Review #632: 'Searching for Sugar Man' (2012)

Following 2008's enthralling Anvil! The Story of Anvil, the documentary medium seems a perfect place for a film-maker to give a forgotten musician their just deserves. While Anvil! were rockers that really should have made it in the cock-rock wave of the 1980's but didn't due to bad timing and sheer dumb luck, Searching for Sugar Man tells a different type of story, one that almost beggars belief. As well as revealing some ugly truths about the music studio system, it also disproves the theory that great art will always shine through. Sixto Rodriguez was a Detroit musician who could have been bigger than Dylan, and who possibly harboured a greater talent. He came and went with two studio albums, leaving nothing behind, not even a cult following. Yet everyone he knew and worked with never described him as anything but extraordinary.

Yet, over 9000 miles away in South Africa, Sixto Rodriguez was bigger than Elvis. His first album Cold Fact, would be found in nearly every household back in the 1970's. He became a symbol for the anti-apartheid movement, and his records were feared as dangerous and influential, and certain tracks would be scratched by the government to stop them from getting airplay. Yet, the South Africans learned that Rodriguez, disappointed with his lack of success, had doused himself with petrol and set himself alight on stage. Or that he shot himself. The details were unclear, but he had committed suicide. But two music journalists, wanting to find out more about this mysterious figure, would not only uncover the story of a man that was unheard of in his native country, but discover he is alive and well.

It's a beautifully shot documentary, shifting from the snowy greys of Detroit, to the sun-bleached world of South Africa. The first half shows us the exciting investigative efforts of Stephen 'Sugarman' Segerman and Craig Bartholomew Strydom, and the many obstacles in their way. One interview with former Motown Records Chairman Clarence Avant possibly uncovers a cover-up of Rodriguez's South African success, as Avant gets extremely defensive when posed questions about the money trail. Maybe Rodriguez was a victim of shady capitalism, or perhaps he was simply a voice America chose not to listen to. After all, he was a shy, awkward presence (he often sat with his back to the crowd), and was from a Mexican immigrant background, hardly the face of the U.S. at the time.

In an age where the music industry is ruled by floppy-haired teens, talentless dollar-eyed wailers from the X-Factor machine, or bling-covered cunts that label themselves as 'hip-hop', it's reassuring to know there's still people out there with a thirst for real music. Sugar Man's Academy Award for Best Documentary Feature is not just for the film itself, but for the inspiration behind it. The first half shows us Segerman and Strydom's search for the elusive figure, but the second half tracks him down. We see him peering out from the window of his downtrodden home, and it's the man's humbleness that makes him so endearing. He is truly a man of the people, opposed to capitalism and material wealth, and we learn this as his past is unravelled, never ruining the air of mystique surrounding the man. It's a great story, and one the world needs at this moment in time.


Directed by: Malik Bendjelloul
Starring: Sixto Rodriguez, Stephen 'Sugarman' Segerman, Craig Bartholomew Strydom
Country: Sweden/UK

Rating: ****

Tom Gillespie

Review #631: 'The Whales of August' (1987)

"Can one live beyond one's time?" ponders the 93 year old Sarah (Lillian Gish). This summarises one of the key themes in Lindsay Anderson's moving drama The Whales of August, which focuses on the relationship between sisters Sarah and Libby (Bette Davis). Spending the summer in their vacation house in Maine, the two are approaching the end of their lives. Sarah keeps herself busy doing household choirs and looking after her near-blind sister, as she awaits the yearly arrival of the whales who swim close to the shore. While Sarah is positive and open to changes, Libby is bitter, resigned to her looming death, and opposes Sarah's ideas to install a window that would allow the moonlight to shine through the home in the evening.

There is no real plot in The Whales of August, and is instead a moving character piece that allows a quartet of wonderful actors - Vincent Price and Ann Sothern as well as the aforementioned - to flex their muscles again. With about 500 features in total behind them, it's wonderful to see these powerhouses at work. Sothern received the only Oscar nomination, but this is Gish's film (Gish shrugged off her Oscar snub by saying "oh well, at least I don't have to lose to Cher". She was one of the first Hollywood superstars, and displays the same effortless likeability that made her a star with the likes of Intolerance - Love's Struggle Through the Ages (1916) and Broken Blossoms, or The Yellow Man and the Girl (1919). Post-stroke and looking extremely gaunt, Davis sadly fairs less well, and although I consider her to be possibly the greatest actress to ever grace the screen, her performance lacks any real emotion.

Beyond the performances, the film is contemplative and somewhat sad. Faded memories and old photographs are always something that affect me, and watching Sarah and Libby share anecdotes and knowing what these actresses must have lived through and experienced, I found it hard not to get choked up. It's a meditation on change and if there ever comes a time when you should simply let go and accept what's coming. It would be Gish's last film, and Davis' penultimate, and it's a fitting way for the both of them to go out. Going back to the question in the first line, the answer is yes. There is a time all actors will be cast aside by the studio system in favour of youth, deeming them no longer fit for purpose, but The Whales of August reminds us that cinema will never, ever forget.


Directed by: Lindsay Anderson
Starring: Lillian Gish, Bette Davis, Vincent Price, Ann Sothern, Harry Carey Jr
Country: USA

Rating: ****

Tom Gillespie

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Review #630: 'Gangster Squad' (2013)

Information is extremely easy to come by these days. Seemingly any fathomable topic can be typed into a search engine, and a world of information is unlocked. The biopic genre, that so often relied on myths and hearsay about its chosen topic, faced the reality that their 'artistic licence' would be stepped on, and audiences wanted something much more closer to fact. So, recent biopics, such as The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford (2007) and Lincoln (2012), brought the myth back down to Earth, showing us the human beneath the magazine serials and profiles. Director Ruben Fleischer has chosen to ignore this change in attitudes, and opted for a heavily stylised, operatically over-the-top portrayal of the downfall of Los Angeles kingpin Mickey Cohen with Gangster Squad, one of the biggest let-downs in recent memory.

Mickey Cohen's (Sean Penn) choke-hold on Los Angeles is growing increasingly tighter, with the police force, judges, and politicians all backing him up. Seeing no legal method of capturing Cohen and his criminal empire, Chief Bill Parker (Nick Nolte) calls in no-nonsense police sergeant John O'Mara (Josh Brolin) to infiltrate and destroy Cohen's businesses. O'Mara quickly rounds up his tight crew, who he dubs the 'gangster squad', while O'Mara's friend and fellow police sergeant Jerry Wooters (Ryan Gosling) woos Cohen's girlfriend Grace Faraday (Emma Stone). Using wire-tapping and some simple brutality, the squad start to break down Cohen's money-making schemes, until Cohen's starts to hit back in force, waging war in the city he wants complete control of.

While obviously heavily elaborating on 'fact', Gangster Squad's story is undeniably luring. Set amongst possibly the most corrupt and out-of-control era in America's history and against a backdrop Hollywood razzle-dazzle, it's amazing just how dull the film is. I would estimate about 95% of the film is complete bull-shit, which I could live with, but it's the way it goes about it's bull-shit that makes the film such, well, bull-shit. This is a film that tries to capture the 50's noir cool of the era, with sharp suits and cool hats, but there's only so many Gosling poses or look-how-cool-this-car-is moments that I can take. If it spent a little less try trying to be cool, and more time getting to the grit of the story then it may have worked a little better. But this doesn't capture the style of the era like L.A. Confidential (1997) did, it's all forced, hat-tilted-to one side, cigarette-hanging-loosely-out-the-mouth, forced cool.

For such a stellar cast, only Sean Penn manages to tune in a performance. As ridiculous as his prosthetics are and as outlandish as his performance is, he seems to be the only one really trying. Don't expect any depth, Penn's Cohen is a simple thug who will kill you if you fail him, and you would find more complex villains in early James Bond movies. Brolin and Gosling, two of the most interesting actors to emerge in the last ten or so years, barely register, failing to breathe any kind of life into their archetypal roles. But it is Emma Stone that suffers the most, serving no purpose other than to be the helpless damsel-in-distress and to give Gosling a reason to take his shirt off. In fact, you could label every one of the Gangster Squad as a familiar archetype you would think we'd moved away from. Brolin is The No-Nonsense Leader, Gosling is The Handsome One, Harris (Anthony Mackie) is The Black One, Keeler (Giovanni Ribisi) is The Nerdy One, Kennard (Robert Patrick) is The Veteran, and Ramirez (Michael Pena) is The Rookie.

I mean come on, this is 2013, can't we expect a little bit more from our mainstream films? It's just one cliché after another, including a little boy friendly with Wooters who gets killed by one of Cohen's men, convincing Wooters to join the squad. It even features a scene where a character throws his badge into the sea. At the point where Cohen opens fire on the squad and shouts 'here comes Santa Clause!', I gave up all hope. Apart from the cinematography, and Penn's energetic performance, I would have nothing good at all to say about this film. Maybe Fleischer should stick to comedy, as his previous movie Zombieland (2009), I actually really enjoyed. But if you want a more powerful, honest and dramatic depiction of Mickey Cohen, check out the first five minutes of L.A. Confidential instead.


Directed by: Ruben Fleischer
Starring: Josh Brolin, Ryan Gosling, Sean Penn, Emma Stone, Giovanni Ribisi, Anthony Mackie, Robert Patrick, Michael Peña, Nick Nolte
Country: USA

Rating: **

Tom Gillespie

Review #629: 'I Vitelloni' (1953)

Unjustly put into the back-seat of Federico Fellini's extraordinary career, I Vitelloni is a relatively simplistic tale of 30-something slackers in a small 1950's Italian town. While it doesn't stand out against works such as La Dolce Vita (1960) or 8 1/2 (1963), this shows a different side to Fellini's famous circus-tent approach, engaging Neo-Realist sensibilities to form a rather bleak, but nonetheless amusing autobiographical film. While Amarcord (1973) was a more straight-forward depiction of Fellini's childhood memories, I Vitelloni seems to be based on people he has observed, possibly while growing up, who, like him, sought to break out of small-town life. Amarcord was a sweet homage to his hometown, but I Vitelloni shows what this kind of life can do to a generation born to parents of sacrifice.

The Vitelloni (translated as 'the Boys') consist of Moraldo (Franco Interlenghi), a quiet, observant young man; Fausto (Franco Fabrizi), a handsome playboy; Alberto (Alberto Sordi), a daydreamer unhappy at his sister's affair with a married man; and Leopoldo (Leopoldo Trieste), the writer who harbours dreams of writing critically-adored plays. After Fausto gets Moraldo's sister Sandra (Leonora Ruffo) pregnant, he thinks about skipping town, but is talked out of it. He instead married Sandra, but continues to pursue women, whether they're single or taken, or even if they're married to his boss. With carnival approaching, we witness the group try their best to do as little as possible. They all dream of escaping the town, but do nothing to help it. Instead, they drink, gamble and chase women.

Fellini doesn't have disdain for these characters, but shows them for what they are. They see their parents and grandparents, old and seemingly miserable, and see what their sacrifice has brought them. So, naturally, they rebel. Fausto is undoubtedly a loathsome character, even going as far as leaving a cinema half-way through a movie, where he is with his wife, to chase a beautiful woman. But for all his flaws, he still manages to gather sympathy. It seems like he simply cannot stop, locked into a life in which he doesn't belong, but he is solely responsible for. Yet for all his complexities, you can't help but feel relieved when he is given his comeuppance by his father. It's a clever juxtaposition of the generations, and although society will always produce a 'generation X', sometimes a good slap in the face is what is needed.

Although Fellini remains somewhat reserved throughout the majority of the film, choosing a still, controlled camera, he breaks out of the neo-Realism approach about half-way through for a scene in which carnival comes to town, with the sound of a lonesome drunken trumpet player running in a circle bellowing in an abandoned dance hall, as the catatonic Alberto staggers outside. It's the style that he would explode with in later years, as giant paper-mache heads poke out amongst sweaty party-goers. It helps counteract the seriousness of the movie's themes, perhaps even subtly elevating it, but it's the film's touching final sentiment that will stay with you, as a train carries one of the Vitelloni out of the town. Whether he will be back, or whether it will finally allow him to be happy we don't know, and that's a tragic statement if there ever was one.


Directed by: Federico Fellini
Starring: Franco Interlenghi, Franco Fabrizi, Alberto Sordi, Leopoldo Trieste
Country: Italy/France

Rating: ****

Tom Gillespie

Review #628: 'Black Sabbath' (1963)

Fresh off the international success of his credited début, Black Sunday (1960), Italian horror icon Mario Bava was brought in to to direct this trio of horror tales. Opening with a tongue-in-cheek introduction from genre legend Boris Karloff, in which he stands amidst a bright orange and blue landscape, Black Sabbath delves into three unrelated stories, all of which seem to employ a different aspect of the horror genre. Typical with anthology films, the stories also vary in quality, which may have led to them being shuffled around and even altered with the American version (which also omitted Karloff's introduction), but this is a review for the original Italian version, which begins with the giallo 'The Telephone'.

Rosy (Michele Mercier) is a high-class call-girl in Paris, who gets home one night to be plagued with threatening phone calls by a man claiming to be watching everything she does. Believing it to be her former pimp Frank (Milo Quesada) who has just escaped from prison, Rosy confides in her lesbian lover Mary (Lidia Alfonsi). The Telephone is certainly the weakest of the trio, offering little in the visual department when compared to the other two, but is important due to the fact that it was one of the first giallo's ever made. Bava's patient approach certainly brings tension to the story, but it is relatively simplistic and somewhat predictable.

The central piece, The Wurdalak, is the finest (and longest) segment in the film, with a story so rooted in gothic, fairytale ideals, that Bava goes to town with it. Set in 19th century Russia, Vladimir (Mark Damon) comes across a headless corpse with a knife in its back. He takes the lavishly decorated blade and rides on, eventually coming to a small cottage. On the wall of the cottage is a set of swords with a vacant space that matches the shape of the one Vladimir pulled from the corpse. Giorgio (Glauco Onorato) explains that the knife belongs to his father, who has been missing for five days in the hunt for the deadly outlaw - and suspected Wurdalak - Ali Beg. The father, Gorca (Karloff), arrives home, carrying the head of Beg, but his increasingly erratic behaviour cause the family to believe that he himself is now a Wurdalak.

Similar to Black Sunday, The Wurdalak is rooted in gothic and fairytale sensibilities, so Bava is naturally at home. But this isn't shot in the black-and-white of Sunday, but in full lavish colour, and Bava injects some truly beautiful moments into this story, especially the night-time horse ride with Karloff as he laughs manically after having kidnapped his grandson. Also similar to Sunday, the creature of the Wurdalak is as ominous as Sunday's 'vampires', but that is beside the point. This is seeped in atmosphere and anchored by a terrific performance from Karloff, one of the finest of his career.

The final film, The Drop of Water, features one of a precious few moments in cinema that have genuinely terrified me. English nurse Helen (Jacqueline Pierreux) is called out to a house to dispose of the body of an elderly lady. While dressing the body, she notices a sapphire ring on her finger which she steals, and is suddenly plagued by a buzzing fly. When she gets back to her apartment, Helen notices the fly again, and the old woman's corpse starts appearing to her. This is again a very basic concept that follows the traditions of a standard ghost story, and it is the face of the corpse that will stay in your memory. Twisted with death, whoever created the prosthetics deserves a medal for creating one of the most genuinely unsettling moments in horror history.

The Drop of Water also continues The Wurdalak's beautiful visuals, employing red and blues in places where they don't belong, but instead blurring the reality of the proceedings and creating a kind of warped insight into Helen's torment. It's the visuals that will no doubt stay with you after watching Black Sabbath, but Bava injects a moment of pure madness with his final scene. Apparently he was told by Italian producers to end on a happy note, but what drove Bava to film what he did is beyond me. I won't ruin it for those who haven't seen it, but personally, I liked it, as it cements Bava's reputation as a true visionary and gives us an insight into the man's sense of humour. Whether you love it or hate it, you can't say you saw it coming. All in all, one of the most beautiful horror films ever made.


Directed by: Mario Bava
Starring: Michéle Mercier, Lidia Alfonsi, Boris Karloff, Mark Damon, Jacqueline Pierreux
Country: Italy/UK/France

Rating: ****

Tom Gillespie

Review #627: 'Zero Dark Thirty' (2012)

The title Zero Dark Thirty, referring in military-speak to the 12:30 am time in which American forces broke into a compound in Abbottabad and killed Osama bin Laden, is suitably apt for a film that puts procedural above all else. It's the lack of emotion and absence of any real identifiable character development that makes Kathryn Bigelow's thriller all the more absorbing, rushing from shouty suits in offices to dusty interrogation rooms, refusing to skip any details that led to the death of America's greatest ever enemy. Unless you've been locked in a basement for the past two or so years, you will be well aware of what happens at the climax, but it's what led to the news story that is so interesting, given that the events have been relatively hidden or unknown to the public.

Young, green CIA officer Maya (Jessica Chastain) arrives in Pakistan, assigned to work with fellow officer Dan (Jason Clarke), who is in the middle of an interrogation with Ammar al-Baluchi, a suspect in the 9/11 attacks. After days (possibly weeks) of waterboarding and humiliation, al-Baluchi gives up the name of Abu Ahmed, who he identifies as bin Laden's personal courier. When Dan is reassigned and with the practise of torture becoming political taboo, Maya finds herself working on hunches and scraps trying to track down the mysterious Abu Ahmed, who many claim to be dead. But after a fellow analyst finds new information, Maya is led to a large compound in Pakistan, and prepares for a Navy SEAL-led infiltration.

For such a cold film, there is always the danger of losing the audience in the sheer frankness of it all. The saving grace is undoubtedly Chastain, Oscar-nominated for her steely portrayal of a woman whose obsession borders on dangerous. She shows relatively little emotion, even when exposed to Dan's brutal torture routines, and the film rarely shows her out of her work-place. There is no man in her life, thankfully, and will gladly step over someone if she thought it would bring her closer to her target. But, like Jeremy Renner's William James in The Hurt Locker (2009), she is the perfect tool for the job. Not necessarily likeable, but fit for her purpose. She is a modern action hero, using words and persistence over machine guns and body paint.

Like the work of Paul Greengrass, Bigelow manages to make an action thriller routed in reality, making as much out of a phone call as a gun fight. And it's the interactions of the hierarchy and the political manoeuvring that keep the film moving, highlighting the possible repercussions, politically, socially and ethically, of every minute decision. But when the real action does come, it doesn't disappoint, as a team of grunts (amongst them Joel Edgerton and Chris Pratt) storm bin Laden's compound in almost permanent night-vision mode. It's captured in all it's confusion, as unsuspecting heads pop out of doors and bullets are fired at unseen targets. The film could have been a sickening exercise in puffy-chested patriotism, but in Bigelow's - and screenwriter Mark Boal's - hands, it is thorough and intelligent, harking back to the 1970's when topical film-making was still important.


Directed by: Kathryn Bigelow
Starring: Jessica Chastain, Jason Clarke, Kyle Chandler, Jennifer Ehle, Mark Strong, Joel Edgerton, James Gandolfini
Country: USA

Rating: ****

Tom Gillespie

Review #626: 'Killing Them Softly' (2012)

Teaming up for the second time after 2007's masterpiece The Assassination of Jessie James by the Coward Robert Ford, director Andrew Dominik and star/co-producer Brad Pitt bring us another beautifully bleak piece of cinema with Killing Me Softly. Like Jessie James, Softly is very much a mood piece, full of astonishing imagery that speaks as much about its characters as the actors themselves. But where Jessie James was gripping and wholly absorbing over its 160+ minute running-time, Softly is ultimately quite dull at just 97 minutes, playing with an interesting economic subtext alongside a rather straight-forward crime story, full of characters seen many times before and even played by the same actors.

Two small-time crooks, Frankie (Scoot McNairy) and Russell (Ben Mendelsohn), are drafted in by a gangster known as the Squirrel (Vincent Curatola - The Sopranos' Johnny Sack) to rob a mob card game ran by Markie (Ray Liotta). Markie had robbed his own game in the past and later admitted to it, but was given a pass due to his likeability, and the Squirrel feels he will inevitably get the blame this time. The robbery is a success and Frankie and Russell go to ground, so the mob ask the mysterious Driver (Richard Jenkins) to bring in hired killer Jackie Cogan (Pitt) to find and kill the culprits, only Jackie likes to 'kill them softly' from afar, and realising he knows one of the targets, brings in over-the-hill trigger-man Mickey (James Gandolfini) to help.

With only one female character of note appearing in the film for the duration of about a minute, Killing Me Softly is very male-orientated, featuring a lot of hard men talking in rooms smoking cigarettes and getting down to business. This would be all well and good if the plot threw in any elements of surprise, but the film moves on with an almost resigned inevitability towards a rather straight-forward climax. But this is a film that strives for more than a bunch of criminals whacking each other - that is clear from the repetitive news coverage of the Obama-McCain presidential campaign (the film is set in post-Katrina New Orleans in 2008) - but it tries to hammer the point home. The big joke is that economic hardships even effect those who steal for a living (the robbery causes an imbalance within the criminal economy), but the point is not made with any subtlety - surprising given the care Dominik gave to Jessie James.

All that said, the film still has plenty going for it. The cast are superb, with Gandolfini stealing the film with a relatively small role yet again, as the boozy, sex-obsessed hitman who may have been something in his day, but has become a sad man full of self-loathing due to an unhappy marriage. Mendelsohn impresses as well as a junkie who makes his money from stealing dogs and selling them for profit. But the plaudits must go to cinematographer Greig Fraser, who injects a steely 70's feel to a film set mostly at night, and throws in a moment of ultra slo-mo when an unfortunate character gets riddled with bullets in his car, that is as beautiful as it is ugly. However, these plus-points do not manage to save the film from being a huge disappointment given the talent involved, and with a more interesting plot and less spoon-feeding of its social message, could have been outstanding.


Directed by: Andrew Dominik
Starring: Brad Pitt, Scoot McNairy, Ben Mendelsohn, Richard Jenkins, James Gandolfini, Ray Liotta
Country: USA

Rating: ***

Tom Gillespie

Review #625: 'Before the Revolution' (1964)

After his début, The Grim Reaper (1962), the then 22-year old Bernardo Bertolucci made this, Before the Revolution, an often astonishing homage to the ongoing French New Wave movement and a work of almost unbelievable maturity given his age. Set very much after the revolution, presumably referring to the Italian unification, this is undoubtedly a bleak film, looking back on Italy's history with blind, fond nostalgia, and staring into the abyss of their future. Despite the occasional Marxist monologue, the film is in no ways political, and instead focuses on very human drama, with characters seemingly locked into their social roles and resigned to their fate.

The handsome and idealistic Fabrizio (Francesco Barilli) is destined to marry his childhood sweetheart Clelia (Cristina Pariset), a beautiful woman teetering on aristocracy. After his friend Agostino (Allen Midgette) drowns in a possible suicide, he falls headlong into a potentially dangerous love affair with his aunt Gina (Adriana Asti). Gina is unpredictable, highly emotional and possibly borderline mentally ill, but she is also attractive, seductive and wilful, challenging for the sullen Fabrizio. The death of Agostino clearly damages the passionate Fabrizio, whose studies of Marxism with his teacher and friend Cesare (Morando Morandini) had made him outspoken, but now finds himself blindly wandering into the bourgeoisie.

The film doesn't really have a plot as such, but is instead a collection of scenes and interplays that channel Bertolucci's somewhat pessimistic views of Italy in the 1960's. The characters seem locked in the past, a past that they weren't alive for, and as Fabrizio states, full of nostalgia for the present, as if every passing moment is somehow being snatched away from them. It's best summarised in what is undoubtedly the stand-out scene in the movie, as they visit Puck (Cecrope Barilli), a man crippled with so much debt that he is soon to lose his beloved land. While the camera stays calm and graceful throughout the film, Puck laments as the camera sweeps into their air over rivers and forests, Ennio Morricone's astounding score blaring over the visuals. It's a beautiful moment, full of sad longing that reminded me of Sam the Lion's moving monologue in The Last Picture Show (1971) - one of favourite moments in cinema.

Although this is clearly a wink to Godard and the French New Wave, Bertolucci takes a much more controlled approach to the direction. The camera often glides slowly from side to side, switching character focus as they talk, filmed in crisp black-and-white. It was this approach that caused Godard to voice his displeasure at Bertolucci after viewing his masterpiece The Conformist (1970), claiming it to be too contrived. But cinema can be anything and everything you want it to be, and this makes for beautiful cinema, anchored by a powerful performance by Asti, who makes any possible taboo regarding her incestuous relationship with her nephew become redundant. This is much more than a simple love story, this is a film about a country, it's past and present.


Directed by: Bernardo Bertolucci
Starring: Adriana Asti, Francesco Barilli, Morando Morandini
Country: Italy

Rating: ****

Tom Gillespie

Review #624: 'Two Thousand Maniacs!' (1964)

After his successful début, Blood Feast (1963), which introduced cinema audiences to splatter horror, Herschell Gordon Lewis made his redneck horror movie, Two Thousand Manics!. Just a few years later, horror movies set in America's Deep South were all the rage, and are still a popular location for some gruesome slicing and dicing (Tucker and Dale Vs. Evil (2010) made fun of the racial stereotyping), so perhaps we have this film to thank for the likes of The Texas Chain Saw Massacre (1974) and Deliverance (1972). And Lewis goes all out, with Dixie flags aplenty and thick-accented inbred simpletons in dungarees, in what is a noticeable improvement on his ropey début.

Celebrating their centennial, the town of Pleasant Valley welcome six Yankee visitors who unwittingly drive into their celebrations. The town's mayor, Buckman (Jeffrey Allen - who went on to star in a few of Lewis's films), promises them some of that famous Southern hospitality, but with his two retarded henchman, plans to butcher them all to gain vengeance for a massacre committed a hundred years previously in the midst of the American Civil War. Terry Adams (Connie Mason), who has picked up hitch-hiker Tom (William Kerwin) on his way to a 'teacher's conference', notice their fellow Yankees disappearing under strange circumstances and attempt to flee the increasingly bizarre town.

Everything about this film looks more professional than Blood Feast, with a more patient approach taken with the moments of gore, and less atrocious editing and camerawork. Don't get me wrong though, the Lewis tropes are there - mannequin limbs, dodgy sound editing, paint-red gore, but it just seems that little bit better. It's still a dreadful film, with Feast's block-headed cheeseball William Kerwin - who actually had a pretty successful acting career - returning for more ham-fisted dialogue delivery, and elongated moments of tedium, but it's still quite fun. The gore is certainly better handled, with everything from dismemberment-by-horse and being pushed down a hill in a barrel full of nails being use to satisfy the blood lust. Which makes it all the more strange that Lewis seemed to retreat back into complete ineptitude after this, with his next film, Color Me Blood Red (1965) being the worst of his 'Blood Trilogy', and the long line of nudie cuties and Z-grade horror films that followed. Still, it's a must-see for horror fans.


Directed by: Herschell Gordon Lewis
Starring: Connie Mason, William Kerwin, Jeffrey Allen
Country: USA

Rating: **

Tom Gillespie

Review #623: 'West of Memphis' (2012)

The 'West Memphis 3' were first brought to my attention back in 2007/2008 when I viewed the astonishingly eye-opening documentary Paradise Lost: The Child Murders at Robin Hood Hills (1996), which I watched back-to-back with its sequel Revelations: Paradise Lost 2 (2000). The case was so fascinating due to its unbelievable revelations of the flaws in the American justice system that I was more than happy to spend over 5 enthralling hours of my night watching it unravel. Those films brought mass attention to the case, due to the fact that the three accused - Damien Wayne Echols, Jason Baldwin and Jessie Misskelley - were so blatantly innocent of this terrible crime. I assumed justice would prevail, and it soon left my mind. So it was shocking to learn upon the release of the third instalment of the trilogy, Paradise Lost 3: Purgatory (2011), and this, West of Memphis, that these three were still in prison, 19 years after the murders, with everything from mere bureaucracy and political motivations standing in their, and thousands of others, way.

For those unacquainted with the case, back in 1993, the mutilated bodies of three young boys - Christopher Byers, Steven Branch and Michael Moore - were found in a stream in the Robin Hood Hills, West Memphis. With no evidence, prosecutors quickly deemed the murders a result of Satanic ritual, due to (apparently) sexual mutiliation, and sought out any locals known to practise such an art. They were given the names of three youngsters, Echols, Baldwin and Miskelley, who were known to listen to heavy metal music and act much like your typical isolated, 'gothic' teenagers. Through manipulation of the jury, and a trial by media, the three were quickly convicted (again, with no evidence against them, apart from a heavily dubious 'confession' by the borderline mentally retarded Misskelley). They were given life, with Echols possibly facing the death sentence. Interest in the case quickly gathered, due to many aspects not making any sense, and gathered support of musicians such as Metallica, Henry Rollins, Patti Smith, and Eddie Vedder of Pearl Jam. West of Memphis focuses on the fight to free the West Memphis 3, with new evidence gathered and possibly a revelation as to who the killer may actually be.

West of Memphis doesn't spend much time treading the same ground as the Paradise Lost trilogy, and quickly covers the original trial. It consists mainly of original footage, such as the lawyers and investigators funded by supporters of the West Memphis 3 and various celebrities such as the film's producers Peter Jackson and Fran Walsh trying to find fresh evidence in favour of the 3, and footage of the various concerts designed to raise awareness and make money. But where West of Memphis truly invigorates is the alarming case built against Terry Hobbs, stepfather of Steven Branch, who was all but ignored by police in the original investigation. Paradise Lost 2 brought up the possibility of another stepfather, John Mark Byers, being the culprit, but often felt like he was a suspect due to him simply being quite strange, which seems hypocritical considering the West Memphis 3 were convicted for the same reason. But there is strong evidence against Hobbs, such as a violent past, the lack of an alibi during the time of the deaths, and his hair being found within the knot of the shoelaces to which the three boys were hog-tied with.

Above all, West of Memphis is a staunch reminder of the darkness of this case. This was a horrific crime, almost beyond belief (and the sights of the three corpses really hammers this home), and an equally disturbing path of 'justice' that followed. This is a deep, dark stain on the American justice system, where political aspirations, ignorance and outright lying stand in the way of true justice. They do walk free in the end, but not without leaving a bitter taste in the mouth. They had 19 years of their life stolen from them, yet to be free they must plead guilty to a crime everyone knows they did commit. In the eyes of the law, the West Memphis 3 are child murderers, while the real murderer walks free with a clean name. The Paradise Lost films and West of Memphis, if anything, are a testament to the power of film, along with Errol Morris' The Thin Blue Line (1988), which exposed police ineptitude and helped set an innocent man free, but above all else, they are a terrifying and utterly depressing indictment of a country that needs to take a good look at itself.


Directed by: Amy Berg
Starring: Damien Wayne Echols, Jason Baldwin, Jessie Misskelley
Country: New Zealand/USA

Rating: ****

Tom Gillespie

Review #622: 'Amarcord' (1973)

Translated as 'I Remember', the great Italian director Federico Fellini's Amarcord is a series a comedic vignettes that look back at his childhood in a 1930's coastal town. Apart from the intertwining inhabitants, there is nothing thematically or even tonally linking the stories together, much like memory itself. The film takes places over the course of a year, with nothing signifying the passage of time apart from the subtle changes in seasons. Apart from the film's brief focus on the rise of fascism, this is Fellini at his most satirically light, with his usual mocking of the bourgeoisie making way for some amusingly childish humour and some beautifully photographed scenes.

True to Fellini's style, Amarcord is occasionally outrageous and always flamboyant. We see the majority of the film through the eyes of the closest thing there is to a protagonist, the young, rosy-cheeked Titta (Bruno Zanin), and therefore everything in the film feels exaggerated. The sexual aspects especially are often juvenile, but true to the experiences of a young, hormonal man, so when Titta shows off his strength by lifting the large, buxom tobacconist (Maria Antonietta Beluzzi) he so often fantasises about, he is rewarded by having a grope of her ridiculously large breasts in a scene that could have been called Carry on Fellini. There is also the local nymphomaniac Volpina (Josiane Tanzilli), who seems to hover around touching herself and growling hungrily at any man who glances in her direction. These are true Fellini grotesques.

The comedy aside (and special mention must go to the hilarious segment in which Titta's crazy Uncle Teo (Ciccio Ingrassia) comes to stay and escapes into a tree), there are as many touching and profound moments that display Fellini's outstanding talent. The scene in which Titta must watch his mother's final moments on a hospital bed is brutal in its simplicity, with Titta's naivety failing to grasp the seriousness of the situation while his father Aurelio (Armando Brancia) lingers in tragic silence. There's also moments of beauty, namely the arrival of a peacock in the winter snow displaying it's covert feathers, or the sight of a giant ocean liner, seemingly meaningless moments that stuck with Fellini for decades. For me, this is not Fellini's finest moment - that would lie with 8 1/2 (1963), arguably one of the finest films ever made - but this is still one of the most accurate depictions of memory and beautiful ode's to nostalgia I've seen.


Directed by: Federico Fellini
Starring: Armando Brancia, Pupella Maggio, Bruno Zanin, Magali Noël
Country: Italy/France

Rating: *****

Tom Gillespie

Review #621: 'Black Mama, White Mama' (1973)

Going by the title alone, you would be forgiven if you mistook this passable exploitation flick as an entry into the blaxploitation genre. But Black Mama, White Mama combines two sub-genres from the grindhouse circuit - Women in Prison (WiP) and the Filipino action flick. No stranger to the ripe-for-exploiting and dirt-cheap Filipino wilderness, director Eddie Romero employs genre legend Pam Grier (although in 1973 she was only on the cusp of her 70's fame) as the titular black mama, Lee, and pretty, willowy blonde Margaret Markov (who would star with Grier the following year in The Arena) as the white mama, Karen.

The two have just landed in a women's prison in the Philippines. Lee has been locked up for working as a harem girl, and finds herself in debt to gangster Vic Cheng (Vic Diaz). Karen is a revolutionary, working for Che Guevara-lookalike Ernesto (Zaldy Zshornack), helping to overthrow the corrupt Filippino government. After some early problems with a sadistic lesbian warden and being locked naked (obviously) in a hot box, Lee and Karen manage to escape after their transportation is attacked by Karen's revolutionary friends. But army reinforcements headed by the desperate Captain Cruz (Eddie Garcia) intervene and Lee and Karen find themselves on foot shackled at the wrist. Cruz is forced to turn to notorious cowboy criminal Ruben (Sid Haig) for assistance in locating the convicts, but Cheng's men are never far behind.

If it sounds like there's a lot of going on here, that's because there kinda is. About half-way through, the film shifts focus to these three quarrelling groups and away from the sexy action of Grier and Markov. So it becomes a hail of paint-red blood and crappy explosions, rather than the mildly entertaining lesbian and shower scenes of the opening portion, and it's only when Sid Haig shows up that the film is given any character to get on board with (even though he's a bastard). Grier is always good value however, and although she was never the greatest actress - despite her impressive turn in Jackie Brown (1997) - she has a real charisma that led to her become the queen of blaxploitation with films such as Coffy (later the same year) and Foxy Brown (1974). Pretty dull stuff overall, but exploitation fans should certainly give it a go, if not for the opening 20 minutes alone. 

Directed by: Eddie Romero

Starring: Pam Grier, Margaret Markov, Sid Haig, Lynn Borden

Country: USA/Philippines

Rating: **

Tom Gillespie

Review #620: 'Berberian Sound Studio' (2012)

With his second feature, after 2006's Katalin Varga, British director Peter Strickland claimed that he wanted to strip back cinema and make everything that is usually unseen on film, such as the mechanics of cinema itself, visible. So, with Berberian Sound Studio, a film that seems to have unjustly flown under the radar, Strickland has made a horror film with no horror. Like classics The Conversation (1974) and Blow Out (1981), the study of sound opens a gateway into it's protagonist's increasingly unstable mind. But there is no murder or mystery to be solved, just a gentle Brit abroad in a lonely, dark editing suite in Italy in the 1970's.

Gilderoy (Toby Jones) is a master of sound editing, or so Santini (Antonio Mancino), the director of a new Italian giallo film, says. Santini has brought him in to dub and add the sound effects for his new masterpiece, The Equestrian Vortex, and Gilderoy reluctantly agrees, even though some of the staff are less than welcoming, and his mild-mannered sensibilities oppose the blood, guts and sex of the film he's helping to create. He struggles to get his plane ticket refunded, and Francesco (Cosimo Fusco), the apparent second-in-command, becomes increasingly hostile to Gilderoy and the various 'scream queens'. Nevertheless, Gilderoy carries on, but finds his world becoming more disjointed and his sanity questionable.

As well as a homage to giallos, which are perhaps more popular now than they have ever been with some highly polished home media releases, Berberian Sound Studio is a homage to cinema itself. It's a minor celebration of the mechanics of cinema that are largely ignored by the audience, but can be the element that makes a film what it is. Here, we see melons being hacked with a cleaver, various fruits and vegetables stabbed, beaten and tossed away. We aren't seeing any violence, but we may as well be watching a skull being bludgeoned, or a woman having her guts spilled onto the floor. We are indeed watching the film that Santini is making, but in its most primal stage. When the camera pans over the discarded basket of fruit remains, it's like looking at a corpse.

Anybody who enjoys the work of Argento or those countless giallos with outlandishly long titles and gorgeous Italian women, will be in their element here. This is far from being a giallo, but the film is peppered with homages to the genre, with glimpses of wire being wrapped around a closed fist and tightened, a stranger who is never seen wearing black gloves, and an appearance from Suzy Kendall, star of genre classics The Bird With the Crystal Plumage (1970) and Torso (1973). We also glimpse the soundsheets, which offer ridiculous descriptions involving witches and murders that are as hilarious as they are spot-on. There isn't a murder to speak of, but there doesn't need to be.

The film plays with you in every way it can think of, be it sudden bursts of high-pitched screams followed by the flashing red light stating 'Silenzio', or an elongated scene where you feel like nothing is happening, but actually a lot is happening. It's at it's best when it's subtle, mirrored by Toby Jones' wonderfully understated performance. Which makes it disappointing that, come the climax, the film goes all out David Lynch-weird, dubbing Gilderoy into Italian as he watches himself on screen, edited into one of his own countryside documentaries. It's a flashy moment that almost becomes avant garde, threatening the calm, creeping mystery that came before. Still, this doesn't stop Berberian Sound Studio from being one of the finest films of 2012.


Directed by: Peter Strickland
Starring: Toby Jones, Cosimo Fusco, Tonia Sotiropoulou
Country: UK

Rating: ****

Tom Gillespie