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Two new Slant magazine reviews for this beautiful (at least here in NYC) Memorial Day weekend. The first is for a well-done documentary on the life and work of underground poet Charles Bukowski entitled Bukowski: Born Into This, and the second is for the dreadfully stupid Soul Plane. Have a happy holiday!
Environmental paranoia reaches new heights with Roland Emmerich's The Day After Tomorrow, a silly disaster flick in which our greenhouse gas-ignoring recklessness leads to a new Ice Age. My cooler head prevails at Slant magazine...
Atheism is no match for Catholicism in Dracula Has Risen From the Grave, the third installment of Hammer studio’s crimson-smeared vampire saga starring Christopher Lee as the lascivious hemoglobin-guzzling Count Dracula. Twelve months after the events of the last film, a priest finds a woman with bite marks hanging dead inside his church bell, a discovery that further convinces the parishioners that this place of worship – which is touched at dusk by the shadow of Dracula’s castle – is tainted by the unholy. A visiting Monsignor, disgusted by the townsfolk’s fear of an already vanquished monster, takes the priest up to the Count’s castle and places a giant golden cross across the door, though not before a storm causes the priest to fall down the mountain and bleed, conveniently, on the shattered ice that was imprisoning Dracula. Free to resume his demonic business, the Count goes after the Monsignor and his pretty blond niece Anna, who’s in love – much to the Monsignor’s disapproval – with a God-denying baker studying to be a doctor or professor (or something else “intellectual”).
Lee’s enormous cold eyes turn deep scarlet when his bloodlust is aroused, and, as in Dracula: Prince of Darkness, he “turns” a promiscuous woman but really has a craving for the pure, undefiled juices of the virginal Anna. A scene in which he mounts Anna (who’s splayed out on a bed) and rubs his face and mouth against hers before engaging in some pointy-toothed necking is indicative of the film’s more pronounced concentration on the sexual aspects of Dracula’s appetite. Freddie Francis’ direction employs a visual schema that’s both decadently classy and decrepitly moldy, but there’s just not enough of Lee’s Dracula – who, as in later films, becomes almost a side character – to sustain one’s interest throughout the sometimes tedious expository scenes featuring Paul and his co-workers at the local tavern. Although he shares with his nemesis an aversion to religious iconography, Paul eventually crosses himself in a sign of holy conversion after impaling Dracula on a gigantic cross, thereby providing a triumphant conclusion – for believers, at least – in which noble faith conquers that wretched condition known as godlessness.
Narrowly beating Fatal Attraction to the screen in 1987, Pedro Almodóvar’s The Law of Desire concerns a similarly unhealthy relationship, although in the director’s colorfully kinky Spain, the dangerous romance is shared by adult film director Pablo (Eusebio Poncela) – a sexually promiscuous artist whose last lover Juan couldn’t quite reciprocate Pablo’s love and thus left to work at a coastal town’s lighthouse – and his new stalkerazzi lover Antonio, who’s fandom quickly morphs into frightening obsession. The director embellishes this primary storyline with incest, rampant cocaine use, promiscuity, and jabs at the Catholic Church, as well as with a secondary plot involving Pablo’s transsexual lesbian sister Tina (the sensually chic Carmen Maura), a budding actress taking care of her ex-lover’s daughter while working on Pablo’s stage version of Cocteau’s The Human Voice (a monologue about a woman and a suitcase that formed the basis for Almodóvar’s subsequent Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown). The plot is set in motion by Pablo, who, dissatisfied with Juan’s first letter home, writes an idealistic replacement letter that expresses the longings and sadness Juan didn’t convey in his own letter, sends it to Juan to sign, and then has Juan send it back to him. When new boy-toy Antonio discovers this missive, his clingy behavior goes from mild to maniacal, eventually throwing both men’s lives into sweaty, sexy tumult. Pablo’s typewriter and, by extension, his fiction writing – not only the author’s screenplays and plays, but also this fake letter to/by Juan – becomes both an outlet for his desires and frustrations (he’s writing a new play about Tina’s transexuality) and the cause for his sexual and emotional frustrations. Almodóvar’s affection for his characters’ foibles and fetishistic carnal appetites makes his engagingly loopy narrative more than a simple Telemundo-on-acid joke, and his boldly candid depiction of homosexual love – including a couple of amorous go-rounds between Pablo and Antonio which exude the heavy panting hysteria of unbridled lust – contributes to the film’s hot-blooded vigor. That said, I can’t help but shake the feeling that, had Banderas exhibited similar homosexual desire in his American movie debut, the dashing Spanish actor’s Hollywood career would have sunk faster than a stone.
Perhaps the least effective Hammer horror film featuring Christopher Lee as the fly-by-night Count, Dracula: Prince of Darkness features an awkward silent performance from its star as the titular monster, whose ferocious snarl and lack of dialogue makes the character more feral monster than debonair, courtly spawn of Satan. Yet despite a less-than-stellar turn by Lee, Terence Fisher’s 1966 film – which is technically the third Hammer Dracula film after Horror of Dracula and Brides of Dracula, although the latter doesn’t feature Lee and, thus, doesn’t truly count – has a gothic mustiness that perfectly suits its tale of aristrocrats gone lost. A group of English fuddy-duddies ignore a priest’s warning and head off into the Carpathian mountains, where their driver abandons them for fear of getting too close to Count Dracula’s castle. There, the prim and proper travelers are picked up by a mysterious carriage that takes them to the ominous castle, which is being kept in order by the Count’s eerie servant Clove. Fisher tantalizingly hints at the coming horror when one of the two female travelers sits on her bed and remarks on its lumpiness (is the mattress made of bodies?), and Clove doesn’t waste much time bleeding one of the two men dry in order to resurrect Lee’s towering villain. Like The Texas Chainsaw Massacre, the film seems to be punishing these arrogant, idiotic nobles for recklessly avoiding the townspeople’s warnings about the dangerousness of their sightseeing trip and, thus, treating the nasty, brutal world as their playground. This being a Hammer production, the Count is naturally a sexually virulent beast, and, as in many of the series’ subsequent films, Dracula has a classic moment in which he tosses aside the needy, slutty vampiress (who he’s already defiled with a bite) in favor of attempting to slurp from the neck of a pure, noble – and thus symbolically “virginal” – blonde beauty. The climactic Dracula death is completely nonsensical – if running water is the bane of Dracula’s existence, why does he have a castle surrounded by it? – but the castle itself has a lascivious opulence that matches these films’ baroque blending of the regal and the bodice-ripping.
From the late ‘50s through the ‘70s, no one did horror like England’s Hammer studios, and the crown jewels in their terrifying oeuvre were the gothic Dracula pictures starring the incomparable Christopher Lee as the blood-sucking prince of darkness. Horror of Dracula (also known simply as Dracula) marks Lee’s first turn as the Count, as well as Peter Cushing’s initial performance as the indefatigable vampire hunter Van Helsing, and it’s likely the most tantalizingly creepy entry in this series of cinematic nightmares. The story, only loosely adhering to Bram Stoker’s plot, has Van Helsing going in search of John Harker (John Van Eyssen), who has infiltrated Dracula’s castle in order to destroy him but has instead fallen victim to the devilish villain’s undead curse. Van Helsing liberates Harker’s soul, but soon realizes that the Count has designs on Harker’s fiancé Mina Holmwood (Melissa Stribling), and teams up with Mina’s brother Arthur (Michael Gough) to finally do away with Dracula. Lee’s silky deep voice, severe wide-eyed glares and imposing stature make him a formidable Dracula, although it’s hardly befitting a centuries-old monster like the Count to be running around scared as much as he does in this Hammer film. Nonetheless, director Terence Fisher elegantly shrouds the film in worn, muted tones that stand in disconcerting contrast to the film’s copious amount of ketchup-red blood. The film sometimes seems like it was set in Austria rather than Transylvania, what with Van Helsing’s bushy fur-collared coat, the opulently designed castles, and Arthur drinking from a hefty beer stein, and the good doctor’s advice to Arthur after he’s undergone a blood transfusion – that he should drink wine to alleviate his lightheadedness! – seems misguided unless he intends Arthur to get absolutely wasted. Still, the always-magisterial Cushing has a dignified British graveness that perfectly fits Van Helsing’s somber determination, and his climactic battle against the dastardly Dracula culminates in a thrillingly acrobatic killing that none of the subsequent Hammer films ever truly matched.
(Originally published in Rocky Mountain Bullhorn)
Shrek and the gang return for more pop culture-referencing, fairy tale mixing-and-matching, and rampant farting in Shrek 2, a sequel to the 2001 blockbuster that delivers neither less, nor more, than its wildly popular predecessor. As is customary during the summer movie season, this second go-round is a slightly brasher, more hyperactive photocopy of its source material that slavishly replicates the first film’s delights while avoiding any alterations that might threaten to alienate even a single fan. Competent, inoffensive, and frustratingly familiar, it’s a mild retread that, for good or bad (depending on how you felt about the original adventure), never strays from its Brothers Grimm-meets-Access Hollywood jambalaya template.
Now living happily ever after, Shrek (voiced by Mike Myers) and Princess Fiona (Cameron Diaz) are summoned by Fiona’s parents (John Cleese and Julie Andrews) to celebrate their daughter’s nuptials in the land of Far, Far Away. The problem, though, is that Fiona’s mom and pop think she’s betrothed to Prince Charming (Rupert Everett) – son of the mercenary Fairy Godmother (Jennifer Saunders), and the dashing hero who was supposed to break Fiona’s ogre spell with a single kiss – and don’t react too kindly to their new son-in-law’s big, green, monstrous exterior. Since Far, Far Away is a hokey fantasy version of Hollywood, we get rampant allusions to films such as Alien, Austin Powers, and The Lord of the Rings, as well as general nods to the ubiquitousness of Starbucks (here dubbed Farbucks), Joan Rivers’ red-carpet shrieking, and the TV show Cops. The cumulative effect of all this name-dropping, however, is that Shrek 2 comes across like an egotistical know-it-all flaunting an encyclopedic knowledge of pop culture, with random, easily recognizable asides about Ghostbusters, Mission: Impossible and Justin Timberlake (Diaz’s current boyfriend, no less!) included to make the audience feel like they’re in on the (excruciatingly obvious) joke.
Whereas Pixar’s infinitely superior Toy Story and Finding Nemo eschew cheap scatological silliness in favor of incisive wit, Shrek 2 continues the franchise’s penchant for wallowing in a morass of manure-related gags. Nothing wrong with some well-timed toilet humor, mind you, but having characters periodically interrupt scenes with arbitrary blasts of flatulence reeks of comedic desperation and further sullies the recycled narrative’s moral about embracing one’s inner beauty. Antonio Banderas’ cute and cuddly assassin Puss In Boots – a knowing riff on the star’s dashing performance in 1998’s The Mask of Zorro – exhibits a swashbuckling mischievousness, and the feisty orange feline’s vibrant animation is a testament to the film’s dazzling coloring-book visual palette. Yet watching Puss cough up a furball and, later, lick himself in public just serves to remind one that underneath Shrek 2’s surface splendor lurks a penchant for potty-mouthed puerility.
(Originally published in Rocky Mountain Bullhorn)
In case you thought McDonald’s was good for you, Morgan Spurlock’s Super Size Me – a Sundance sensation about the hazards of our fast food obsession – is the fledgling documentarian’s wake-up call to you and the millions of other Americans patronizing the golden arches and its ilk. Spurlock, a Michael Moore type without the egotistical bombast, uses stats and animated graphics to eviscerate the industry that has cultivated our fatty, sugary national cuisine. And to resoundingly drive his greasy point home, the director pulls off one whopper of a cinematic gimmick: he records himself eating nothing but McDonald’s for thirty straight days, and Super Sizing his meal whenever asked.
Spurlock, originally a fit thirty-something New Yorker, sets out on his fast food binge as something of a lark, but after regurgitating his value meal on day three, the director begins to realize his stunt may actually be hazardous to his health, a fact eventually confirmed by the calamitous liver damage caused by his excessive consumption of nuggets and fries. Spurlock’s jaunty film exudes fervent outrage, and many vignettes – including a futile search for nutritional information at McDonald’s, as well as a montage of young overweight customers set to Wesley Willis’ “Rock ‘N Roll McDonald’s” – playfully detail our country’s growing obesity crisis. Yet the primary lure is Spurlock’s attention-grabbing regimen, and even if the director’s conclusions are obvious and his physical deterioration reckless, his film’s ability to convince McDonald’s to abandon Super Size meals suggests that one man’s insalubrious gorging might help shake the Mcfaithful out of their special sauce stupors.
(Originally published in Rocky Mountain Bullhorn)
Exhibiting far less of his previous work’s dark humor, Pedro Almodóvar’s Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown (1988) is an exuberant comedy of manners drunk on its own outlandish melodrama. This slight tonal shift, however, doesn’t stop Almodóvar from indulging in his favorite obsessions – pulsating primary colors, satiric television commercials, Buñeul-inspired shots of women’s high heels – and from once again providing actress Carmen Maura (as soap opera star Pepa) with a tailor-made venue for her stylish, sexy, frazzled charisma. The film, which involves Pepa’s attempts to track down her married lover while a host of wacky friends and strangers (including Antonio Banderas’ Carlos and María Barranco’s Candela) invade her gaudy penthouse apartment, is a joyous romp that cheerily examines the turbulent nature of love and desire. And as with so much of the director’s oeuvre, it’s also a madcap fantasy about the empowering freedom women can enjoy by kicking their male lotharios to the curb.
Gloria (Carmen Maura) is a put-upon maid who, in order to stay alert while toiling away at multiple jobs, pop No-Doze pills like candy. Still, these uppers hardly alleviate the frustration and anger of contending with her loutish tax-driver husband (who once published a forged collection of Hitler’s letters, and is in love with German opera singer), her crotchety mother-in-law (who owns a pet lizard named Dinero and constantly bitches about moving back to her home village), her drug-dealing older son, and her young boy, who’s having sexual affairs with old men. In What Have I Done to Deserve This?, Pedro Almodóvar takes comedic aim at the miserable plight of working-class women in modern Spain, and, in the process, delivers the first satisfyingly unruly film of his career. The director’s controlled mise-en-scène is deliciously deadpan, and his film smoothly segues between farcical silliness and poignant melodrama, most gracefully during by an unsettling confrontation between Gloria and her husband that devolves into a lethally humorous slapstick sequence. Almodóvar pokes equal fun at the working and upper classes (embodied by a wealthy married couple attempting to publish a fictional version of Hitler’s diary), but his real affection is naturally reserved for Gloria and her outlandish demimonde friend Cristal, a bubbly, flamboyant stylish prostitute who lives next door to Gloria’s fractured clan. The film is one of Almodovar’s many tales of triumphant women sticking it to their callous, no-good men, as well as a somewhat harsh critique of a Spanish culture that dooms women to indentured servitude. Money is the root of Gloria’s unhappiness – she can’t procure any from her husband for groceries, and the lizard Dinero is just the latest annoyance created by the unbearable grandmother – and thus her husband’s and Dinero’s near-simultaneous deaths represent Gloria’s economic, emotional, and physical liberation. Carmen Maura is pitch-perfect in a glorious performance that gracefully mixes exasperation, anger and wit, and Almodóvar’s kinky, ribald humor is in fine form, whether it be his ironic TV commercials (here a coffee ad in which a woman being served breakfast in bed is horribly scalded when her beau trips), Gloria’s plans for revenge against her intolerable mother-in-law, or the inclusion of a telepathic child that seems straight of a Steven King novel. Not all of this stuff makes sense, but as with Almodóvar’s best stuff, many of the film’s best jokes seem to have been thrown into the mix simply because the director (correctly) thought it was funny.
