the character(s), and one that has a bit of a poke at the concepts of time travel paradox. In fact, when quizzed about the possibility of changing the future by acting differently, old Joe bursts into anger, a character and a script knowingly telling the audience who will dissect time travel contradictions to essentially fuck off.
What ensues is a customary chase narrative, with the twist that Joe chases his older self - the younger is also being hunted by other loopers, as his inability to close the loop leans that he has to be eliminated. The hunt for the young Rainmaker leads to the farm of Sara (Emily Blunt) and her young son, Cid (Pierce Gagnon). The fact that young and old Joe share the same time/space, leads to a nice touch, where new experiences of the young Joe, reverberate in the memory of the elder. With this complex central concept, it would be easy for the script to become over elaborate, but Johnson keeps the plot simple, making it an incredibly satisfying narrative, that is intelligent, but does not over-intellectualise the themes.
Gordon-Levitt's performance is unsurpassed, he manages to possess the mannerisms of Willis without poor impersonation. Just one look of the face and his eyes and mouth (particularly) have this perfect essence of Willis. It's a big little film, that brings themes of addiction, paranoia, and the idea that in our youth, we inevitably make bad choices and often damage ourselves for in-the-moment selfishness. Johnson clearly has been influenced by Philip K. Dick, and even some of Blade Runner's (1982) visual tricks are utilised here. But whilst Dickian aesthetics dictate the overbearing corporation of government, Looper has a very human heart, which is illustrated in the relationship (new to old Joe) with the farmer and her son, and provides one of the most beautiful and convincing climax's in sci-fi cinema in some time. So therefore, Looper presents a very persuasive image of a future where society has collapsed and the highest paying job seems to be a hitman, it also shows that even the most self centred of people, the types who would risk the lives of others for money (ahem), can be moved by the idea and realisation of humanistic beauty, and the innocence of love.
It was only a matter of time before Seth MacFarlane, creator of "it's like that time when we..." cartoon sitcom Family Guy and the vastly superior American Dad! got a shot at the movies. After all, Family Guy spends most of its time playing homage to, referencing or mocking the movies, while at the same time stealing most of its ideas from them. Clearly an avid viewer of popcorn cinema (as well as the musicals), MacFarlane reverts back to the 1980's with Ted, when buddy-cop action-comedies ruled for a prolific yet short period of time. Only rather than, say, a loose-cannon white cop and a buttoned-up black cop, here we have a pot-head man-child and his wise-cracking teddy bear best friend.
Young outcast John Bennett has trouble making friends, and after being bought a giant teddy bear for Christmas, he wishes for his new friend Ted to be his friend forever. The magic of Christmas (or something) grants his wish, and he wakes the next morning to find Ted alive and speaking. He becomes a national celebrity, only twenty-seven years later, John (Mark Wahlberg) is stuck in a monotonous job while Ted (voice by MacFarlane, sounding like Peter Griffin) has become a beer-swilling, bong-toking layabout. They are still best of friends, and John is happy in a relationship with Lori (Mila Kunis), only Ted's behaviour goes too far one night when he brings back a party of hookers, one of whom shits on the floor, that leads to Lori growing increasingly impatient with John's childish attitude.
If there's one good thing that can be said about Seth MacFarlane, is that he knows how to write buddy moments. Stewie and Brian's Road To... episodes in Family Guy prove some of the series' headlights, playing on the bizarre and unconventional aspects of their relationship, bringing originality to the tired idea of a mismatched duo that care for each other deep down. It also manages to show a warmer side to his generally unpleasant (yet often funny) sense of humour, and this is one of Ted's strengths. John and Ted's interactions tend to be warm and amusing, as they share their love of pot, beer and Flash Gordon (1980), that brings the best out of Wahlberg's underrated subtle comedic talent (something was best displayed in I Heart Huckabees (2004)).
Yet the familiar story of a romance getting in the way of a bromance provides no originality, especially in terms of set-pieces. It resorts to a lazy car-chase finale that wraps up a rather silly sub-plot involving Giovanni Ribisi's creepy Donny abducting Ted to give to his even creepier son, that lacks anything resembling imagination or inspiration. Another sub-plot includes Lori being hit on by her generic rich-boy boss Rex (Joel McHale), a character that looks as if he's walked straight out of Family Guy. It's all just a rather disappointing lazy experience, given MacFarlane's obvious knowledge of his medium, and really only has one memorable moment that involves John meeting Flash Gordon himself, Sam J. Jones. The rest is a mish-mash of crude humour that works less favourably on screen than it does in a cartoon, spouted by the frequently annoying Ted who is nothing more than a more obnoxious Peter Griffin. Kunis is sweet and likeable as ever though, and Wahlberg's likeability plus a (disappointingly minuscule) appearance from Patrick Warburton provide some warmth.
Based on the writings of Lafcadio Hearn, who studied Japanese folklore and supernatural tales to form his novel Kwaidan: Stories and Studies of Strange Things, Kwaidan tells four stories, all varying in length, tone, and quality. The first, The Black Hair, depicts a samurai who abandons his loving wife in search of a rise in the social hierarchy, marrying into wealth after displaying his fine gift for archery on horseback. Spending years in deep regret, he returns back to his first wife only to find her physically the same, yet entirely different. The second, The Woman of the Snow, is a very simplistic tale of a man's encounter with the Yuki-onna, a pale woman with blue lips who lives in the snow, who warns the man that she would kill him if he told anyone about her.
The stand-out segment is undoubtedly the third, Hoichi the Earless, a sweeping epic (in a portmanteau context) tale of a blind musician, Hoichi (Katsuo Nakamura), who's rendition of The Tale of the Heike (a multi-layered account of the long-standing conflict between the Taira and Minamoto clans in 12th century Japan), has gained him renown. The ghost of a warrior that perished during the decisive Battle of Dan-no-ura approaches Hoichi, informing him that his lord has demanded his presence in order to hear his legendary performance. After frequently disappearing during the night, Hoichi is followed and is seen to be playing to a graveyard full of ghosts. The fourth, which is the shortest, is the unfinished story In a Cup of Tea.
Winner of the Grand Jury Prize at Cannes and nominated for the Best Foreign Language Film at the 1965 Academy Awards, Kwaidan is a masterwork of visual splendour, using bold explosions of colour, Expressionist sets, and dream-like, almost fairytale lighting. Hoichi the Earless begins with a beautiful re-telling of the Battle of Dan-no-ura, with lavish red and orange back-drops juxtaposed with the microscopically detailed artwork from the period, making it seem almost like a painting come to life, all with the sound of Hoichi's beautiful rendition of The Tale of the Heike. This comes straight after the rather gloomy Woman of the Snow, which uses blue lighting amidst a snowy terrain to create the most haunting of the tales on show.
Yet Kwaidan is much more than visual elegance. It is deeply rooted in Japanese folk-lore, bringing to mind the Western tales of the Brothers Grimm, back when fairy-tales had a darker tone and social context. It is almost like lying in bed on a thunderous night reading ghost stories by candle-light. Director Makasi Kobayashi (director of The Human Condition trilogy (1959-1961) and Harakiri (1962)) seems especially fascinated and enchanted by these tales, giving each story its own visual style and colour scheme, and even dedicating the final segment to the many unfinished Japanese stories that end abruptly, shrouded in mystery, and ponders the fate of its author.
Running at three hours, Kwaidan never feels strained or tired, and doesn't waste a second of its running time to create something you could easily freeze-frame and hang on your wall. Hoichi the Earless could have been a masterpiece on its own, and is the most fondly remembered of the quartet (the image of Hoichi screaming, clutching his butchered head has become iconic amongst fans of more obscure, art-house 'horror'). The final story does end the film on a sadly quite anti-climactic note however, being by far the poorest of the stories, telling a slightly silly, un-involving twenty-minute story about the reflection of a mysterious man in a cup of tea that appears later to a confused samurai. It jars with what came before, slightly ruining what is a nigh-on perfect trilogy of beautifully rendered films.
Giving the decades action hero his (or hers) raison d'etre, John Rambo became the ultimate right-wing icon, and, through the First Blood sequels, exacerbated the one-man-army excesses that became so pervasive in action cinema. But before the hyperbole of Republican jingoism, - where the scars of the Vietnam war were refreshed and revised when Reagan, quoting from Rambo: First Blood Part II (1985), stated that; "This Time We're Gonna Win" - Rambo, or more specifically, the Vietnam veteran, was persecuted in American society.
Sylvester Stallone's "John J." drifts through the American landscape searching for the remnants of his Green Beret troop, but finds despair in their absence. The veteran often came back to from the war unable to adjust to civilian life, left with the trauma of warfare, they were subjected to dehumanising abuses by the hippie generation, the middle-class students of the anti-war protesters (as Rambo says "They call us baby killers"). Rambo represents the American working class, the bottom of society, who were abused by foreign policy, trained into machines of death, and forgotten about. Unable to hold a job in the negative climate, Rambo wanders, like the Western outlaw, attempting to find his retirement. Much like the conventions of the classic American Western, the lone outsider enters a small town (not the sun blistered West, but the cold, isolated North-East), finding the antagonistic Sheriff Teasle (Brian Dennehy), who's only concern is containing the status quo.
In Rambo and Teasle there are two souls damaged by late 1960's American politics. Rambo has been reduced to an angry outsider, whilst Teasle, who clearly continued as Sheriff during the war, would have seen the United States reduced to civil disobedience. Rambo enters town with long hair, he is unwashed, and displays the stars and strips on his jacket, a flag that had lost its meaning in the hearts of men like Teasle. So when this nomadic person, a post-war hippie, drifts into his territory, he is myopic in his attempts to get rid of him. In creating this vacuity of an idealised America, the sheriff protects from the transient generation. The two characters are the different generations, and the divide between these different ideologies. They have both been trained by US authorities, and each, like the country itself, only foresees victory and survival.
The structure of First Blood is very simplistic. After being arrested and taken to the local police station, Rambo makes a spectacular escape, making his way on a motorcycle to the rocky, and heavily wooded mountains. After which Rambo is pursued as the authorities, and the audience, begin to discover his exceptional survival techniques, and he wages his own personal war against American small-town hypocrisy, including the inept national guard, made up of local hicks, too young to have any knowledge of war. Unlike the similarly themed action films that proceeded First Blood, Rambo does not actually kill anyone intentionally (Galt (Jack Starrett) falls from a helicopter after a rock hits it, only because he unfastens his seat belt), which actually adds corners to an otherwise one-dimensional character.
Rambo's final outburst of violence is directed at the buildings of the small town. The symbols of progress, and the inscrutable institution, the machine of society, of which he is a small, expendable component, a government trained killing machine. Originally to be played by Kurt Russell, Col. Trautman (Richard Crenna) is the military, the superior and trainer of this broken machine. As Rambo's only exterior relationship, he acts as his father figure. The two characters become human when sharing the screen. An often lampooned scene in First Blood is the emotional outpouring by Stallone, which is at times incomprehensible, as his character finally has a voice, but this scene is pivotal to his redemption.
Based on a 1972 novel by David Morrell, the film makers thoughtfully toned down the more extreme book. It is a competently made action film, the more ridiculous elements of the one-man-army aspects of the narrative have since been diminished by the more over-the-top action that followed. First Blood sits comfortably within the transition from '70's anti-heroes to the machine-bodies of the '80's. It looks back at Clint Eastwood and Travis Bickle, whilst moving towards a Schwarzenegger. It has muscle and explosive action, some thrilling stunts, and a squeamish scene of Rambo sewing his own gashed arm with a needle and thread. But with this comes an interesting (if slightly over the top) observation of the post-Vietnam American consciousness, the barren psychological landscape, and the harsh effects of war on the individual, what we would call Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome.
Prohibition-era America is incredibly rich in narrative and mythology. Behind the realities of the great economic depression the underbelly of society rise in criminal organisation, creating the underworld of bootleg alcohol and the clandestine drinking establishments known as speakeasies. With this specific historical backdrop, American cinema has created a glamorised iconography of the 1930's, the idolised gangsters and almost politically justified violence. Lawless only briefly flirts with the glamour of this period, but believes in the self-appointed mythology of it's characters. John Hillcoat and Nick Cave's film embeds itself within the roots, straight to the source of the big city's modern attractions. We're not in Al Capone's Chicago, but deep in the heart of the American wilderness, Franklin County, Virginia.
The three Bondurant brothers, Howard (Jason Clarke), Forest (Tom Hardy), and Jack (Shia LeBeouf), run a moonshine operation in the sparsely populated backwater town, and despite the national prohibition laws, local authorities participate in alcohol consumption. But even within the moral vacuum of Virginia, the modern corruption and perversity's of the city will inevitably invade. Guy Pearce's sinister and narcissistic "lawman", Charlie Rakes, infects the rustic landscape with his false malevolence. Pearce shaves his eyebrows off for the role, bringing a visual nod towards the characters vanity. His appearance is impeccable, and an odour of perfume is alluded to on occasion, a veneer that hides a deeply sadistic human, a character who also flaunts his wealth within poverty perhaps a signifier of our current perception of the suited banker.
In American Gothic traditions, surrounding the three brothers is a legend perpetuated within the small community, a superstition created out of perceived supernatural beginnings. After the two older brothers escape death in situations where others perished, a myth is attached to them suggesting that the Bondurants are invincible, a narrative that opens a niche in the community where they are impervious to the nations laws. Tom Hardy's middle child is the centre of this family unit, and his hulking presence tersely guides them, where as the elder, Howard, is the fearless bulldog, throwing himself at anything in their way. Forest's violence is calculated, he seems too bulky and clumsy in his laconic mannerisms, but, as in a scene in their bar, a densely packed burst of violence culminates in some horrifically graphic images. Believing your own myth is central to Lawless. Because of this belief, their confidence knows no boundaries. Even the audience is given the evidence to believe, when Forest survives having his throat hacked open.
Whilst the older brothers battle to keep equilibrium, attempting to block the outside, modern world from intruding upon their traditions and redneck hokum, Lawless is fundamentally about the younger Jack, and LeBeouf gives his best performance to date. His character is set up perfectly when witnessing Floyd Banner (Gary Oldman) crashing through the small community, tommygun rattling at the car of his pursuers, the idealised image of gangster chic. Jack idolises these city criminals like teenagers idolise idiot pseudo-celebrity today, highlighting his naivete as he looks into this world from the outside. What comes with Jacks hero-worship is an unwavering ambition to take the bootlegging business further. LeBeouf balances Jack's progression with great intensity, managing the conflicting mix of gullibility and confrontational confidence. Whilst not a perfect performance, I saw a bit of Tom Hanks in LeBeouf.
Like Hillcoat's previous films The Proposition (2005) and The Road (2008), Lawless evokes the visual textures of the landscape. The first in the Australian outback, secondly in a post-apocalyptic world, working again with cinematographer Benoit Delhomme (who collaborated previously on The Proposition), the environment permeates the screen, the dust kicked up from informally created roads, scattered over the wooden, man-made structures, the grit and grime forming with the sticky blood as Jack is violently beaten to the ground by Rakes. The untouched landscape can be both beautiful and malevolent.
A film about corruption, and particularly the long hand that breaks from the city limits to corrupt further afield. 2012 is possibly the perfect time to reflect upon this 21st century depression, and remember not to worship false idols. Nick Cave based his terse screenplay on a novel by Matt Bondurant (grandson of Jack), and obviously is based upon a true story. Whether much has been passed down through the family with ambiguities, the Chinese whisper of myth making is unknown, but the Bondurant brothers seem mythical. Their involvement in a national epidemic, the superstition of death-dodging all add to their own sense of power and the towns fear of them. Are they supernatural heroes of the American psyche? Or, do the older brothers reflect the defeated world of the Wall Street crash, whilst the younger reaches out to the celebrity world of high-class gangster, looking to a future of wealth? It's an interesting inclusion into the reflective nature of cyclical history. As we continue through our own economic crisis, we look back to the past to compare, and check on our evolution, if there is any at all.
A quasi-disturbing trend in '80's American cinema was the wisecrack; innocuous in some genres, it even extended to the horror film, with the child killer (paedophile if you want a 21st century tag) Freddy Krueger - who would flaunt his quips after extravagantly offing a "youngun". Within the action film, it was Schwarzenegger who was the king of the one-liners. The Running Man offered the perfect vehicle for this fashion of dialogue, with its structure of death-for-survival. In the future (2017 to be precise) the worlds economy has crashed leaving many homeless, and the state runs the entertainment industry - in this science fiction world, television ratings are raised by the depiction of violence and humiliation; as long as it is justified with criminality.
Ben Richards (Schwarzenegger) is an ex-cop, wrongfully imprisoned for a helicopter attack on civilians. In the opening scene we see the "real" event, as Richards refuses to shoot innocents, and ignores orders. As we are in familiar sci-fi themes, this dystopic police state, and its control of the media, manipulates the facts to create a criminal. Escaping a maximum security prison (which seems surprisingly easy to break out of), Richards heads for his brothers in the city, whilst Laughlin (Yaphet Kotto) and Weiss (Marvin J. McIntyre) head for revolutionary activity. But the butcher of Bakersfield (the name attributed to Richards by the falsified media story) is too buff, and far too athletic to not be used in television most popular gameshow (its title used for this film), and Killian (Richard Dawson) spots the potential of this "contestant" in a prison break video.
Captured and forced to take part in The Running Man, Richards (along with Laughlin and Weiss and the ubiquitous damsel (Maria Conchita Alonso) who is picked up along the way) has to face a series of stalkers, who hunt them down in a fight to the death. Simply put, it is a kind of underground gladiatorial entertainment, and with the over the top stalkers (including Fireball (Jim Brown) and Buzzsaw (Gus Rethwisch), who all have specific modes of weaponry) they face a game-like structure to get to the next level. In this structure we find the linguistic genius (sic) of Schwarzenegger, as he sardonically "explains" within one comedic line, what happened when he killed another man (for example, after raising buzzsaw's chainsaw to his groin, he is asked what happened to him, and Richards replies "He had to split" - hilarity!
Some of the films themes resonate within our popular culture to this day. Now, I'm in no way stating that this film was prescient, or even that it was ahead of its time. The presentation is certainly of its time, and many of the ideas can be found elsewhere (within literature, Orwell's 1984 is standard for dystopian futures), such as Peter Watkins' Punishment Park (1971). What the film does highlight when viewed in another century is that the general populous has become far more media savvy that ever. We are used to the idea that anything we watch on television (particularly when we consider the mass of reality TV that litters our airwaves) we are watching something edited for the purpose of entertainment. In The Running Man, the audiences are unaware that manipulation is rampant within both current affairs and entertainment broadcasting.
I think I may have just taken a Schwarzenegger film far too seriously. This is an '80's gung-ho action film, that perpetuates the throw-away, comic book violence that prevailed - after all, America was defeated in their last war (Vietnam) and, I'm guessing, had to make war and violence accessible to children! This frightening concept would become more concerning when many adult action ideas were transferred to Saturday morning cartoons (both Robocop and Rambo were translated to cartoon, and they were based on two of the most violent films of the decade). This digression is not too far away from The Running Man, as it does often feel like it is directed at a younger audience, despite the bloody violence, it is very much a cartoonish and immature approach to what could have been a more cerebral comment on mass entertainment.
Based on a book by Stephen King (Writing as Richard Bachmann), the film does have some interesting elements to it. In our modern world of multi-channel, on-demand entertainment, a large segment (the majority in fact) of the media we consume, is so insipid, so incredibly dumbed-down, that it would be easy to argue that these forms of visual pleasure are produced as a form of control (you know, keep them in line by feeding them shit that rots the brain). In The Running Man, the largely homeless population gather round the over sized screens that litter the skyline to watch state-controlled gameshows, and they find their entertainment in the death of others. When Richards begins to beat the stalkers, the audience start gunning for the supposed "villain". Therefore, the film seems to be making the point that death is what people want to see, even if it is the wrong type of death.
Despite all of these transgressions, this was one of the favourites as a youngster. It is undeniably entertaining, and has some genuinely nice moments, and offers some interesting visions of a future that was inevitably there in 1987, but in which has been exacerbated over the last 30 years of increasingly dumb entertainment. Within standard television production modes, The Running Man is not inspiring film making (it was directed by Paul Michael Glaser, who was Starsky in Starsky and Hutch, and also directed many episodes of Miami Vice). There is probably no doubt that this will be remade, as the ideas and themes are still very relevant today, but lets hope that if it is remade, they forget about the muscles and gladiator iconography, and focus on the manipulation through entertainment. And please, never, ever put Schwarzenegger in a Lycra jumpsuit!
After the son of Japanese martial arts master Tanaka (Roy Chiao) dies, American Frank Dux (Jean-Claude Van Damme) pleads to him to be trained in the art of Ninjutsu. In a show of gratitude and a way to honour his master, Dux travels to Asia to compete in the Kumite, an illegal, underground combat competition that invites the finest fighters in the world to compete every five years. There, he befriends tubby Vale Tudo fighter Jackson (Donald Gibb), but finds himself pursued by two ACID officers Helmer (Norman Burton) and Rawlins (Forest Whitaker), who want to bring him back to America to face punishment by the army.
After appearing in roles such as Spectator in First Dance Sequence and Gay Karate Man, Van Damme took his first starring role here after his proper début in No Retreat, No Surrender (1986). His inexperience shows as he puts in a rather horrific, wooden performance, managing to convince the supporting characters of the fact that his character is America, but certainly not the audience watching the film. But he wasn't hired for his acting talent, but for his frequently astonishing fighting ability. He has never looked in finer shape, as he displays his trademark ability for high kicks and bollocks-stretching splits. And this is something that works for the film as a whole, as nobody really cares about the story, we just want to see some decent fighting.
What is so endearing about the film is the way it harks back to the 1970's kung-fu movies from China and Hong Kong, notably the formidable output from the Shaw Brothers Studio and tournament movie Enter the Dragon (1973). There are many silly and frankly inexplicable moments, especially in the intrusive romance between Dux and reporter Janice Kent (Leah Ayres), a pointless and contradictory character (clearly the movie was in need of a leggy blonde). This is a bad movie, but it managed to deliver much more than I was expecting - plenty of blood, sweat, homo-eroticism, the colossal Bolo Yeung, and more slow-motion "aaaayyyyeeeeessssss!" than I could count.
Since impressing writer/director Jack Hill in his two previous films (The Big Doll House (1971) and The Big Bird Cage (1972)), the buxom and beautiful Pam Grier takes centre stage in this violent anti-drug vigilante drama. Grier plays a no-holds-barred nurse, known by many as Coffy, whose younger sister has been brought into the world of drugs, and is in hospital after being sold some "bad stuff". She subsequently takes control of the situation, infiltrating the criminal world of pimps and drug pushers, using her sexuality to dupe the seemingly stupid and ridiculous criminal gangs. In the opening, she poses as a woman hooked on drugs, looking for her next fix, portraying herself as one of the many women that will do "anything" for drugs. This leads to a quite graphic scene in which Coffy blows the head off a dealer with a shotgun.
Within an exploitation industry that played very much within the confines of misogyny, this particular blaxploitation film offers a more feminist approach to the subject. At the time black films were largely masculine in their output, with lead actors such as Rudy Ray Moore, who would treat female characters with seeming disdain, and they were fundamentally in the films as sexual objects. In Coffy, Grier obliterates the ideal of the passive woman, and gleefully attacks both men and women in her mission to destroy the illegal drugs industry. This inevitably leads her to areas of society formally thought to be justified; including a local politician who Coffy has been in a relationship with.
Coffy is an interesting twist on the male dominated blaxploitation genre, and Grier is sensational in the lead - it is easy to see why she has endured where many other actresses of the decade have disappeared into obscurity. It does still have sequences of gratuitous female nudity (but that is simple symptomatic of the period), such as the party scene where Coffy attacks the harem of prostitutes under the control of the over-the-top, garishly dressed pimp, King George (Robert DoQui), whose collection of "onesy" outfits are spectacularly '70's. I find most of the charm of these low budget '70's films to be held in their outrageous iconography - the fashions and outlandish decorations are a special joy to behold. Unusually for the time, Coffy does not glorify drugs and the activities of the criminals, but does show the ubiquitous theme that authorities were implicit in pushing drugs into the black ghettos of America.
Texan drug-dealer Chris (Emile Hirsch) lands himself in hot water, owing money to a gang of big-time criminals. After being refused money by his father Ansel (Thomas Haden Church), Chris comes up with a plot to have his mother murdered, collecting the life insurance money that he believes will pass to his sister Dottie (Juno Temple). To do the deed, they hire police detective and part-time contract killer 'Killer' Joe (Matthew McConaughey). Unable to pay his fees up front, Joe decides to take Dottie as collateral, who he asks to spend the night with, until the debt is paid.
Killer Joe's poster tagline reads 'A totally twisted, deep-fried, Texas redneck trailer park murder story', and really, that's precisely what it is. The central families sheer utter repulsiveness becomes the comedy vein that prevails throughout the plot, as we are greeted by Sharla (Gina Gershon), Ansel's second wife, opening her trailer door to reveal her hairy bush to a disgusted Chris. But Chris's loud-mouthed ineptness, Ansel's zombie-like idiocy, and Sharla's blatant man-eating are neutralised by Juno Temple's strange, quirky presence, and her submissive relationship with Killer Joe that is as unsettling as it is oddly sweet. It's a quite amazing performance, and her scenes with an almost equally impressive McConaughey provide the film's highlights.
If the film has a definite strong point, it is in the performances. While the aforementioned Temple and McConaughey will steal the plaudits, Haden Church's dumb, lurch-like performance reminds us why he was Oscar-nominated for the sublime Sideways (2004), providing a sympathetic character amongst Chris's waster and Sharla's trailer trash whore. It's a shame that the plot can't match the performances, and although the story takes a back-seat to the mish-mash of human monsters, this really could have been a whole lot more. This is Coen Brothers territory, taking place in that sweaty world of the Deep South, full of smoky bars, rusty trailers, cowboy hats, motorbikes and overweight, middle-aged men in vests, a modern-day noir world ripe with possibilities, one that I feel has been slightly wasted here.
But if you've ever wondered if a film's climatic scene would ever involved a woman performing fellatio on a chicken drumstick, then here is your answer. Killer Joe's final frames will undoubtedly divide audiences between those who get director William Friedkin's intentions to take things to Jacobian absurdity, to those who will feel it as a silly contradiction to the film early, more subtle black humour. It's a splurge of extreme, uncomfortable violence with a sprinkling of farce, as the true psychological unbalance of Killer Joe becomes evident. Myself, I found it rather hilarious, and it managed to cement what is really an average film with only spatters of inspiration into my memory.
The right-wing fascism of the Marvel comics character was incredibly well suited to the increasingly comic-book violence of late-'80's action cinema. With an ex-actor as the American president, and his campaign of reform that benefited the rich, it was inevitable that the heroes of cinema would move away from the morally ambiguous characters of the 1970's, and move to the more clearly defined, shoot first ask later, machismo of revenge against perceived evil. In Frank Castle, Gerry Conway and John Romita Jr, created a simplistic, one-dimensional man who fights the city's criminal organisation, after the mob had been involved in the murder of his family. After this event, Frank (dubbed The Punisher by police and the media) leaves the police force, and lives a subterranean life, disposing of those he sees as morally objectionable. In the comic world, Punisher was a very '70's creation (first appearing in 1974), but would not become as relevant to a "wider" audience until the excessive nature of the 80's action genre.
With such an easily defined origin, the film begins after Frank Castle (played by Dolph Lundgren) who is suspected by many to be the Punisher, has been in hiding for five years, and the accumulation of dead criminals are increasing. With the mob families combining their efforts, creating a syndicate, the Japanese Yakuza arrive to assimilate these groups and over take the city crime activities. Castle's ex-police partner, Jake Berkowitz (Louis Gossett Jr.), is on the case of the merging families, and the new threat of the "foreign" mafia, but is fundamentally after the famous vigilante. The inclusion of the Japanese elements seems to reflect America's entrenched fear of outsiders, and particularly the oriental superiority in technological advancement, and of course, a sewer-dwelling vigilante (and a tough American) can easily dispose of technology with his bare hands.
The Punisher is a pretty standard right-wing action film of the decade, and offers little excitement, and most certainly offers nothing new to the genre. It seems that life is disposable if those bodies are foreign. Like so many of these explosion-fuelled, testosterone enhanced films, The Punisher takes itself far too seriously. Lundgren's dialogue and delivery is so cliched, that even by 1989, this gravelly, monotone dialogue was ridiculous, and forged from what must have been the universal book of bad statements. (Even when Lundgren shoots large weaponry, his mouth seems to be filled with marbles.) With the major threat that the Yakuza has kidnapped the mob bosses kids, it is a pretty lame premise, and one which could easily have been solved by the Brady Bunch (in other words, the threat was limited, with no need for bulging biceps). The whole package though released cinematically (outside of America and Sweden at least), seems much like the pilot episode for a proposed television series, than a wholly satisfactory film experience, and fails as action or drama.
Never a company to let something like historical accuracy get in the way of some good ol' fashioned blood shed and some barely covered breasts, Hammer Studios went all-out anachronistic in 1967, telling the tale of The Viking Queen, Salinas (Carita), a British druid who was not a Viking and seemed to worship the Greek god Zeus. It's a rather dull tale about Salinas' love affair with invading Roman general Justinian (Don Murray), whose truce causes both the Druids and the Romans to heavily oppose it and wage war against each other. With Justinian raising taxes of the rich merchants, and lowering them for the poor small-folk, a plot is forged between the merchants and the usurping Roman Octavian (Andrew Keir) to overthrow Justinian and conquer the Druids.
.jpg)
.jpg)
.jpg)
