TIFF 2008: THE SKY CRAWLERS

THE SKY CRAWLERS (SUKAI KURORA)
(Japan, 2008)
Directed by:Mamoru Oshii
Written by: Chihiro Itō
Voice Cast: Rinko Kikuchi, Chiaki Kuriyama, Shosuke Tanihara, Ryo Kase

Produced by the renowned Tokyo animation house Production I.G.--perhaps best known to North American audiences for the epic Ghost In The Shell series and the animated sequences in Kill Bill--The Sky Crawlers stands out against the glut of anime not so much for its visual invention, but for its quiet, contemplative pacing and ambitious mixture of genres.

In a futuristic world where war has been eradicated, the human hunger for bloodshed remains, and is sated by mock conflicts staged as entertainment. Two different "companies"--Rostock and Lautern--have been engaged in a long-running campaign without any apparent political or social motivation. Born into battle are a unique race of humanoids called Kildren, adolescents who do not age past their teen years and would otherwise live forever if they were not inevitably killed in combat. In the opening skirmish, a young pilot engages a superior foe whose plane is marked with a black panther insignia.

Yuichi Kannami lands at Urisu base to report for duty as a fighter pilot. He soon makes friends with Suito Kusanagi, the airbase commander and also a Kildren, who feels they've been destined to meet for quite some time. But all Yuichi can remember of his past is that he's an expert flyer. Although he is denied his request to meet his predecessor, oddly, Yuichi is assigned his plane. Even the mysterious pilot's friends and lover (a prostitute) can't determine whether he's alive or dead.

Yuichi befriends his fellow pilots and they become close during their candid meets in and out of the barracks, including a local diner and even a brothel (!), even though what he really wants it to get closer to Kusanagi. Eventually Kusanagi admits that she killed the pilot he's been drafted to replace, in order to free her former lover from the cruel cycle of meaningless violence. The other pilot, bearing the black panther logo, left her company to join his rivals with the promise that he could become an adult. Aware of Yuichi's skills, she pleads for him to kill her in battle and free her, too. But he cannot.

The stakes of the game eventually find Yuichi taking the skies against the black panther, now an "adult man" who proves to be almost supernaturally unstoppable. His moment of truth arrives just as he he becomes aware of the lies behind the sport and his love for Kusanagi. But if his skills and aircraft fail him, another pilot will surely be on the way....

Oshii takes an oft-mined Rollerball/The Running Man scenario and plays up the existential ennui with expansive vistas and ambient soundscapes that threaten to suffocate the diminutive characters as they wait out their doomed lives--there's as much Malick in play here at there is Miyazaki.

Like the replicants of Blade Runner, the Kildren were initially bred for mankind's benefit but eventually developed human emotions and an awareness of their mortality. They're a lot less violently "proactive" than the likes of Roy Batty and Pris--rather, they're a mopey, melancholy lot, prone to longing gazes and hushed conversations punctuated with even longer silences. Their simple cel-shaded renderings make them seem a lot like anemic androgynes sporting identical faces and emo hair cuts--thankfully, the retro costumes handily preserve "his" and "hers" accoutrements to help tell some of the characters apart.

The aircraft design is inspired and convincing, like Bruce McCall versions of vintage WW2 Spitfires and Corsairs. They're showcased in a series of pulse-pounding dogfights that burst off the screen with gut-wrenching 3D choreography and impressive photorealism. The theme here is as schizo as the imagery: the whammo factor, for some, will seem an odd fit with the obvious social commentary at the heart of its admittedly timely premise--children bred for warfare, flag-waving propaganda copped from classic Hollywood war films, European imperialism has gone awry, and videogaming's clean violence without consequence. And yet the tone is too prosaic to express any real outrage.

But the pretty pictures and sheer oddness of it all will keep anime enthusiasts and euchronie readers engrossed for its lengthy, 2-hour-plus running time.

Sony Pictures will distribute the film in North America and will reportedly submit The Sky Crawlers as their entry for Best Animated Feature consideration for 2009's Academy Awards.

©2008 Robert J. Lewis

TIFF 2008: THE DUNGEON MASTERS

THE DUNGEON MASTERS
(USA 2008)
Directed by: Keven McAlester
Cast: Scott Corum, Richard Meeks, Elizabeth Reesman

In the fall of 1982, my friends and I were dealt our own Night That Panicked America that shook our god-fearing, Ottawa Valley hamlet. CBS premiered an otherwise unremarkable TV movie entitled Mazes and Monsters that paired Meatballs star Chris Makepeace opposite a then-largely-unknown Tom Hanks. Based on a novel by Rona Joffe (and shot in Canada, with a musical score by Hagood Hardy!), it was a dramatization of the events surrounding the disappearance of Michigan university student James Dallas Egbert III, whose mind was apparently destroyed by his obsession with the insidious social menace of the day: role-playing games--specifically, Dungeons and Dragons.

While overwrought and heavily fictionalized (the case's investigator disproved most of Joffe's account, blaming the youth's problems on drug addiction and homosexual intolerance), it didn't matter: the sentiment drove home with the usual reactionary parental and religious groups looking for an easy blame for society's ills. All role-playing games were immediately banned in my high school, (even my favorite, Car Wars!) and "D&D" became a perjorative only slightly less prestigious than "slasher flick" and "heavy metal". Of course, typical of such media circuses, the controversy didn't hamper TSR's sales in the least--D&D sales reportedly quadrupled within a year of the film's broadcast!

While I was a serious sci-fi and comics buff, I was never a disciple of role-playing games...their slow pace bored me silly, their concepts smacked of a third-rate Terry Brooks novel, and I couldn't stick within the rules--why couldn't my cleric just pull out a sword and decapitate everyone? If this was indeed "role playing", then why couldn't I do what I wanted? Besides, I was too hooked on Robotron and Defender...

...which brings me to this age of Jack Thompson's specious, reactionary crusades against Rockstar Games (echoed, unfortunately, by persons who-should-know-better like Hilary Clinton) and the surfeit of "studies" linking videogames with everything to childhood obesity to youth crime . Compared to the outcry over "Hot Coffee", preaching the evils of role playing games, which usually involves bunch of aging geeks tossing six-side die and scribbling over character sheets while hopped up on Diet Coke and Pizza Pockets, seems about as absurd as the Frederic Wertham trials.

Filmmaker Keven McAlester's engaging documentary The Dungeon Masters (the film's title echoes the name of the book by the investigator of Egbert III's tragedy) explores the current state of role-playing games--yes, people actually still play them--by following three devotees who are well into adulthood and whose mundane lives are both enlivened and arrested by their committed fandom.

The subjects, at first glance, embody the stereotypical image of an aging sci-fi geek who's spent a little too much time under convention hall flourescents getting acquainted with spirit gum and Joe Louis cakes, but beneath their respective defensive bravado are more complex individuals. There's more than a little bit of The Simpson's smug "Comic Book Guy" in slovenly Scott, an unemployed hypnotherapist who lives in a rat's nest apartment in California where his wife toils as the building's custodian and mother to their infant son while he plods away on a fantasy novel and assorted filmmaking efforts. His cable access series Uncle Drac’s Magical Clubhouse (check out a clip here) has won him local cult status but his treatment for an epic fantasy novel has him courted by a major fantasy publisher until his meddlesome agent costs him the deal.

In Louisiana, computer programmer Elizabeth has endured a series of bad jobs and an abusive marriage, retreats into her alter ego as a "Drow elf", right down to ash-hued makeup and pointed ears. In the elfin society, women wield the power and can have men executed. Surviving Hurricane Katrina, she begins a new relationship with a fellow male "Drow" (love means never having to hide the greasepaint) and aspires to steady employment in a "corporate" job until circumstances find her single again.

Middle-aged Richard freefalls through life in Florida as a motivational speaker, nudist, U.S. army reservist, and dungeon master-for-hire as he seeks to reconnect with an adult stepson in the military whom he abandoned as a child, and ultimately, renounces the fantasy realm to re-embrace his Jewish faith.

It's Richard's story that is the most bittersweet, but I suppose if I related to any one character more than another, it would be Scott, who clearly has talent but whose impatience and fractured work habits have cost him the creative path he'd prefer to emulate than simply follow as a dutiful fan (although I am thinner and have managed to forge a profitable, if not exactly illustrious, living as an artist). By virtue of Elizabeth's comparative youth (she's only 23), she has time to mature and develop (I hope!) a better taste in partners.

Documentaries about obscure subcultures, esp. those with boomer/Gen-X cache, are nothing new these days--witness the recent sensation King Of Kong: A Fistful Of Quarters and the glut of reality TV that sets up its vain, washed-up subjects for ridicule. But rather than do the obvious and chide the subjects for their extended adolescence and self-denial (and kudos to Scott, Richard, and Elizabeth for placing so much trust in the filmmakers), McAlester structures each of their tales as something of a personal, heroic journey, with dramatic pay-offs that shrewdly suggest that their fervid imaginations and obvious (if misguided) intellects are as empowering as they could be deemed imprisoning.

A former music video director and video artist, McAlester has an eye for composition that's complemented by the work of Richard Linklater's DOP Lee Daniel (whose distinctive work on Slacker and Dazed And Confused was good prep for these subjects and locales), and a playful, evocative score by Blond Redhead.

If I found the film lacking in one aspect, it's that I wouldn't have minded some screen time with D&D creators Gary Gygax and Dave Arneson who likely could have never foreseen the phenomena they created as a series of fanzines back in 1974, or perhaps author Steven Johnson, whose book Everything Bad Is Good For You dares to take the contrarian view and praises marginalized media (like role-playing games) for their unique, even beneficial, developmental and cognitative strengths.

©2008 Robert J. Lewis

TIFF 2008: THE WRESTLER

THE WRESTLER
(USA, 2008)
Written by: Robert D. Siegel
Directed by: Darren Aronofsky
Cast: Mickey Rourke, Marisa Tomei, Evan Rachel Wood, Mark Margolis, Judah Friedlander

There's a terrific scene in Darren Aronofsky's The Wrestler in which Mickey Rourke, as Randy "The Ram" Robinson, is assigned to deli counter duty at the supermarket where he works stocking shelves. Even with his thinning Vince Neil locks under a hair net, he works the room like a champion huckster--charming the ladies, patiently doting on an indecisive old biddie, chucking "long bombs" to the guys. Years in the ring (along with too much booze, drugs, and steroids) have eroded Robinson's physique and his health, but not his capacity to excite a crowd. It makes you realize how much you've missed that Mickey Rourke--the Reagan era's once magnetic heir to Brando and Pacino until he blew his ride on an ego-fueled bender that had him plummeting from one bad career choice to another...

The Wrestler is being trumpeted as a comeback not only for Rourke, but also for the director himself. I’m not sure why—since his debut with the homemade mathematics oddity Pi a decade ago, Aronofsky hasn’t been the most prolific filmmaker, but he’s been busy, mostly with efforts that have hit a variety of detours. After the innovative and acclaimed Hubert Selby adaptation Requiem For A Dream, he announced his "Batman: Year One" project, which became Nolan’s reboot. Then, he took a kick at Watchmen, before being usurped by Paul Greengrass, who was usurped by Zach Snyder. Then, of course, there was the first incarnation of The Fountain, which saw its production halted, sets dismantled in Australia, and megamillions wasted when headliner Brad Pitt left the production.

Somewhere along the line, he campaigned to direct an episode of Lost. The one pursuit that wasn't in vain was his engagement to actress Rachel Weisz, with whom he eventually made The Fountain opposite Hugh Jackman.

Perhaps, then, the comparatively uncluttered dramatics and kitchen sink milieu of The Wrestler appealed to a filmmaker usually consumed with--and probably exhausted by--big themes and grand visions that would've taxed Kubrick. It's the first film Aronofsky hasn't had a part in writing himself (the screenplay is by Robert D. Siegel), but thematically, it's a fit: it's another tale of a marginilized obsessive consumed by his addiction.

Randy Robinson--born Robin Ramzinksi--works weekdays at a New Jersey supermarket and spend his weekends on the regional wrestling circuit, struggling through matches in school gyms and low-rent venues for a percentage of the door and a reminder of his former glory. Back in the 80s, he was the subject of compilation videos, a WWF video game, and even spawned his own action figure. Well into middle-age now, he pumps his battered body with steroids and can barely take the blows he choreographs with the young bucks hoping for a shot at his former stardom. Once in a while he persuades one of the kids in the trailer park to take him on in a round of Nintendo, but they're not impressed by their neighbour in 8-bit mode. His truck radio blares the hits of Cinderella and Ratt--from cassette tapes, no less.

When he suffers a heart attack after a fight, Randy takes stock of his life and attempts to woo the stripper with whom he's spent too much money and many platonic nights: Cassidy (Tomei) is also well-past forty and a single mom, and welcomes Randy's sincere, if aggressive, attentions and protection from the college rabble. He also seeks to reconnect with his estranged daughter (Stephanie), now college-age but still harbouring heartbreak over his absence. He follows her home and offers a gift--a hideous jacket he's picked out (despite Cassidy's protests)--and after a bitter, cathartic exchange, Stephanie agrees to meet her father for dinner. But he never shows up--he misses the date for a last minute match and a drunken tryst with some groupies. Randy tortures himself over his stupidity--but the ring and whatever-passes-for-an-adoring-crowd are an addiction that clouds his better judgement.

Then along comes the tempting offer of a twentieth anniversary rematch against The Ayatollah, with whom he once clashed at Maple Leaf Gardens. While Randy has been warned another fight could kill him, this could be his legacy for Cassidy, Stephanie, and his fans...

The Wrestler in many ways is another straightforward palooka melodrama ala The Champ and of course, Rocky. But it's a unique environment for a sports movie: not the Vince McMahon Pay-Per-View spectacles merchandised out the wazoo, but the low-rent rasslin' I saw on TV as a kid, when beefy, unbuff galoots would knick their skulls with razor blades so the wounds would open during the match and the blood would splatter the old ladies in the front row.

Siegel and Aronofsky stage some absorbing "fly on the wall" moments with the fighters backstage, many of whom discuss their craft with the seriousness and devotion of Cirque Du Soleil acrobats and the extremes to what they'll put themselves through to entertain even a spottily-attended house--metal chairs, broken glass, barbed wire, and then there's the staple gun--earned my begrudging respect.

Rourke invests the role with a commitment that rightly has been drawing parallels to DeNiro’s Jake LaMotta in Raging Bull but with nary a trace of New York-honed "method"--rather, the performance brims with authenticity that could only come from having lived a life not too far removed from the one imagined onscreen. Aronofsky delays showing us his face (the first few scenes play out terrifingly like a body slam version of Gus Van Sandt's Elephant) but after the opening credits that chronicle Randy's--and Rourke's--once haughty starpower, it's a shock when we finally see him revealed as a shambling, leathery, peroxided hulk to whom even the most minor physical movement seems to sear him with pain . For me, it harkened back to his nuanced performance as Johnny Handsome from Walter Hill's underrated 1988 crime drama, as a man whose soul was fractured than his surface appearance.

Notable, too, is the support from Tomei, on a career resurrection of her own after her strong turn in Sidney Lumet's Before The Devil Knows You're Dead, who brings a defiant dignity to what could've been a hackneyed "hooker with a heart of gold" role (they're clearly made for each other--80s relics both who blame Kurt Cobain for ruining the party).

In his intro, Aronofsky remarked that all one needs to make a good film is "a lens and good performers". And, I'd add, a director as willing to dive off the ropes as his protagonist . Rourke rewards that risk by giving The Wrestler his all--body, and soul...

© Robert J. Lewis 2008

TIFF 2008: BLINDNESS

BLINDNESS
(2008, Canada/Brazil/Japan)
Written by Don McKellar
Directed by Fernando Meirelles
Cast: Julianne Moore, Mark Ruffalo, Gael García Bernal, Alice Braga, Don McKellar, Danny Glover, Yuseke Iseya, Mitchell Nye, Maury Chaykin

Fernando Meirelles' Blindness gradually lacquers its images with a bleached, milky white sheen that suggests a forgotten William Castle process--"Glaucom-A-Rama"? (and a complimentary eye-exam in Coward's Corner?) It's suitable that this allegorical saga of a planet-wide plague of "white sickness" (a sudden loss of vision, but at no risk to one's capacity to brood) eventually becomes hard to discern visually--the pics match the dramatics, adapted from Jose Saramago's much-lauded novel, which have an awful lot to say about The Human Condition, but at the expense of any real sense.

Of course I'm being cheekily cynical here--but then I'm always weary of those important sure-this-has-a-sci-fi-plot-but-it's-not-a-Hollywood-movie efforts that co-opt genre fiction's trappings but feel they're taking the high road by withholding the pulpy pleasures (the powerful Children Of Men excepted, in which its doom-laden drudgery was infused with humanity and urgency, but does the world really need another No Blade Of Grass or The Quiet Earth?). And the history of literary adaptations sporting international ensembles is a spotty one: go back to At Play In The Fields Of The Lord, right on up to Love In The Time Of Cholera. Maybe it's a conspiracy from the beleagured publishing industry, because if you leave this thing utterly stymied, the obvious answer is it's because you didn't read the book. Well, mission accomplished: I'm kinda-sorta of tempted to tackle the novel now, because I found the film's premise intriguing enough to want to try and figure out just what the hell this was all about.

Never have I pined so hard for Rod Serling to step into the final shot, take a drag, and beat me over the head, and tell me what I'm supposed to be feeling.

While hardly the Cimino-esque disaster you might think it is given the Cannes fall-out, the film, while ambitious, is damn frustrating, but not due to a deliberately obtuse/David Lynch-y/Lost Highway surrealist vib--rather, it's maddeningly inert, and illogical, with burdened with random character motivations (from characters who are never named). Although based on a Portugese novel, it's very Canadian (relax, I'm born n' bred here, and have worked on many-a-homegrown production), with its multicultural cast, existential themes, chatty exposition, careful avoidance of American-style spectacle. Think Atom Egoyan's Day Of The Triffids (without the walking plants, obviously), and the scene will be set...

It begins innocuously enough with a traffic jam in an unnamed city. A young Japanese man (Iseya) has suddenly lost his sight while at the wheel. He insists on no hospitals, so a good samaritan drives him home--and then steals his car. The young man's wife comes home, and convinces him to see an eye doctor. The opthamologist (Ruffalo) can find nothing wrong physically--even thought the man describes the condition vividly as a blinding blanket of whiteness--and concludes it's a psychological condition. Until he himself succumbs to the syndrome the next morning, and concludes it's an ocular virus contagious by touch. Soon, more and more citizens become afflicted--the car thief (McKellar), a prostitute (Braga, far less a survivalist than she was in I Am Legend)-- prompting a nation-wide quarantine. When the government disease control squad comes for the the opthamologist, his wife (Moore) fakes the condition so she can go off with him. They're interned in an abandoned mental hospital along with the young Japanese man, the thief, the prostitute, a young boy (Nye), a gentle old man (Glover),and others.

Seemingly forgotten by the outside world, save for periodic food and medicine drops, the inmates learn to navigate around the cramped, filthy interior thanks to Moore's aide. But in a neighbouring ward, a young hothead (Bernal), declares himself kingpin and assumes control of food distribution, which he enforces with random shots of his pistol. Payment is at first taken in the form of cash and jewelry, but when the offerings run out, he demands that the women of Moore's ward provide sexual services or he'll let everyone starve. After days with sustenance, the women comply. But after a single night of brutal rape, Moore leads a revolt and engineers a fiery escape from the hospital, only to find the outside world a horrifying wasteland of squalor and starvation...until...

...that would be telling. Suffice to say that Don McKellar's adaptation seems intent on cramming in too much of the source material--to the point of having to shoehorn in a narrator (Danny Glover's character) at the halfway point. For those who have seen McKellar's charming end-of-the-world elegy Last Night, Blindness is a nihilistic 180 on a similiar scenario. But while attempting to translate the novel's symbolism visually to the screen is a noble pursuit, the literalness of the motion picture medium works against Saramongo's high-falutin' ideas and interior passages. Because everyone else in the cast is so enfeebled, Moore becomes our sighted surrogate, but her characterization is illustrative of the film's many problems.

Moore defies authorities to stand by her man and joins Ruffalo in the asylum, but once there, shrinks away the moment Bernel and his crony Chaykin take control of the ward and food supply. Somehow, this diminutive little cur has smuggled in a handgun and a seemingly endless supply of ammo, which is enough to keep the inmates at bay (a stray bullet is deadly, sure, but his aim is sloppy, so why not chance it?). Moore could've snatched the weapon from this fool's hand in about ten seconds, and yet, she shrinks away and lets him starve the others and rape the women as payment. It takes a woman's death by beating to prompt her to action, but why allow it to happen at all, when she's had the upper hand from the very beginning? Obviously, it's in service of another grand statement, but the film lost me at this point. What's more---all the adult males are either blubbering idiots, government cronies, sage-like patricians, thieves, or violent rapists. So why betray the female empowerment subtext by having Moore suddenly degenerate into a shrinking wallflower, just to serve the plot?

I'm not sure how the blind will react to being portrayed as completely helpless--reduced to clawing at window glass and pawing unopened canned goods like George Romero zombies when not being fed on by wild dogs--surely in this age where so much of the essentials of urban life are carried out through automation, international business is conducted via desktop terminals, and technology developed to assist the visually impaired and the physically challenged (sight restoration thru stem cells having recently been successful in some candidates) there would be many who could continue to live their lives comfortably and even assist in the transition for the newly-afflicted. Had the story been a generation removed from the epidemic, we might buy the fact that the details and the "whys" have been forgotten in favour of immediate, day-to-day survival. But the time-frame here--presumably only a few months--is so compressed that the complete breakdown of society is absurdly quick, leaving ciphers to scavenge where only nameless ciphers once lived before.

While Blindness is handsomely shot by César Charlone (who also photographed Meirelles' far-superior City Of God), I was underwhelmed by the film's non-milky visuals, possibly because after last year's I Am Legend, 28 Weeks Later, and even Wall-E, I've finally become numb to derelict megalopolises, esp. when they seem no worse off after the apocalypse than they did before.

©Robert J. Lewis
2008

TIFF 2008: ZACK & MIRI MAKE A PORNO

ZACK AND MIRI MAKE A PORNO
(USA, 2008)
Written & directed by: Kevin Smith
Cast: Seth Rogen, Elizabeth Banks, Craig Robinson, Brian Halloran, Jason Mewes, Brandon Routh, Traci Lords, Justin Long, Katie Morgan

Before I begin: Kevin, enough with the Star Wars. Look, I'm as big a fan of the Classic Trilogy as anyone of a certain age, but peurile jokes about Princess "Lay-yah" were probably doodled in countless Scribner notebooks well before Empire was released (I know they were in mine...thank goodness for the pre-digital age, where everything lost is justly so...). Hell, you already gave us that hilarious debate over the Rebel Alliance vs. The Empire's independent contractors in Clerks, schtick about Jedi mind tricks in Mallrats, and cast Mark Hamill as a villain (complete with lightsaber) in Jay And Silent Bob Strike Back. Time to move on...have you looked at the box-office receipts for The Clone Wars? The rest of the world (and presumably, much of your fan base) has...

Recycled jokes and moth-ridden pop culture references aren't the only problem with Smith's latest attempt to expand his cinematic horizons--while he was too busy writing unfinished comic book sagas (which I'm still stewing about, obviously) and thesping opposite the likes of Jennifer Garner, Bruce Willis, and the cast of Degrassi: The Next Generation, along came Judd Apatow and his killer brood to declare themselves the new kings of raunch comedy and the Red Band trailer, and make Jay And Silent Bob's stoner schtick seem as dated as an old Cheech N' Chong LP . But committed fans who have lamented Kevin Smith's bold (and after a decade-plus, terribly familiar) statement that he was abandoning the "Askewniverse" for good will breath a sigh of relief (or whatever) at his latest foul-mouthed farce, which true to form, layers on the scatalogical gags and arch dialogue around a soft, sentimental centre.

Twentysomethings Zack (Rogen) and Miri (Banks) are best friends since childhood who share a ramshackle apartment in a blue collar hockey town. While each is bright and good-hearted, neither has set the world on fire, career-wise, with Zack slumming at the counter of a chi-chi coffee shop. Suffice to say, the monthly demands of rent, food, and hydro are taxing, and their platonic relationship doesn't generate much heat to get through the long Pennsylvania winters.

At their miserable 10-year high school reunion, Miri discovers, among other indignities, that she's become the YouTube phenomenon "Granny Pants" thanks to a slacker's cell phone camera, and the happiest alumni (Routh and Long, who almost steal the show) have found notoriety as gay porn stars. Zack gets the idea to exploit her celebrity status as a viral video star for their financial gain, given that their utilities have been turned off and eviction looms. They'll make their own skin flick, he offers, because 1) if everyone's seeing Miri's ass for free on the web, why not get paid for it? and 2) "everybody wants to see everybody else naked, even if it’s two nobodies from the mid-west". Zack pursuades his workmate Delaney (The Office's Robinson) into coughing up some seed money (his tax refund courtesy of Dubya, which he'd planned to blow on a plasma TV), enlist Deacon (Clerks star Anderson) to work the camcorder, and hire a few adult "professionals" for authenticity (Lords, Morgan, and Mewes). Their opus will be entitled "Star Whores", sort of a latter-day Flesh Gordon, with a ready-made audience and lots of sequel potential.

...until the ramshackle building housing their set and equipment gets demolished.

Undaunted, Zack moves the production moves to his employer's digs, and an entirely new scenario is concocted. But Zack and Miri's cavalier friendship is tested as the shooting day of their debut coupling approaches, and Zack grows resentful of Miri's decision to "perform" with another cast member...

(Cripes--"seed money", "shooting day", "member", even "concocted"...somehow, the more I try to verbally dance around the subjects, the more I sound like a hormonal 14-year old...)

By the time the gang moves the production to the coffee shop for an after hours shoot, we're back in Clerks 2 territory, with a scatalogical "backdoor" gag that will replace any lingering trauma of that film's biker dude attempting to mount a goat. I'm not sure why Zack and co. set out to make a "real" porn programmer of the Vivid Video/Jenna Jameson variety, with deliberate bad acting and stagey production values--wouldn't it have been more timely, and accurate to Zack and Miri's demographic, to have gone for a homemade sex tape ala Pamela Anderson and Tommy Lee, Paris Hilton, or (gawd help us) Fred Durst? The laughs are solid, sure, but much of it smacks of discarded scenes from Boogie Nights.

The Monroeville, PA location affords Smith the opportunity to mine some nods to another George..."Romero", with a visit to the infamous Monroeville Mall (the Maceys is still there!), a local hockey team named "The Zombies", even a Tom Savini cameo. But the film owes it successes to the familiar presences of Smith's rep company--acerbic Halloran and the inimitable Mewes, neither stretching here--and the Sid And Marty Kroft-ish charm of the competition's MVP Rogen, who takes some of the preciousness out of Smith's sometimes too-precious verbal melees--although I laughed the loudest at the cameo from another Apatow alumnus, 40 Year Old Virgin's Gerry Bednob, here again required to deliver a hilarious profane diatribe against his slacker staff.

Some years ago, Smith after the epic closing chapter Jay And Silent Bob Strike Back, he attempted a more dramatic venture with Jersey Girl, until any hopes of an image change were squashed by the Bennifer/Gigli fallout, tainting the good-natured effort with a Ben Affleck backlash and forcing him to remove J-Lo's scenes, only to have the film die a quick death. So he was back with Clerks 2, an equally enjoyable-but-unremarkable confection that, for reasons I can't imagine, was awarded an 8-minute standing ovation at Cannes...

Zack And Miri is more spirited and less guarded than Jersey Girl, and has thus far avoided the controversy of his ambitious anti-Catholic romp Dogma, although I'm sure once it's released there will be those bluenoses who will call for its destruction based on the title alone (and despite his past battles with the MPAA, Smith was able to secure an "R" rating for what might be his most gloriously profane screenplay thus far). The inevitable sex scene between the two leads is undeniably sweet and touching (thanks largely to the natural chemistry between the leads, since Smith, by his own admission, isn't much of a director), and the overall tone benign enough to calm those less liberal-minded viewers who only know Lords' work from her John Waters films and Melrose Place appearances.

Unfortunately, the film never recovers from a third act detour into a series of painfully drawn-out relationship spats played out at top volume, to the annoyance of the porno crew, Monroeville's citizens (living and undead), and certainly this viewer. Smith should've studied the competition a bit more closely--the film could've used a lot less Chasing Amy, a little more Leslie Mann and Paul Rudd...

©Robert J. Lewis 2008

TIFF 2008: JCVD

JCVD
(Belgium/Luxemborg/France, 2008)
Written by: Mabrouk El Mechri, Frederic Bendusi, and Christophe Turpin
Directed by: Mabrouk El Mechri
Cast: Jean-Claude Van Damme, Francois Damiens, Saskia Flanders, Karim Belkhadra, Alan Rossett

Jean-Claude Van Damme is just about the last person I ever thought I'd see given the Charlie Kaufman treatment, but in what the programmers have labeled a "discovery year" (read: "What? No Miike?"), here it is and it's the damnedest thing: Mabrouk El Mechri's JCVD has become, incredibly, one of TIFF 2008's most talked-about films, and one of the few Midnight Madness sell-outs in that program's 20 year history. It's also the first Van Damme effort I've sat through top-to-bottom since, well, whatever the last DTV potboiler was in which he played another set of kickboxing twins/clones, and I don't think I've shelled out money for a JCVD theatrical feature since Maximum Risk (wait, wasn't he a twin in that one, too?). While I found him to be a skilled martial artist (on the other hand, I always thought that if pushed, I could take flabby Seagal), he never struck me as particularly charismatic, and his choice of scripts smacked of leftovers from the Golan/Globus era. Turns out I may have been wrong--for once, it didn't take a Tarantino homage to convince me to reevaluate another washed-up B-movie icon.

Although QT's spirit can certainly be felt throughout, with its mobius loop structure, dizzying tonal shifts, verbal duels overstuffed with cinematic ephemera (mostly en francais, but hey...), hell, there's even a vintage soul track over the opening titles. It's an amazing trick--managing to work as a show business satire, gripping kidnapping yarn, blistering autobiographical confessional--and not a word of it is true.

The film opens with the single best action sequence Van Damme has ever done: to the oft-sampled groove of Curtis Mayfield's "Hard Times" (the superior Baby Huey cover), our man storms a desert camp and, in a stunning four-minute continuous take, dispatches various nogoodnicks who come at him with everything from guns to knives to flamethrowers in a sinewy ballet of bomb blasts and broken limbs. That is, until our hero reaches the enemy bunker and one of the flats falls over. The young hack directing the spectacle demands another take, to his star's exhausted protests ("I'm 47 years old!"). But JCVD's has little choice but to comply--his funds are tight, and he's in the midst of a child custody trial, where his filmography is the key evidence used against him as proof as to why he's unfit as a single parent to his daughter (Flanders).

His bottomfeeding Hollywood agent (Rossett) tries to sell him on another action cheapie shot in Bulgaria, but Van Damme pleads a shot at a studio film, even in a smaller role. He takes a time-out to his home in Schaarbeek to visit his family and reboot. After posing dutifully with some fans (who just seconds earlier were dissing violent American genre cinema), he rushes to the post-office to collect a wire transfer of a cash advance on his next project.

Flash forward: the police have formed a tactical command post around the post-office, led by Chief Bruges (Damiens). It appears that JCVD has suffered a psychotic meltdown and has taken the staff and customers hostage in return for a hefty ransom. The local media has a field day--it's Belgium, after all--vintage interviews replayed and dissected, his parents are brought in to help negotiate, and the adoring throng cheers on the local boy as an anti-hero.

Of course, a flashback reveals that JCVD has had the sh*t luck to wander in on the midst of a robbery, and has been snatched as a hostage by the bickering small-time hoods, who have been handed the ultimate cover and escape insurance. But even armed sociopaths can be starstruck, which a defeated and jet-lagged JCVD must manipulate to his advantage...

So what we have here is a little Costa Gavras, a little Curb Your Enthusiasm, a little F Is For Fake, a little of The Gong Show Movie (no, not Confessions Of A Dangerous Mind in which Kaufman proposed a ''what-if" scenario based on Barris' autobiography--I mean The Gong Show Movie, a little-seen 1980 oddity in which Barris played himself facing a fictional frenzied day). There's some great fun to be had for committed fans, who'll nod knowingly at the potshots taken at John Woo (a kidnapper quips: "If it wasn't for you, he'd still be shooting pigeons in Hong Kong") and fellow 80s/90s action icon Steven Seagal (who steals a role from JCVD after promising to cut his ponytail).

The film's standout moment occurs past the mid-point, where JCVD breaks the fourth wall to address the audience directly. In another continuous take, as he's raised by crane up into the soundstage rafters, Van Damme delivers a raw, self-damning monologue in which he thanks us, the viewers, for helping him realize his boyhood dream, speaks candidly of his downward spiral into drug addiction, and fights back tears as he professes his love for his daughter and his fear of his possible fate. It's a powerful, unexpected detour and quite a feat of performance--not only because of who it is we're empathizing with, but even more so when one realizes the hostage scenario and degrading media circus that has driven him to such cathartic candor is completely fabricated! His daughter, his ex-wife, his parents, his agent--are all played by actors (to cynics who will snigger that it's too easy to play oneself, I'll offer Aerosmith's Steven Tyler in Be Cool as a counter-argument...).

Shot with all the style and gusto one would expect from a guy who obviously spent too much of his youth hoarding import laserdiscs and pouring over bootleg tables at conventions, JCVD is an impressive debut from first-timer Mechri and a long-overdue--but who knew it?--introduction to the real (?) Jean-Claude Van Damme. It's a pleasure to have finally met your acquaintence, sir--and Double Team is forgiven…

©Robert J. Lewis 2008

TIFF 2008: ME AND ORSON WELLES

ME AND ORSON WELLES
(United Kingdom, 2008)
Written by: Holly Gent Palmo, Vincent Palmo
Directed by: Richard Linklater
Cast: Zac Efron, Claire Danes, Christian McKay, Ben Chapman, Zoe Kazan, James Tupper, Eddie Marsan

It's somehow inevitable that Richard Linklater would eventually latch on to Orson Welles as a subject--each filmmaker made their respective directorial debuts at a criminally young age, instantly forging a personal and independent sensibility, remaining prolific while constantly experimenting with cinematic technique and form, and not above hanging up the auteur cap once in a while to play in more commercial sandboxes. But whereas Linklater seems to have had no trouble getting his eclectic body of work produced, Welles spent the better part of his career shilling for cash to finance projects that were either compromised beyond his bold intentions or never completed for a variety of reasons, some entirely his fault.

The Welles we meet here is a long way from corpulent, Mephisto-bearded patrician of Vivitar commercials and four-walled Nostradamus documentaries: it's 1937, and the tireless multi-hyphenate prodigy has, at the ripe old age of 22, already polarized the New York theatrical world with a "voodoo" version of "Macbeth" (actually, a groundbreaking collaboration between FDR's Federal Theatre Project and The American Negro Theater of Harlem) and a truncated radio adaptation of "Hamlet" (which eliminated the "To Be Or Not To Be" soliloquy!). He's about to embark on a radical take on "Julius Caesar", one which will modernize the themes to (then) contemporary fascist dress, eschew the traditional stage ornamentations, ramp up the violence, and run a mere 90 minutes. A tall order for what would be Broadway's first-ever Shakespearean production, which Welles proudly boasts to anyone within earshot.

But it's the Me of the title through which this formative period of Welles' career is recounted. Based upon the novel by Robert Kaplow, it's the kinda-sorta true story of a 17-year old New Jersey dreamer, Richard Samuels (Efron), who's bored with the hive mind of high school and who, like Welles, aspires to conquer the Manhattan stage--to the chagrin of his single mother and grandmother, of course. In his spare hours, he frequents a music shop for inspiration, where he strikes up a friendship with shy Gretta (Kazan), who hopes to one day sell her short stories to The New Yorker.

Outside of the newly refurbished Mercury Theatre on 41st Street, Richard comes upon Welles' (McKay) announcement of his avante-garde, modernist interpretation of "Caesar", as it will be displayed on the marquee. Through a happy accident, Richard is invited to join Welles' troupe in the bit part of Lucius, one that'll require him to learn the ukelele and sing...

Sucked into the whirlwind pace of Welles' world, Richard is inspired by his newfound mentor's bravado (who is only five years older than he is!), but also intimidated by his ruthless and unpredictable temper. He becomes enamoured with "older woman" Sonja (Danes), the production's secretary and Welles' sometime girlfriend--a secret everyone in the troupe conspires to hide from his pregnant wife, Virginia. Richard accepts a bet from actor "Joe" Cotton (Tupper--an uncanny lookalike) that he'll get her into bed before anyone else, and engineers a date. But he finds that while Sonja is a willing partner, her first duty is to herself and her own career advancement, and she's using Welles to get to producer David O. Selznick.

When Welles betrays her, Richard confronts him on the subject, and is promptly fired. Then re-hired. Such is life with Welles, who'll charm anyone and promise anything to secure a historic opening night...

Me And Orson Welles is hardly the first backstage fantasia about life with Welles--in the last decade and a half we've seen Cradle Will Rock, RKO 481, and even Ed Wood. What's unique about this one is its source: author Kaplow was inspired by a backstage shot of a young bit player next to Welles, and conceived this "what if" scenario about the cruel realities of showbiz (during the post-premiere Q&A, we were told the boy in the photo is one Arthur Anderson, still living and in his 90s).

Linklater maintains a breezy tone with the expected Noises Off antics as the days lead up the big premiere, tempered with the very real incidents of anti-Semitism and the misogyny of the era. As with his delightful mainstream hit School Of Rock, the idealistic young leads are dealt a hard life lesson without the usually treacley sentiment--in the end, everyone's better off for having had the experience at all. It's also a rare period drama that's a lot less earnest and grandiose than most its type (unlike Tim Robbins' Cradle will Rock, Efron and Kazan don't walk off into a lament over Andrew Lloyd Webber).

Never much of a visual stylist, Linklater keeps things decidely non-fancy and avoids the monochrome grit of most period recreations in favour of a warm Rockwellian palette and colourful costumes that could almost have come from Warren Beatty's Dick Tracy. Using vintage production drawings, audio recordings, and eyewitness testimony of the event, Welles' unique take on "Caesar" has been restaged with a high degree of accuracy, on sets constructed on, amazingly, The Isle Of Man (also, London's Pinewood Studios and New York locations). According to the film's production notes, the nearest replica of the Mercury Theatre that could be found was in England, with many of the extras drafted from The Royal Shakespearean Company.

Much will be made of the presence of teen sensation Efron, who, for those sleeping under a rock, is something of a tween icon these days based upon his association with Disney's High School Musical franchise. While no match for Welles at the same age (as of this writing, he's just shy of 22), he's perfectly fine here in what is essentially the ingenue role--methinks he might be a little too elfin and contemporary but he's an agreeable, if slight, presence. Efron seemed genuinely thrilled in the post-screening Q&A to have been offered the opportunity to show some range, and he accomplishes just that.

As an adult performer, Danes continues to win me over. She's very good here in a potentially unlikeable role: Sonja is hardly the sweetheart Richard thinks she is--while manipulative and self-serving, she's at least honest about it.

But the film soars because of newcomer McKay, having previously portrayed the man on stage, who perfectly embodies Welles' brilliance, charisma, and fearless ego. In a standout scene, Welles' segues into a passage from his The Magnificent Ambersons script during a live radio drama opposite Les Tremayne, eliciting equal parts awe and contempt from the cast and crew--a perfect Wellesian contradiction. McKay follows in the considerable footsteps of Liev Schreiber, Vincent D'Onfrio, Angus McFadyen, Jean Guérin, and Danny Huston (I suppose it's worth mentioning voice actor Maurice LeMarche as well) and eclipses them all--not bad for his screen debut.

On my way out of the theatre, I overheard a couple of killjoys who had a problem with Efron--but more so with his sizeable teenage fan presence in the audience, I would suspect--and one of them sniffed indignantly "how many of them have ever seen any of Welles' works?" I say "who cares"? If this entertaining little fable leads even a handful of teenage girls to sample Citizen Kane or The Third Man, then what's the harm? Cineaste-types too often act like they own these films, and are quick to become resentful when someone outside of their hermetically-sealed subculture dare to intrude. Welles felt Shakespeare was for everyone--so are his own films and how one comes to discover them really doesn't matter.

"What will I do to top this?!" McKay wonders in the final moments. That's a good question, Richard...

©Robert J. Lewis 2008

TIFF 2008: "APPALOOSA"

APPALOOSA
(USA, 2008)
Directed by Ed Harris
Written by Ed Harris and Robert Knott
Cast: Ed Harris, Viggo Mortenson, Rene Zellweger, Jeremy Irons, Lance Henriksen, Timothy Spall

The most anachronistic thing about Ed Harris' Appaloosa is how straight-forward it is--post-Unforgiven and Deadwood, whatever audience endures for the Western (or, at least, me...) has become so used to "deconstructionism" that when faced with an old-fashioned "oater" that's as unpretentious and straight-shooting as a tattered Zane Gray paperback you might unearth at a yard sale, one can't help but go looking for the allegory behind every swing of a saloon door or glint of gun metal. Is the jailhouse supposed to represent Abu Ghraib? And those cattle rustlers--they're Blackwater, right? Plus, there's less spoken profanity in its entire 114 minute running time than in a single Al Swearengen soliloquy--this thing could almost play in the Gunsmoke time slot on Peachtree TV.

After the impassioned--and at times, histrionic--biopic Pollock, which Harris nurtured obsessively for several years for his directorial debut, this sophomore effort displays a surprisingly warm touch from such an intense and devoted actor, who ambitions here were simply to create a type of film he enjoyed in his youth. Not a terribly radical notion, admittedly--with Open Range and the remake of 3:10 To Yuma having also attempted to resurrect the horse opera in recent years to varied success, but Harris' take is easy, breezy stuff, chock full of genre conventions--yes, that's "Camptown Races" playing on the saloon piano! and the Indians belt out war whoops--that are only dutifully addressed in favour of oddball character bits.

Based on a novel by Spenser creator Robert B. Parker, the story is set in the titular town in New Mexico, circa 1882. When Appaloosa's Marshall and deputies are murdered in cold blood under the orders of rancher Randall Bragg (Irons, taking cues on masking his accent from Daniel Day Lewis), the town elders waste no time in hiring nomadic lawman Virgil Cole (Harris) and his long-time friend and deputy Everett Hitch (Mortenson) to do something about the Bragg's campaign of terror. They reluctantly agree to Cole's rather extreme set of laws, active immediately. Within the day, the seasoned gunmen have already unholstered their weapons and sent Bragg a message that he won't be tolerated nor his reputation feared. A guilt-ridden young man, who witnessed Bragg's execution of the lawmen, offers to serve as a witness if Cole and Hitch will ensure his protection--an arrangement that leads to the rotter's immediate arrest.

When Allison French (Zellweger) arrives in town in search of work as a church organist ("you're not a whore?", Cole asks matter-of-factly, when considering the notion of an attractive young woman traveling alone), both men begin a boyish rivalry for her attentions. Cole, who’d previously been with only "horses and squaws", wins Allison's hand--and more--and soon, they're moving in together and building a house, to the chagrin of Hitch, who regards Cole as his permanent life partner.

When Allison makes an aggressive pass at Hitch, he rebuffs her out of loyalty to his friend, and learns of her true colours when she threatens to blackmail him. Meanwhile, an uncharacteristically beaming, lovestruck Cole is suspicious when some familiar faces from his past suddenly arrive in town for Bragg's trial, especially the oily Ring (Henriksen). Bragg is convicted and sentenced to hang, but Cole's old friends have other plans. In cahoots with Ring, Bragg's gang bust their boss out of custody during a thrilling train siege, and kidnap Allison to keep Cole and Hitch at bay. In pursuit, Hitch is faced with dilemma: should he tell his best friend of his lady's dubious loyalties? Would Cole's emotions jeopardize the hunt for Bragg?

Mortenson and Harris were obviously born to wear Stetsons and strap on six-guns, but the film's standout moments crackle when their masculinity falters and they become tongue-tied over picking out fabric for curtains, discussing previous romantic dalliances, or when Hitch plays Cyrano to Virgil's limited vocabulary (even though he's been seen thumbing through a tome by Ralph Waldo Emerson). While they've worked together on only one film previously (David Cronenberg's A History Of Violence), their effortless rapport suggests they could well have been lifelong friends off-camera as well.

Unfortunately, Zellweger (replacing original choice Diane Lane), is badly miscast, mincing about daintily in Allison's hoop skirt and parisol about as believably as Jodie Foster vamped in Miss Kitty's wardrobe in Richard Donner's Maverick update. Ally's affections are conditional, and seemingly airborne to whatever alpha cowpoke is in the immediate vicinity--is this the advent of the "modern" woman to further rock Virgil's old timey world views (although Emerson did support the 19th women's rights movement), or, are we meant to see Zellweger’s use of her feminine charms as her survival tool against all this rampant testosterone? Whatever the intention, Zellweger never pulls it off--she comes off as manipulative and vaguely pathological, rather than resourceful.

Harris has admitted to studying the Western classics of Hawks and Ford--My Darling Clementine, The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance, and Red River specifically--seeking to "keep it simple visually, and [with as] as few cuts as possible" (from the press notes). He also sought inspiration from the iconic Wild West paintings of Frederick Remington. Dean Semler's photography is pretty and functional but not particularly distinguished, perhaps in service to Harris' no-bullstuff approach to the material. The film lacks Ford's painterly vistas or Peckinpah's gritty, sunbaked textures, although Sergio Leone would have surely fallen for the four great craggy faces in play (Harris, Mortenson, Irons, and of course, Henriksen), and likely Zellweger's shiny, squinty countenance as well.

Not only did Harris purchase the rights to the novel, hand deliver a copy to Mortenson at The Toronto International Film Festival, cowrite the screenplay (with Robert Knott), direct the adaptation, and take on the lead role, he even sings one of the two end title songs (the other is by Tom Petty And The Heartbreakers)! Thankfully, his commitment is evident in every frame, even if the experience is, in the end, a little underwhelming, considering the magnitude of the talent involved.

©Robert J. Lewis
2008

Movieforum Celebrates 10 Years At TIFF

Incredibly, TIFF 2008 marks the 10th straight year that Movieforum has covered The Toronto International Film Festival--back in 1998, shortly after our original hub's launch from the digital dust of eDrive and Tapehead, Canadian Correspondent (and longtime TIFF supporter back to the days when the event was known as "The Festival Of Festivals") Robert J. Lewis charmed himself some special screening vouchers and the following year, his thorough and thoughtful reviews awarded us official accreditation that the kind folks in the press department have granted us each successive year since.

With the first screening only days away, we've resurrected our blog incarnation for daily coverage of the 33th annual Toronto International Film Festival, which officially begins Thursday, September 4, 2007. As per our usual format, Robert's daily capsule reviews will appear shortly, with a more thorough and formal overview to follow at the fest's conclusion.

TAD 2007: "The Tripper" Review

(USA, 2007, 93 minutes)
Written by: David Arquette and Joe Harris
Directed by: David Arquette
Cast: Jason Mewes, Lukas Haas, Thomas Jane, Jaimie King, Paul Reubens, Balthazar Getty

It’s common knowledge that the iconographic white face of killer Michael Myers in Halloween was, in fact, a William Shatner slip mask purchased by the prop department at the 11th hour, so it’s now possible (but not recommended, John Carpenter’s film is still a classic) to re-interpret the shocker as the “booty call” of a hormonal and murderous Captain Kirk, who, having conquered all the women in the universe, turns his dilithium-powered gonads on the promiscuous young co-eds of Haddonfield, Illinois.

In David Arquette’s directorial debut, a bevy of libidinous youths are pursued by a slow-moving killer who sure looks a lot like late president Ronald Reagan, but the resemblance here is purely intentional. Arquette, perhaps inspired from his appearance in Wes Craven’s popular slasher pastiche Scream, has conceived a loopy horror homage (cowritten with Darkness Falls’ Joe Harris) that pits a forest full of modern-day hippies (apparently there are such things outside of Lenny Kravitz videos and the “Burning Man” festival) against a vengeful faux-Ronnie who would rather dispense of dissenters with his bare hands than call in the National Guard. In The Tripper, “Bloody Thursday” gets an extension…

Sometime in the late 60s, televised images of Vietnam and the burgeoning counterculture flicker across the blank expression of Gus, a young boy. In the next room, his terminally ill mother is doted on by Dylan, her poor but loving husband. Dylan takes the boy with him to his job at the local forest, where a group of protestors have chained themselves to a large redwood to protest the industry that Dylan relies on to pay for the care of his ill wife. After a squabble, Dylan pulls a gun on them, but the local police intervene. Quiet Gus erupts in action and comes to his father’s aid by taking a chainsaw to the peaceniks’ leader. Gus is taken away, kicking and screaming.

Present day: Four youths are on their way to the "America Free Love Festival” weekend bash in Northern California: George Bush supporter Joey (Kevin Smith regular Mewes, hardly stretching here), his anti-Republican girlfriend Linda (Thomason), and stoner couples Jack (Heath) and Jade (de la Huerta), and Ivan (Haas) and Samantha (King). Arriving at a campsite near the venue, they immediately have a run in with the local rednecks, who give chase before a showdown in the local diner, where a now-adult Gus (Nelson) pounds some manners into the thugs.

Of course, Gus’ father is now a crazy old coot who has lived in the woods in the decades since and warns the kids to stay away, even setting lethal traps for anyone who dare disturb his precious forest. When a hippie/nudist is found dangling and gutted, stoic and by-the-book sheriff Buzz Hall (Jane) decides to take no chances and shuts the concert down, much to the chagrin of oily Mayor Burton (comedian Rick Overton) and flamboyant concert promoter Frank Baker (Reubens), who have their own crooked deal going.

Within her circle of half-baked friends, only Samantha keeps her head clear, and becomes aware that the concertgoers are being dispatched by a single individual, who sports a Ronald Reagan mask and swings a mean hatchet. As Hall and his deputy investigate Dylan’s homestead, they discover much history about Gus’ obsession with The Great Communicator, but can they build a case in time before another fatal axe blow is dealt?

Although set in present day, The Tripper owes its style and sensibility to two ghetto genres of yesteryear: the 1960s drug/counter culture exploitation flick ala Corman’s The Trip and Psych Out, and the low-rent slasher yarn of the 80s like The Burning or Don’t Go In The Woods. For a novice, Arquette displays imagination and skill by utilizing various film stocks, inventive angles, garish lighting effects that range from Creepshow to Ken Russell (not to mention Oliver Stone’s multimedia sensory assault Natural Born Killers), and effective use of locations (the fine cinematography is by Bobby Bukowski)—although it’d take a major no-talent to screw up a ready-made, living soundstage of ominous trees, rotting bark, mist, marsh, and consuming shadows.

It’s not a complete parody in the Thursday The 12th”/”Pandemonium sense, although Thomas Jane’s squared-jawed sheriff, like Tommy Smothers’ diligent Mountie, is always one step behind. Paul Reubens (who, coincidentally, played Smothers’ assistant in Soles’ early 80s spoof) tears into his brief role as a showboating Bill Graham type, but his scenes seem to come from a different movie entirely.

Arquette cameos as one of the rednecks, as does his brother Richmond as Jane’s useless deputy, and his wife Courtney Cox, as an animal lover who gets a bit too close to her cause and literally bleeds for it.

Star Thomas Jane also co produced the film, along with 30 Days Of Night author Steve Niles (and Jane’s visage is used as Cal McDonald for Niles’ current “Criminal Macabre” series from DC/Vertigo).

The gore is explicit and surprisingly brutal, given that The Tripper also strives to be satiric and topical as it spills the red stuff in quantities far greater than what could be considered “trickle down”. The political undertones of the film are just sort of there—I was never exactly sure what was being lampooned, as Arquette’s script dishes out as much contempt for dim, wayward youths as it does for the suit-and-tie conservatives that would love to see every last one of them slaughtered. The film is full of bile for Reagan’s phony “old values” posturing and a key plot point hinges on when, as Governor of California, he approved the release of thousands of mental patients back into communities to save costs. But leftist icon Robert Kennedy is also a target, too. And then there’s the pet pig named George W. Perhaps Arquette’s platform is completely nonpartisan and a clarion call for anarchy—which gets an A for ambition but makes it damned hard to muster up any empathy for one side or the other.

Still, it’s funny to see the Reagan maniac—whose mask makes him look like a homicidal Spitting Image puppet (although somehow less frightening than the one in Genesis’ “Land Of Confusion” video)--deliver a messy axe blow and quip “Just Say No” or remark “It’s Morning In America” as he regards his latest victim (what, no “We Begin The Bombing In Five Minutes”? or reference to Ronnie and Nancy’s occasional dabbles with the Ouija Board?). There’s an amusing bit with jelly beans—Reagan kept a bowl to judge a man’s character--and yet, the references don’t add up to much other than shading.

The Tripper is one of those low-budget, under-the-radar movies you get the impression was a lot of fun to make for all involved—and thankfully, most of it translates into an enjoyable viewing experience for the committed horror fan as well. But considering the ambition and pedigree of talent involved on both sides of the camera, it’s as quickly forgotten as just another empty campaign promise.

©2007 Robert J. Lewis

TAD 2007: "Poultrygeist: Night Of The Chicken Dead" Review

(USA, 2007, 103 minutes)
Written by Daniel Bova, Gabriel Friedman, Lloyd Kaufman
Directed by Lloyd Kaufman
Cast: Jason Yachanin, Kate Graham, Allyoson Sereboff, Robin Watkins, Joshua Olatunde, Lloyd Kaufman

Founded by Lloyd Kaufman and Michael Herz in 1974 in NYC, Troma Team Productions became notorious for its rough-hewn sleazefests like The First Turn-On and Squeeze Play and since then, the spawn of Hell’s Kitchen has spread (like a fungus, as the old joke goes) from a distribution company into a production studio, home video label, web portal, and annual film festival (Tromadance—what else?). Amazingly, Troma (the name means nothing, btw) brushed briefly with the G-rated set when its figurehead The Toxic Avenger (or “Toxie”, to friends) was spun off into a children's television series (The Toxic Crusaders) and a line of action figures. But as the exploitation market shrinks, Troma has managed to outlast the New Worlds and the Avco-Embassys and endure as the vulgarian Mecca for those who subscribe to Picasso’s adage that “good taste" is the enemy of creativity…

But as a willing customer for such titles as Fat Guy Goes Nutzoid and Stuff Stephanie In The Incinerator, I can tell you that while few card-carrying devotees of the B-circuit might admit it, the idea of Troma is often a lot better than the films they produce and/or distribute. So I’m pleased to report that for the most part--with mucho caveats mind you—Troma’s latest scurrilous pageant—the musical horror farce Poultrygeist: Night Of the Chicken Dead--is a (literal) gas and worth checking out if you've got the fortitude for this sort of thing.

Hopeless nerd Arby (Yachanin) and his white bread wannabe-girlfriend Wendy (Graham) celebrate their last night of high school together dry-humping in the Tromaville cemetery, coincidentally right on top of where the ancient Tromahawk Tribe have been buried. They’re interrupted by a masturbating serial panty sniffer (oh, you cry, not that plot again!), who inadvertently helps resurrect one of the centuries’ old corpses, whose disembodied finger makes Arbie’s passage to manhood all the more memorable by lodging itself in his rectum.

Assuming you’re still with the film, and this review, we cut to a year later. Arby, stuck in Tromaville to take care of his mentally-retarded father and blind mother (both never seen), returns to find the graveyard has been paved over to host a franchise of the Southern-based “American Chicken Bunker” fast food chain. An array of leftist protestors has blocked entrance to the restaurant, and Arby is surprised to find that his true love Wendy has joined up with CLAM (College Lesbians Against Mega-Conglomerations). To spite the dogma of Wendy and her girlfriend Mickey D (Sereboff), Arby accepts a job with the restaurant as a “counter girl”. His manager is the militant Denny (Olatunde), and his dubiously-qualified coworkers include the effete Paco Bell, hillbilly hick/bestiality enthusiast Carl Jr., and radical Muslim Humus, who wears a birka with her ACB uniform.

On the first day of business, a crazed man barges into the restaurant (porn icon Ron Jeremy—no Kevin McCarthy) to warn everyone in the restaurant that the spirits of the Tromahawk tribe will enact vengeance for disturbing their sacred burial ground. The franchise’s greedy owner, General Lee (Watkins—having seemingly studied under Foghorn Leghorn), has arrived from his latest cross-burning to MC the Grand Opening and laughs off any suggestion of disaster. Even after--for reasons never 100% fully explained--a suspicious but otherwise unnoticed batch of noxious green eggs show up, which become an added ingredient of the chain’s daily menu and are immediately inhaled by the loutish patrons.

The first, a morbidly-obese glutton (Troma regular Joe Fleishaker, who appears to have doubled in size since his turn as the Mayor in the years since The Toxic Avenger and has somehow managed to stay alive), gives birth to the first of the film’s many forms of rampaging man-fowl in the men’s room. It’s a scene that starts off disgusting and manages to outdo itself with such outrageous excess than even the most jaded devotee of bathroom humour will feel bludgeoned by its conclusion (you’ll thank Kaufman’s wife for insisting on the usage of those rapidly multiplying “censored” banners—I won’t say any more).

Assuming, again, that you’re still with me—Arby encounters “Old Arby” (Kaufman), an almost spectral backroom dweller who warns the youth to ditch this career and aspire to more in life, or he’ll be stuck behind the counter forever. But as the spirits manifest themselves in increasingly monstrous (and ridiculous) forms, it’ll be a long time before Arby and co. get out of the restaurant at all.

It's forever the Reagan Era in Tromaville, evident by the grainy film stock (which does nothing to beautify the Buffalo, New York locations), rinky-dink synth score that sounds like it's performed on a Casio keyboard, visible edits, dodgy ADR, and geysers of blood, bile, and purple slime. But the sensibility is definitely current, and the satire targets 21st century hot buttons as the Morgan Spurlock and Eric Schlosser indictments of the fast-food industries (the characters are named after fast food chains), post-9/11 hysteria, increased societal splintering and political/sexual/ethnic “tribalism”, and even the Abu Ghraib scandal. The Photoshop’d stills of a hooded chicken being marched on a dog leash are probably the funniest thing I’ll see on film this year (I asked Kaufman if the Lindy England photos were public domain, to which he shrugged and remarked: “I sure hope so!” Could Poultrygeist get Redacted…?).

It might be too much to say that Poultrygeist is one of American cinema’s most merciless deconstructions of political correctness since (Kaufman’s protégés) Parker and Stone’s Team America: World Police (which was, if nothing else, a Troma production with better film stock and a longer production schedule), but then again, everything about Troma films is too damned much—there’s a talking burrito, ass ripping, castrations, and as the title promises, hordes of rampant, carnivorous chicken mutants, one of whom, yes, does bite the head off a human (if Troma could afford Ron Jeremy for a cameo, couldn’t they have splurged a little more for Ozzie Osbourne?).

For all of the precious fluids spurted across our glazed corneas though, Kaufman shows himself to be an old-school vaudevillian throughout--who else in this day and age would put a "This Space For Rent" sign amidst a crowd of protestors like something out of a Harvey Kurtzman MAD Magazine panel? Zip and boing sound effects abound.

Billed as a musical, there aren’t really a lot of songs, and only a few are memorable, my favorites being Kaufman’s Riverdance-influenced “Longing To Live/Waiting To Die”, and the sorority-set “Slow Fast Food Love”, a shamelessly sexploitive riff on the Grease duet “Summer Nights” (you can listen to some of the soundtrack here at Troma's MySpace page). By the time the splatter goes into overdrive for the extended climax (outdoing—and outgrueing—the marathon spectacles of dismemberment from Peter Jackson’s Brain Dead and Robert Rodriguez’ From Dusk Til Dawn), the tunes are dropped entirely. Kaufman explained that he intended “Poultrygeist” as something more akin to Takashi Miike's Happiness Of Katakuris (Lloyd’’s knowledge of film, from Hitchcock to Stan Brakhage, is impressive).

Post-screening, after a truly pathetic audience response to a karaoke round of the Poultrygeist title song, Kaufman bounded back onto the stage, joined by the ever-present scantily clad Goth chick, a Michael Berryman lookalike (one assumes he was part of the entourage and didn’t wander in from the nearest Annex methadone clinic), and the worst "Toxie" yet seen in public (couldn't he afford a latex slip mask that fit? And where was the tutu?) for a very candid Q&A.

The shocker came when Kaufman (a Yale grad) announced that this could well be his last film. Poultrygeist was the first Troma production totally funded by Kaufman and his wife out of their own pockets, using their home as collateral. The current state of film exhibition makes it hard for even an established name brand like Troma to make money (I had long assumed Troma’s cash cow was home video). Kaufman and Herz have long been supporter of independent film, distributing titles from around the world (often with minimal re-cutting—are you listening Harvey Weinstein?) and Kaufman regularly appears in the efforts of first-timers (for free) to lend a “name” and possibly ensure them a professional deal. So Kaufman can be forgiven for shilling on the sidewalk hours before the screening, shilling in the lobby selling DVDs and soundtrack CDs, shilling on stage, and still shilling at the neighboring pub afterwards. He’s definitely the genuine article who takes his philosophy and trade literally to the streets.

Poultrygeist won’t open in New York until March of 2008, with some regional releases planned. Until then, you’ve got time to beg, plead, and threaten your local movie houses into booking it—more than ever it seems, the future of anarchic, truly independent cinema depends on your voice...

BTW, Lloyd told me to mention Toxic Avenger: The Novel, which you can order here at Amazon.

©2007 Robert J. Lewis

Toronto After Dark Film Festival 2007: "An Audience Of One"

(USA, 2007, 88 minutes)
Produced by Michael Jacobs, Zach Sanders, Matt Woods
Directed by: Michael Jacobs

Back in 1993, post-This Spinal Tap and pre-Waiting For Guffman, Arthur Borman got the jump on Christopher Guest and co. and shot a hilarious “mockumentary” entitled The Making Of…And God Spoke, which chronicled the faux production of a big-budget version of “The Bible”, in which clueless schlockmeisters tried to jazz up the timeworn sermons with everything from martial arts to a “hot” Virgin Mary to guest appearances from Lou “The Incredible Hulk” Ferrigno and Eve “Jan Brady” Plumb, miscalculating the size of Noah’s ark and number of Jesus’ apostles in the process…

Michael Jacobs’ new An Audience Of One is 100 times funnier, and just as equally depressing, because for the filmmaker-under-fire here, God really did speak, and to quote esteemed theologian David Gahan, displays “a sick sense of humour”. Now, turning a prying lens onto the evangelical community these days might seem like shooting fish in a barrel after the likes of Jesus Camp and Hell House, but being handed a subject like this is the closest thing a documentary filmmaker can get to a burning bush, Gabriel’s horn, or, more appropriately, the rivers boiling with blood during the final tremors of The Rapture…

In 1996, Richard Gazowsky, a Pentecostal pastor based in San Francisco (who didn’t see his first film—Disney’s The Lion King--until he was 40!) received a message from God (allegedly) telling him to spread the Word through entertainment—specifically, by forming a film production company. By putting up his home as collateral (he’d inherited the ministry from his mother, who retired when she reached 65) and raising meager funds through his congregation, Gazowsky optimistically launched “WYSIWYG Filmworks”—pronounced “Wizzy-Wig”--which stands for “What You See Is What You Get”. But not even the most devout follower could have seen this disaster coming…

“What you see is what you get” is also Jacobs’ essential philosophy behind the lens, although I’m sure that there will be many within the church-going set who will insist that the film has been manipulated in a way—as Michael Moore’s detractors invariably accuse—to make Gazowsky’s United (wannabe) Artists look as ridiculous as possible. Unfortunately, no amount of creative editing can possibly make the tongue chanting (“glossalia”) and spastic dancing look any more absurd, nor is the pastor’s painfully myopic optimism the result of any CG pixel sorcery.

Announcing that his first opus would be made exclusively for God—the “audience of One”—Gazowsky decided to take his cues from the cinematic saints Cecil B. DeMille and Michael Bay and start big with “Gravity: The Story Of Joseph”, an interplanetary retelling of the story of Joseph with a production design heavily inspired by the first season of Star Trek: The Next Generation (remember Denise Crosby’s spiked oven mitt?).

Incongruously deciding to shoot in the expensive and unwieldy 65mm gauge (“no one shoots in 65mm!” scoffs Jens Klein, the hapless German DOP, who joined the production after feeling the Holy Spirit at one of Gazowsky’s sermons), production begins on an Italian location in the village of Alberobello (short on costumes and set dressings, thanks to a staff of a mere two artisans). Obsessing over such ephemera as the type of lining in an alien’s cowl, and whether or not his art director can provide him with a “smoking floor” (as in a floor made of smoke), Gazowsky is indifferent to his unpaid (courtesy of Craigslist) cast and crew’s fatigue during marathon late-night shoots (the result of his own incompetence) and the bewilderment of the locals, whose Old-World skills come to the (thankless) rescue of what wouldn’t pass for an Ed Wood Jr. production.

Back in America, WISYWIG takes over San Francisco’s “Treasure Island” production facility on the promise of the still-forthcoming European funds (“Deutchbank”, Gazowsky assures). Paranoid that Hollywood will conspire to steal his brilliant vision (apparently, a spy from Warner Bros. has already been foiled!), Gazowsky blows virtual cash on a “laser” based security system and needless office renovations while not a single is driven on a set within the cavernous sound stages.

And yet, as the city votes to evict WYSIWIG from the soundstages for months of unpaid rent and electricity and the sensible ones are removed from the production (DOP Klein is fired and forced to put his possessions into storage as he faces an uncertain career future), Gazowsky steadfastly visits NAB in Las Vegas, boasting to vendors that he’s got $100M budget (although throughout the film he sometimes says it’s twice that) and ordering up the latest post production gadgets…

What’s most objectionable, and did nothing but cement my disdain for the preening media-savvy Holy Roller set, is that for all of his doughy, aw-shucks charm, Gazowsky is nothing less than a bald-faced f*cking liar, hemorrhaging funds he knows full well do not exist and deflecting any criticism and suggestion that he’s breaking the law as the work of “Satan” attempting to sabotage his holy mission. When one of his volunteer actors complains that he’s being run ragged for no money (or food, or drink, or rest), Gazowsky blithely shrugs “I’m not getting paid either”. No, but he did inherit a parish from his mother, to which desperate followers contribute sizeable amounts of cash which he can pocket tax-free. If only struggling actors had it so rough…

However, An Audience Of One is not especially an anti-religion screed—Jacobs’ problem isn’t so much Gazowsky’s or his congregation’s faith (if anything, the film reflects warmly on the empowering sense of community that heathens like yours-truly deny themselves), but rather, the dangerously blind devotion it inspires in—and often demands from—the fragile and the desperate. It is Gazowsky’s vanity that’s on trial here: At every disastrous turn, he is able to retreat to the comfort of his delusion, expecting “understanding” and favours and bending of the law to suit his own well-insulated end.

But what I found most captivating was the more pointed undercurrent that, regardless of one’s faith or lack-of, it takes a certain amount of delusion and righteous determination to want to become an artist in any medium in the first place (hell, my entire adult life has been a testament to that!), esp. filmmaking, where directing has more than once been compared to commanding an army (just ask John Milius) and the most pioneering auteurs are unapologetically ego-driven. But Gazowsky, by his own admission, has no talent for the art or patience for the craft and at every opportunity won’t allow those with the know-how to do their jobs, else risk a nocturnal visit from Max Von Sydow.

In the final scene, Gazowsky reports to his then-current congregation (who seem much smaller in number) of his latest visitation from the Almighty, who has now promised them not only a series of 47 big-budget feature films (although only two scenes of “Gravity” were ever shot), but seven television networks, an airline, resorts around the globe, and a space colony! As the image fades to the credit roll, it’s readily apparent that Gazowsky has gotten a sizeable head start on the latter. I was actually moved to pray—that these poor dopes see the light and ditch this clown like so much space junk…

©2007 Robert J. Lewis

Toronto After Dark Film Festival 2007: "In The Name Of The King: A Dungeon Siege Tale"

(Germany/Canada/USA, 2007)
Written by: Doug Taylor
Directed by: Uwe Boll
Cast: Jason Statham, Ron Perlman, Ray Liotta, Burt Reynolds, Claire Forlani, Lelee Sobieski, Matthew Lillard

What’s this? Yet another video game adaptation by a man who might well be the most hated director in the world right now? What’s this doing at a horror film festival?

TAD founding father Adam Lopez admitted in his intro that while he was concerned that some within the fan base (a fickle lot at the best of times) would feel violated, “we really liked the movie”--hence, its inclusion (in the major Saturday night slot, no less).

Admittedly, there is a lot to like here if you’re in a forgiving mood, and let’s face it, if you’ve consciously lined up for a film where an evil “Magi” named Gallian commands and army of “The Krugs”, you’ve got no one to blame but yourself. In The Name Of The King: A Dungeon Siege Tale (which I will refer to as Dungeon Siege from this point onward) isn’t nearly as bad as you’re likely to hear—Dr. Boll (he holds a PhD in German Literature, seriously) is fandom’s fashionable whipping boy right now (Brett Ratner must be relieved), so nothing he makes is going to be given a fair shot.

That being said, no one’s going to be offering Boll “The Hobbit” either if Jackson ends up passing (but he’d probably be good for those “Sword Of Shannara” books by Terry Brooks). A perfectly competent, and, by his Q&A comments, serious-minded director, he lacks a distinctive style that after a half-dozen plus films in a variety of genres (admittedly, all revolving around the subject of videogames), you think he’d have developed a signature by now. If anything, his chief qualities are his tenacity and rare lack of ego as he goes from project to project, by now psychologically equipped to deal with the sh*tstorm of glib putdowns from the IMDB message board lackeys waiting in the wings of their parents’ basements.

Jason Statham of The Transporter and Guy Ritchie fame headlines as Farmer, a simple salt-of-the-earth whose passion in life is his turnip farm, which he runs with his wife Solana (Forlani) and son Zeph. His friend Norick (Perlman) arrives to ask if he’s considering joining the King’s army in its offense against the Krugs, Statham expresses his doubt in royalty’s ability to keep the kingdom safe. Norick admits he didn’t join either because he doesn’t like the uniforms.

Solana takes Zeph to visit her parents in a nearby hamlet, which is attacked by the Krugs, under Gallians’s command. Zeph is slain. Solana is taken prisoner.

King Konreid (a feeble and leathery Reynolds) has problems within his castle walls as well, as his idiot nephew Duke Fallow (Lillard, fopping it up) shows little leadership ability being heir-to-the-throne and unbeknownst to his uncle, is in cahoots with Gallian. The king’s advisor, Merick (Rhys-Davies, still channeling Gimli) would rather his daughter Muriella (Sobieski) stay put, instead of offering to help the crusade. Besides, she’d been romantically involved with Gallian (for reasons never disclosed) and now craves revenge.

When Farmer learns of his family’s fate, he and Norick, joined by Bastian (Sanderson) march off to rescue his wife and topple Gallian’s reign…

Dungeon Siege plays as a perfectly fine film for kids ala the 1960s matinee programmers like The Magic Sword or Jack The Giant Killer. Sure, it’s dopey and derivative, but its better made than most cynical cash-ins, offering decent FX and visuals (more scenic helicopter shots than a Duran Duran video) and completely devoid of gore, nudity, and four letter words. But at two-and-a-half hours, it’s just too damned long (Boll said that Statham felt the film was overlong by 20 minutes—he’s right!).

The casting is all over place, so predictably, so are the performances. Statham downplays his British bulldog persona as Farmer but gets in a few decent stunts (choreographed by Tony Ching of Hero and House Of The Flying Daggers). Liotta really lets ‘er rip for the people in the back row as the eeeeevil wizard Gallian, who looks like he’s raided Liberace’s wardrobe and spends most of his time cackling from within an ethereal vortex, from which he commands his flesh and blood Krug avatar (the first Wii?).

The film takes full advantage of its Pacific Northwest locations, which stand in for New Zealand just fine (although I somehow doubt the BC government will be sponsoring any “Dungeon Siege Tours” in the near future). The scope of the film is impressive, having utilized up to 800 extras and employed the services of several top FX houses, including San Francisco’s The Orphanage.

Boll flew in from Germany to introduce the TAD screening (which looked to me like a video projected work print) while on his North American tour to promote his upcoming Postal, which is, yes, his latest video game adaptation. He was surprisingly droll and funny to the initially hostile audience, who softened when his amiable nature became evident: “When Michael Madsen is drunk in Romania and can’t hold a sword, there are problems”, he explained, offering an excuse for BloodRayne. When discussing the subject of the poor reception to his House Of The Dead adaptation, he asked point blank: “What did you expect?” By the end of the evening, he’d won over just about everyone. Including me…

Last year, Boll offered to meet his fiercest critics in the ring, a challenge few pundits took him up on. But Chris Alexander of Toronto’s Rue Morgue took him on as challenger three of “Raging Boll”, and lasted all of two rounds before Boll k.o.’d him (the event will be chronicled in next year’s documentary The Maneuver In Vancouver). Alexander joined his opponent on stage after the screening, and begrudgingly admitted his newfound admiration for Boll’s good humour and old school sensibilities.

In The Name Of The King: A Dungeon Siege Tale”will play European markets first before being released in North American in January of 2008 (Boll has threatened an even longer cut on DVD). In the meantime, Boll’s already wrapped Far Cry and BloodRayne 2—a western sequel featuring Pat Garrett and Billy The Kid!!!

©2007 Robert J. Lewis

Toronto After Dark Film Festival 2007: "Mulberry Street"

(USA 2006)
Written by Nick Damici and Jim Mickle
Directed by Jim Mickle
Cast: Nick Damici, Kim Blair, Bo Corre, Ron Brice, John Hoyt

The inventive and unnerving DIY shocker Mulberry Street may seem to take its cues from 28 Days Later, but since Danny Boyle’s zombie-virus hit was the British response to George A. Romero’s very-American undead allegories, director Jim Mickle and his resourceful collaborators can be excused for taking a little something back thru Ellis Island: all is fair in love and the zombie war, it can be supposed.

Set primarily in a tenement building in Little Italy, the taut and efficient urban fable wastes not a scene, shot, or character, beginning in medias res with the outbreak of a mutating virus spread by rat bites. Of course in this vermin-infested slum, the infected, with their loping gate, runny eyes and muffled growls, can scarcely be distinguished from many of the locals who haunt the seedy neighborhood in various states of intoxication, mental illness, heat exhaustion, or existential despondency.

Ex-fighter “Clutch” (screenwriter and William Smith look-alike Nick Damici) is the building’s go-to guy, running daily to stay in shape but always willing to stop to help out his neighbours, a colorful group who include a disabled Vietnam veteran, a pair of octogenarian WW2 buddies, an attractive single mother who tends bar next door to raise her teenage son, and an aging drag-queen, who’s helping him prepare a party to commemorate the return of his adult daughter Casey (Kim Blair), recently discharged from military service in Iraq. The residents are outraged that their home, while technically condemned long ago, is due for demolition as part of the “gentrification” that’ll soon turn their neighborhood into just another pricey condo haven.

The superintendent (co-producer Tim House), bitten by the vermin while tending to some basement repairs, initiates the spread of the virus from within the building, while outside, the plague moves throughout the boroughs of Manhattan with alarming speed. Subway service is shut down, the entrances to and from the island closed, martial law declared. Battle-scarred Casey arrives by train to find that she must navigate home on foot, having left one battle overseas only to be dropped into another. And yet on Mulberry Street, life goes on for those who are largely invisible on the best of days. As the tenants monitor the news with disbelief, it’s only a matter of time before their dilapidated surroundings splinter under the assault of the rapidly growing army of the infected, who share the same dining habits (and some physical features) of their rodent carriers…

Mickle’s debut feature shows a sure hand as he bravely tackles a potentially ludicrous premise which he perfectly modulates across three distinct plot threads: Clutch and the tenants’ siege against the zombies, Casey’s dangerous trek home across a barren but threat-filled New York, and the useless coverage from a gradually dwindling local media. Shot on digital video, the low-cost (and low-res) medium infuses the piece with a you-are-there! immediacy that heightens the terror (much of the film was shot guerilla-style and without permits, although the filmmakers confessed they often lied and told officers they were either NYU film students, or working for Law And Order, which apparently carries a lot of cache!). It also conveniently provides an easier means to cover the cramped interiors of the tenement (I was amazed to learn in the post-screening Q&A that all of the dwellings were a single apartment set, redressed and repainted) and the neighboring bar that hosts a zombie attack—both actual locations (Damici admits that he rewrote the script—originally planned as much grander affair—around props and venues he knew he could get).

Eagle-eyed genre buffs will spot cameos from genre vets Larry Fessenden and Debbie Rochon.

There’s really only one detail that doesn’t work, and that’s the decision to have the zombies develop some too-literal rat-like features in the advanced stages of contagion. Such a risky conceit requires a dramatic makeup design that doesn’t turn the performers into rejects from a Sid And Marty Kroft production. Unfortunately, the wrinkled snouts and pointy buck teeth here look silly (unlike the sheep-people in Jonathon King’s New Zealand counterpart Black Sheep, which were supposed to be funny), which no amount of stage blood or chaotic shakey-cam can hide, and sometimes threaten to derail the otherwise grueling onslaught of doom (but some genre newbies might take as welcome relief).

As with the precedent set by Night Of The Living Dead, Mulberry Street eschews an easy third-act solution and ends on an appropriately bleak note, although one more piercing than most, since we’ve grown to love these characters so much (the film features one of the most engaging casts of unknowns and amateurs since Romero’s Dawn Of The Dead). Mickle and Damici have also wisely imported Romero’s headier leftist concerns: the collapse of social order, the failure of our institutions, the rise of the underclass (I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that the writers are also fans of David Cronenberg’s Shivers, which was also about an outbreak in an apartment building, and J.G. Ballard’s “High Rise”), and cues to the Iraq mess and the recent Hurricane Katrina disaster (but no character ever stops to lecture). Besides, when is cannibalism not a metaphor? If it ain’t about the haves and the have-nots feeding on each other, then it’s just another Resident Evil sequel, and look how that one did at the box office…

Mulberry Street has received much (deserved) acclaim during its run on the festival circuits (SXSW, TriBeCa, FantAsia, Amsterdam Fantastic Film Festival), and at its TAD screening Mickle, Damici, and their returning producers announced their next effort: an adaptation of Joe. R. Lansdale’s “Cold In July”. But ultimately audiences will decide if there’s room for yet another voice in the already-overstuffed “zombie” subgenre when Lionsgate releases Mulberry Street on November 9, 2007.

©2007 Robert J. Lewis