Shocking Cinema II: The Exsanguination
Good mourning, boils and ghouls! I didn't get to that "Poultrygeist" screening, but I hope you did. It's finally time for part two of my intercontinental scary cinema tour.
"Frontière(s)" (aka "Frontier(s)," dir. Xavier Gens, 2007)
Okay, "torture porn." This widely-abused term does not refer to the infamously sick XXX material once produced by the Avon theater chain, but instead used to perjoratively describe a perceived fetishization of human suffering in such modern mainstream horror films as "Hostel," "Saw," "The Devil's Rejects" and the remake of "The Hills Have Eyes." The Moral Majority/PMRC witchhunts of the 1980s may now be properly derided as the efforts of ignorant alarmists, but the puritanical scolding of "torture porn" audiences remains fashionable among film critics who wish to appear responsible and tasteful. These are the same classy cinéastes who consider taut crime procedurals like "Psycho," "The Silence of the Lambs" and "Se7en" satisfying horror films, while turning up their noses at anything involving subterranean mutant monsters, psychedelic undead necromancers or twin deformed psychic killers.
Now, you might be able to take an Entertainment Weekly writer's word when a new Usher album is particularly awful, but you cannot assume that they can tell the difference between Metallica and Darkthrone. Likewise, you can certainly trust mass market critics to weed out good costume dramas or biopics from the dreck, but in no way should you listen to their opinion regarding horror movies. Any self-righteous douchebag on the right or the left who would lead some sort of campaign against a movie on moral grounds, especially when so many other injustices call for urgent action, deserves a brutally cold dose of reality.
The kinds of movies derided as "torture porn," regardless of individual quality, actually serve several purposes. First, after decades of MPAA tampering ("Friday the 13th Part VII: The New Blood," "Leatherface: The Texas Chainsaw Massacre III"), slick TV star fodder aimed at teenagers on dates ("Urban Legend," "Stay Alive") and low-thrills effects bonanzas ("The Haunting," "Resident Evil"), the return of graphic, intense, uninhibited material is mostly welcomed by genre fans... you know, the paying audience for new horror movies. Sure, a lot of old-timey horror buffs don't like gore, and thus were pleased with the bloodless J-horror trend, but the rest of us crave something a little more transgressive. Second, while they are invariably explicit, typical "torture porn" films don't feature unheard-of levels of onscreen depravity. The '70s and early '80s were rife with violence and sleazy content that was often far more objectionable than what's roundly demonized today. The realistic atmospheres, stripped-down aggression and extended sequences focusing on unextraordinary people in physical peril are truthfully on loan from a previous cycle of horror films. One might argue that technological advancement makes screen violence appear too realistic, removing some of the psychological distance an unconvincing effect offers... to which I would answer that in fifteen years, the best effects of the '00s will undoubtedly look fake compared to what's achieved by then.
Ultimately, no one should set out to watch a horror film in order to have his or her insular worldview coddled or affirmed. You watch a horror film to be shaken up, challenged, even disturbed, to come out the other side and sigh with relief that you can survive such a shock to the senses. In an economically-doomed global environment where we can hop online and watch the real-life killings of journalists and heads of state alike, the safe, winking retreads that once passed for horror movies cannot begin to help us address our fears, and thus the intensity factor has inevitably increased. Extreme catharsis for extreme times. Personally, I believe simulated physical violence can serve this purpose in talented hands, as strongly as I believe simulated sexual violence never can. But just because you're not gonna catch me sitting down with the new remake of "The Last House on the Left" doesn't mean you'll see me protesting outside the local multiplex. It's surely a hateful piece of crap, but in the grand scheme of things, it's no worse an insult to good horror movies than "Beverly Hills Chihuahua" is to good children's movies. All I need to do is simply avoid both, which should be fairly easy.
So, "Frontière(s)." This French flick, which would arguably fit in the "torture porn" genre if such a thing actually existed, was directed by the guy who went on to helm the silly-but-fun action extravaganza "Hitman." It was imported by the folks behind the After Dark Horrorfest. It was supposed to be part of the actual fest at theaters, but the MPAA rated it NC-17, so it pretty much came out straight to DVD here. I have no idea what the ratings board's problem was, as it's no more grueling than the original "Hostel," and in fact "borrows" a couple of key effects shots seen in the theatrical version of that film (plus a lot of other stuff from any given "Texas Chainsaw Massacre" feature, including the requisite uncomfortable dinner table scene, as well as a claustrophobia-tunnel moment you may remember from "The Descent"). Perhaps it's the film's political angle? It's set among rioting youths (one's a Muslim) in the aftermath of a right-wing government takeover, which may be too reminiscent of the 2005 underclass riots and the jackbooted reaction by now-President Nicolas Sarkozy... nah, Americans don't know about all that French stuff. Perhaps it was the fact that the endangered heroine is pregnant? She and her friends are subjected to all sorts of duress, physical and otherwise, once they seek refuge at a country inn run by a family of neo-Nazi cannibals... nope, the French fascists decide to go easy on her when they learn that she's with child in order to cultivate a new race of purebred whatzis. Its downbeat tone being quite similar to what you'd expect for this sort of survival horror flick, I'm guessing the NC-17 came down for pure gore, of which there's plenty. That's actually a relief. Since the movie really has nothing original or insightful to offer, only fans of grimy bloodletting need bother with it. I'd say if you thought "The Devil's Rejects" was pretty good, you may enjoy "Frontière(s)." It's less of a gyp than "Haute Tension" was, but I'm personally still hoping for a real revelation amid this new onslaught of French extremity. On to "Ils" and "À L'intérieur," then.
"Trailer Park of Terror" (dir. Steven Goldmann, 2008)
In light of how many metal and hip-hop horror flicks exist, the potential for country music/horror movie crossovers is relatively unmined. Aside from the dubious promise of such a rare junction, I wasn't expecting much from this comic book adaptation, so I was definitely surprised by its opening sequence. We see a trashy young blonde named Norma (Nichole Hiltz, Anna Faris' lover from "May," marginally channeling Jaime Pressly's brilliant work on "My Name Is Earl") getting ready to meet up with her new boyfriend, an upstanding type who offers a promise of escape from the ignorant squalor in which she is mired. Her redneck trailer park neighbors leer and tease, and when one scuffles with her beau, he accidentally kills the dashing hunk. Norma loses it and takes off, only to run into a mysterious stranger (played by Big Hat country star Trace Adkins!) who hands her a shotgun and encourages vengeance. She returns and lays waste to the place, pumping the dirtbags full of lead before blowing everyone up, including herself. It's a pretty effective set-up, this wronged woman cleansing the painful source of her dire existence. Too bad country music video director Goldmann completely squanders it, going on to deliver a predictable saga in which a group of unrepentant bad kids on a Christian retreat become stranded outside the ruined trailer park and are picked off by its undead denizens. These doofuses are your bog standard slasher victims, from the klepto and the junkie to the goth chick and the straight-arrow youth pastor. The zombie-ish villains are also nothing special, such as the chuckling fatty who makes deep-fried jerky from one of the teens and the rotting rockabilly guitar slinger (done better in "Dead & Breakfast"). In a groan-worthy display of gimmicky nonsense, the latter growls a tune during which he comments upon carnage that's unfolding inside the house on which he's perched, even though he can't possibly see what's happening. Don't believe reports that "Trailer Park of Terror" has much in common with H.G. Lewis' white trash gore epic "Two Thousand Maniacs!" It's ultimately a lesser cousin of that classic's semi-remake, although more clearly modeled after Rob Zombie's hillbilly horror flicks, especially his lovably colorful trainwreck of a debut, "House of 1,000 Corpses" (Rainn Wilson's "death on video" scene is explicitly copied to diminishing returns here). The flick's biggest problem is that it can't decide if it's a cheeky Southern horror-comedy or grisly latter-day survival horror. The cornpone goofiness is often too forced or obvious to work, while the occasional grueling murder sequences always seem out of place, undercut by the otherwise campy proceedings. Worst of all, that explosive opening sequence clearly underlines how Norma feels about her fellow trailer park residents, yet her undead self seems to have no trouble collaborating with them, rendering the best part of the film nearly pointless. Shockingly, the makeup and gore effects in "Trailer Park of Terror" are very good, but are unfortunately wasted on a middle-of-the-road movie that's simply not willing to be outrageous enough to succeed.
"Splinter" (dir. Toby Wilkins, 2008)
Here's something I caught at the aforementioned Fango Weekend (see me in action here). As the scheduled activities drew to a close, I was bushed after many hours of Q&A panels, genre celebrity sightings and DVD purchases, but didn't feel like heading home yet. I decided to catch the last movie being screened for the day, but remembering my experience with "Turistas" at the 2007 fest, I figured I would bolt if it started to stink. Directed by the guy who more recently made the direct-to-video "The Grudge 3," "Splinter" ended up being good enough to keep me in my seat for its duration. It's the tale of a relatively bland young couple whose anniversary camping trip is hijacked by another couple, a convict on the lam and a junkie trying to kick her habit. These nogoodniks sucker, then force themselves upon the campers, who must tote their belligerent asses through the forest until a flat tire stops everyone's progress. We see that the cause is an animal infected by a spiny mass of gunk, possibly the same critter that we saw maul a gas station attendant at the beginning of the flick. When the travelers make it to said gas station, the junkie is killed by the attendant's animated remains, now laden with spiky protuberances and twitching about in a fearsome manner. The other three hole up inside the station's well-stocked convenience store, attempting to escape the virus-like menace, which attacks and repurposes the anatomy of any living animal in its path. "Splinter" is a pretty effective little invasion flick, aside from some clunky exposition. The bellowing, foul-mouthed con is actually a decent guy, don't ya know, and probably a better match for the plucky heroine than her nebbishy beardo husband, who much too conveniently figures out that the creature tracks by heat. Thankfully, the movie doesn't feel the need to explain too much else about its spine-laden threat (aside from hinting that it might have come from a nearby oil drilling site), as this is the sort of monster movie that works better with less science than fiction. The top-notch effects include a jolly reanimated hand that runs around the store, as well as the horribly bent, besplintered bodies overtaken by the nefarious parasite, flesh contorted like something out of John Carpenter's "The Thing" and moving with alarming abruptness. More shots of these fascinatingly icky things might have bumped "Splinter" up to minor classic status, since its suspense sequences are done very well, but with a low-budget production such as this, I can see how additional exposure might also have cheapened the effect of their minor screen time. As it is, the flick won best picture, director and four other awards at the 2008 LA Screamfest. For any horror buff, it's worth a watch.
"El Barón del Terror" (aka "The Brainiac," dir. Chano Urueta, 1962)
Something a older here, a b-movie "classic" featuring one of Mexican horror's most infamous creatures. I prefer the title's literal English translation, "The Baron of Terror," to "The Brainiac," which, although somewhat apropos, inevitably reminds me of the Superman villain. This is the tawdry tale of Baron Vitelius, a smarmy slickster who is dragged before a 1661 Inquisition court on charges which include heresy, dogmatism, precognating "through the use of corpses" and seducing women. He's obviously got some rapport with the occult sciences, since he jovially makes iron shackles move from his wrists to those of his judicial captors. For his ignoble efforts, the Baron is forced to wear a pope hat and burned at the stake, during which he naturally swears cackling revenge on the inquisitors' descendants with the help of a passing comet (what an effect!). Flash-forward to 1961, when the comet finally comes around again and slowly lands on Earth, causing a unique monster to pop out. With a thick, black mane, matching woolly beard, arched eyebrows, oversized fangs and elf ears, pointy nose and long forked tongue, the returning Vitelius' clumsily pulsing noggin gives him the appearance of a dilapidated deviled ham mascot. Putting him over the top are his hands, rubbery sacs of abomination which end in pinchers that look like suction devices, but which never do any sucking. Instead, he sucks out human brains by somehow using his floppy tongue to bore into the back of each unsuspecting victim's skull, as he does to a random motorist and a clueless lady who flirts with him at a deserted lounge. Sadly, to aid his murderous subterfuge, he transforms back into his human form most of the time, although he acts so suspiciously out of place, he makes Marty McFly seem like a master of undercover deception. Most of the movie follows Vitelius as he first hosts a party (he owns real estate and has a butler, both unexplained) with all of his intended victims as guests. Then he visits them, makes small talk, causes lights to flash on either his own face or theirs, briefly makes out with the women, transforms into the beast and dispatches them. Sometimes, in human form, he sneaks off and digs out a hidden tureen from which he gobbles spoonfuls of a substance that looks like scrambled eggs... a close-up confirms that this is a handy hoard of brains, although the stash's origin is not explored (does he save the gray matter in his cheeks until he gets home, spitting them in the urn for a rainy day?). Otherwise, it's standard old-timey monster movie stupidity, either with a pair of corny cops investigating the murders or a pair of boring astrology students who are extraordinarily into the whole comet thing. An abrupt climax involving flamethrowers brings the entire absurd mess to a surreal, if somewhat disappointing, end. The "Brainiac" monster, however, does not disappoint, standing up to its cult creature reputation. The costume's cheap, fleabitten oddity, along with the movie's litany of laugh-out-loud dialogue (hilariously dubbed thanks to original American importer K. Gordon Murray), are of great benefit to "El Barón del Terror." Most of its amusingly inept elements are expertly addressed here, but they're better experienced than read about. If you're the type that finds old b-flicks too tame and tedious to amuse, too bad, because this one is a lot of cheesy fun.
"Il Bosco Fuori" (aka "The Last House in the Woods," dir. Gabriele Albanesi, 2006)
Over the past decade, the vintage Italian horror movie industry saw a lot of nostalgic attention, but that unfortunately did not translate into a revival of its most charming aspects. Everyone loves Lucio Fulci and Dario Argento, but although the former is dead and the latter obstinately eschews the enveloping atmosphere endemic to his classic work, we haven't seen any filmmakers stepping up to fill their splattered shoes. It's pretty much accepted that the golden age of Italian genre cinema ended with 1994's glorious "Dellamorte Dellamore," as the national film industry had succumbed to the influx of Hollywood product and most technicians sought refuge in television work. While not a mind-blowing film, "Il Bosco Fuori" (meaning "The Forest Outside" or "Out of the Woods") manages to be a convincing update of "video nasty"-era Italian horror. This nutty mishmash of "The Texas Chain Saw Massacre" (of course), "House on the Edge of the Park" and "Phenomena" starts with an on again, off again couple: he loves her, she LJBFs him, they have sex in his car. Before long, they're attacked by three archetypal spaghetti sleaze thugs, your classic trio of jabronis driving around with cologne on their cheeks, narcotics in their veins and rape in their hearts. Thankfully, these idiots don't violate the heroine, but they do manage to bang the dude up pretty well. The imperiled couple gets away from the hoodlums, thanks to the intercession of another couple, a slightly older pair who are out for a drive and insist that the young semi-lovers come home with them. Of course, like most Good Samaritans, these two kill people and feed them to their mutant cannibal monster son. Suddenly, it's modern-style gore time, real up close and personal, with some sweet chainsaw action! Then the toughs show up again, at the crazy people's house! Actually, the unshaven, '80s-looking trio proves to be a pretty hilarious presence, an overblown parody of the sort of amoral psychopaths David Hess used to play. Along with a cheesy synth score, artsy-fartsy framing and awesomely pointless zooms, the coked-up ruffians are one of several stylistic tributes that make the flick play like half of a cut-rate "Grindhouse" sequel. I mean that in the best possible way, since this Albanesi character apparently admits to a lot of influence from other filmmakers' signature moves. Although he claims classy guys such as Kubrick, Lynch and Leone, I would situate the director's true cinematic forebears among names like Aristide Massaccesi, Lamberto Bava and Enzo Castellari... the colorful capitalist cobblers of Italian schlock. Even the now-esteemed Lucio Fulci belongs among that journeyman bunch, so who knows what we can expect from Albanesi in the future? Hopefully not some remake-for-hire ignominy, but more pernicious and pretentious perversion.
"Frontière(s)" (aka "Frontier(s)," dir. Xavier Gens, 2007)Okay, "torture porn." This widely-abused term does not refer to the infamously sick XXX material once produced by the Avon theater chain, but instead used to perjoratively describe a perceived fetishization of human suffering in such modern mainstream horror films as "Hostel," "Saw," "The Devil's Rejects" and the remake of "The Hills Have Eyes." The Moral Majority/PMRC witchhunts of the 1980s may now be properly derided as the efforts of ignorant alarmists, but the puritanical scolding of "torture porn" audiences remains fashionable among film critics who wish to appear responsible and tasteful. These are the same classy cinéastes who consider taut crime procedurals like "Psycho," "The Silence of the Lambs" and "Se7en" satisfying horror films, while turning up their noses at anything involving subterranean mutant monsters, psychedelic undead necromancers or twin deformed psychic killers.
Now, you might be able to take an Entertainment Weekly writer's word when a new Usher album is particularly awful, but you cannot assume that they can tell the difference between Metallica and Darkthrone. Likewise, you can certainly trust mass market critics to weed out good costume dramas or biopics from the dreck, but in no way should you listen to their opinion regarding horror movies. Any self-righteous douchebag on the right or the left who would lead some sort of campaign against a movie on moral grounds, especially when so many other injustices call for urgent action, deserves a brutally cold dose of reality.
The kinds of movies derided as "torture porn," regardless of individual quality, actually serve several purposes. First, after decades of MPAA tampering ("Friday the 13th Part VII: The New Blood," "Leatherface: The Texas Chainsaw Massacre III"), slick TV star fodder aimed at teenagers on dates ("Urban Legend," "Stay Alive") and low-thrills effects bonanzas ("The Haunting," "Resident Evil"), the return of graphic, intense, uninhibited material is mostly welcomed by genre fans... you know, the paying audience for new horror movies. Sure, a lot of old-timey horror buffs don't like gore, and thus were pleased with the bloodless J-horror trend, but the rest of us crave something a little more transgressive. Second, while they are invariably explicit, typical "torture porn" films don't feature unheard-of levels of onscreen depravity. The '70s and early '80s were rife with violence and sleazy content that was often far more objectionable than what's roundly demonized today. The realistic atmospheres, stripped-down aggression and extended sequences focusing on unextraordinary people in physical peril are truthfully on loan from a previous cycle of horror films. One might argue that technological advancement makes screen violence appear too realistic, removing some of the psychological distance an unconvincing effect offers... to which I would answer that in fifteen years, the best effects of the '00s will undoubtedly look fake compared to what's achieved by then.
Ultimately, no one should set out to watch a horror film in order to have his or her insular worldview coddled or affirmed. You watch a horror film to be shaken up, challenged, even disturbed, to come out the other side and sigh with relief that you can survive such a shock to the senses. In an economically-doomed global environment where we can hop online and watch the real-life killings of journalists and heads of state alike, the safe, winking retreads that once passed for horror movies cannot begin to help us address our fears, and thus the intensity factor has inevitably increased. Extreme catharsis for extreme times. Personally, I believe simulated physical violence can serve this purpose in talented hands, as strongly as I believe simulated sexual violence never can. But just because you're not gonna catch me sitting down with the new remake of "The Last House on the Left" doesn't mean you'll see me protesting outside the local multiplex. It's surely a hateful piece of crap, but in the grand scheme of things, it's no worse an insult to good horror movies than "Beverly Hills Chihuahua" is to good children's movies. All I need to do is simply avoid both, which should be fairly easy.
So, "Frontière(s)." This French flick, which would arguably fit in the "torture porn" genre if such a thing actually existed, was directed by the guy who went on to helm the silly-but-fun action extravaganza "Hitman." It was imported by the folks behind the After Dark Horrorfest. It was supposed to be part of the actual fest at theaters, but the MPAA rated it NC-17, so it pretty much came out straight to DVD here. I have no idea what the ratings board's problem was, as it's no more grueling than the original "Hostel," and in fact "borrows" a couple of key effects shots seen in the theatrical version of that film (plus a lot of other stuff from any given "Texas Chainsaw Massacre" feature, including the requisite uncomfortable dinner table scene, as well as a claustrophobia-tunnel moment you may remember from "The Descent"). Perhaps it's the film's political angle? It's set among rioting youths (one's a Muslim) in the aftermath of a right-wing government takeover, which may be too reminiscent of the 2005 underclass riots and the jackbooted reaction by now-President Nicolas Sarkozy... nah, Americans don't know about all that French stuff. Perhaps it was the fact that the endangered heroine is pregnant? She and her friends are subjected to all sorts of duress, physical and otherwise, once they seek refuge at a country inn run by a family of neo-Nazi cannibals... nope, the French fascists decide to go easy on her when they learn that she's with child in order to cultivate a new race of purebred whatzis. Its downbeat tone being quite similar to what you'd expect for this sort of survival horror flick, I'm guessing the NC-17 came down for pure gore, of which there's plenty. That's actually a relief. Since the movie really has nothing original or insightful to offer, only fans of grimy bloodletting need bother with it. I'd say if you thought "The Devil's Rejects" was pretty good, you may enjoy "Frontière(s)." It's less of a gyp than "Haute Tension" was, but I'm personally still hoping for a real revelation amid this new onslaught of French extremity. On to "Ils" and "À L'intérieur," then.
"Trailer Park of Terror" (dir. Steven Goldmann, 2008)In light of how many metal and hip-hop horror flicks exist, the potential for country music/horror movie crossovers is relatively unmined. Aside from the dubious promise of such a rare junction, I wasn't expecting much from this comic book adaptation, so I was definitely surprised by its opening sequence. We see a trashy young blonde named Norma (Nichole Hiltz, Anna Faris' lover from "May," marginally channeling Jaime Pressly's brilliant work on "My Name Is Earl") getting ready to meet up with her new boyfriend, an upstanding type who offers a promise of escape from the ignorant squalor in which she is mired. Her redneck trailer park neighbors leer and tease, and when one scuffles with her beau, he accidentally kills the dashing hunk. Norma loses it and takes off, only to run into a mysterious stranger (played by Big Hat country star Trace Adkins!) who hands her a shotgun and encourages vengeance. She returns and lays waste to the place, pumping the dirtbags full of lead before blowing everyone up, including herself. It's a pretty effective set-up, this wronged woman cleansing the painful source of her dire existence. Too bad country music video director Goldmann completely squanders it, going on to deliver a predictable saga in which a group of unrepentant bad kids on a Christian retreat become stranded outside the ruined trailer park and are picked off by its undead denizens. These doofuses are your bog standard slasher victims, from the klepto and the junkie to the goth chick and the straight-arrow youth pastor. The zombie-ish villains are also nothing special, such as the chuckling fatty who makes deep-fried jerky from one of the teens and the rotting rockabilly guitar slinger (done better in "Dead & Breakfast"). In a groan-worthy display of gimmicky nonsense, the latter growls a tune during which he comments upon carnage that's unfolding inside the house on which he's perched, even though he can't possibly see what's happening. Don't believe reports that "Trailer Park of Terror" has much in common with H.G. Lewis' white trash gore epic "Two Thousand Maniacs!" It's ultimately a lesser cousin of that classic's semi-remake, although more clearly modeled after Rob Zombie's hillbilly horror flicks, especially his lovably colorful trainwreck of a debut, "House of 1,000 Corpses" (Rainn Wilson's "death on video" scene is explicitly copied to diminishing returns here). The flick's biggest problem is that it can't decide if it's a cheeky Southern horror-comedy or grisly latter-day survival horror. The cornpone goofiness is often too forced or obvious to work, while the occasional grueling murder sequences always seem out of place, undercut by the otherwise campy proceedings. Worst of all, that explosive opening sequence clearly underlines how Norma feels about her fellow trailer park residents, yet her undead self seems to have no trouble collaborating with them, rendering the best part of the film nearly pointless. Shockingly, the makeup and gore effects in "Trailer Park of Terror" are very good, but are unfortunately wasted on a middle-of-the-road movie that's simply not willing to be outrageous enough to succeed.
"Splinter" (dir. Toby Wilkins, 2008)Here's something I caught at the aforementioned Fango Weekend (see me in action here). As the scheduled activities drew to a close, I was bushed after many hours of Q&A panels, genre celebrity sightings and DVD purchases, but didn't feel like heading home yet. I decided to catch the last movie being screened for the day, but remembering my experience with "Turistas" at the 2007 fest, I figured I would bolt if it started to stink. Directed by the guy who more recently made the direct-to-video "The Grudge 3," "Splinter" ended up being good enough to keep me in my seat for its duration. It's the tale of a relatively bland young couple whose anniversary camping trip is hijacked by another couple, a convict on the lam and a junkie trying to kick her habit. These nogoodniks sucker, then force themselves upon the campers, who must tote their belligerent asses through the forest until a flat tire stops everyone's progress. We see that the cause is an animal infected by a spiny mass of gunk, possibly the same critter that we saw maul a gas station attendant at the beginning of the flick. When the travelers make it to said gas station, the junkie is killed by the attendant's animated remains, now laden with spiky protuberances and twitching about in a fearsome manner. The other three hole up inside the station's well-stocked convenience store, attempting to escape the virus-like menace, which attacks and repurposes the anatomy of any living animal in its path. "Splinter" is a pretty effective little invasion flick, aside from some clunky exposition. The bellowing, foul-mouthed con is actually a decent guy, don't ya know, and probably a better match for the plucky heroine than her nebbishy beardo husband, who much too conveniently figures out that the creature tracks by heat. Thankfully, the movie doesn't feel the need to explain too much else about its spine-laden threat (aside from hinting that it might have come from a nearby oil drilling site), as this is the sort of monster movie that works better with less science than fiction. The top-notch effects include a jolly reanimated hand that runs around the store, as well as the horribly bent, besplintered bodies overtaken by the nefarious parasite, flesh contorted like something out of John Carpenter's "The Thing" and moving with alarming abruptness. More shots of these fascinatingly icky things might have bumped "Splinter" up to minor classic status, since its suspense sequences are done very well, but with a low-budget production such as this, I can see how additional exposure might also have cheapened the effect of their minor screen time. As it is, the flick won best picture, director and four other awards at the 2008 LA Screamfest. For any horror buff, it's worth a watch.
"El Barón del Terror" (aka "The Brainiac," dir. Chano Urueta, 1962)Something a older here, a b-movie "classic" featuring one of Mexican horror's most infamous creatures. I prefer the title's literal English translation, "The Baron of Terror," to "The Brainiac," which, although somewhat apropos, inevitably reminds me of the Superman villain. This is the tawdry tale of Baron Vitelius, a smarmy slickster who is dragged before a 1661 Inquisition court on charges which include heresy, dogmatism, precognating "through the use of corpses" and seducing women. He's obviously got some rapport with the occult sciences, since he jovially makes iron shackles move from his wrists to those of his judicial captors. For his ignoble efforts, the Baron is forced to wear a pope hat and burned at the stake, during which he naturally swears cackling revenge on the inquisitors' descendants with the help of a passing comet (what an effect!). Flash-forward to 1961, when the comet finally comes around again and slowly lands on Earth, causing a unique monster to pop out. With a thick, black mane, matching woolly beard, arched eyebrows, oversized fangs and elf ears, pointy nose and long forked tongue, the returning Vitelius' clumsily pulsing noggin gives him the appearance of a dilapidated deviled ham mascot. Putting him over the top are his hands, rubbery sacs of abomination which end in pinchers that look like suction devices, but which never do any sucking. Instead, he sucks out human brains by somehow using his floppy tongue to bore into the back of each unsuspecting victim's skull, as he does to a random motorist and a clueless lady who flirts with him at a deserted lounge. Sadly, to aid his murderous subterfuge, he transforms back into his human form most of the time, although he acts so suspiciously out of place, he makes Marty McFly seem like a master of undercover deception. Most of the movie follows Vitelius as he first hosts a party (he owns real estate and has a butler, both unexplained) with all of his intended victims as guests. Then he visits them, makes small talk, causes lights to flash on either his own face or theirs, briefly makes out with the women, transforms into the beast and dispatches them. Sometimes, in human form, he sneaks off and digs out a hidden tureen from which he gobbles spoonfuls of a substance that looks like scrambled eggs... a close-up confirms that this is a handy hoard of brains, although the stash's origin is not explored (does he save the gray matter in his cheeks until he gets home, spitting them in the urn for a rainy day?). Otherwise, it's standard old-timey monster movie stupidity, either with a pair of corny cops investigating the murders or a pair of boring astrology students who are extraordinarily into the whole comet thing. An abrupt climax involving flamethrowers brings the entire absurd mess to a surreal, if somewhat disappointing, end. The "Brainiac" monster, however, does not disappoint, standing up to its cult creature reputation. The costume's cheap, fleabitten oddity, along with the movie's litany of laugh-out-loud dialogue (hilariously dubbed thanks to original American importer K. Gordon Murray), are of great benefit to "El Barón del Terror." Most of its amusingly inept elements are expertly addressed here, but they're better experienced than read about. If you're the type that finds old b-flicks too tame and tedious to amuse, too bad, because this one is a lot of cheesy fun.
"Il Bosco Fuori" (aka "The Last House in the Woods," dir. Gabriele Albanesi, 2006)Over the past decade, the vintage Italian horror movie industry saw a lot of nostalgic attention, but that unfortunately did not translate into a revival of its most charming aspects. Everyone loves Lucio Fulci and Dario Argento, but although the former is dead and the latter obstinately eschews the enveloping atmosphere endemic to his classic work, we haven't seen any filmmakers stepping up to fill their splattered shoes. It's pretty much accepted that the golden age of Italian genre cinema ended with 1994's glorious "Dellamorte Dellamore," as the national film industry had succumbed to the influx of Hollywood product and most technicians sought refuge in television work. While not a mind-blowing film, "Il Bosco Fuori" (meaning "The Forest Outside" or "Out of the Woods") manages to be a convincing update of "video nasty"-era Italian horror. This nutty mishmash of "The Texas Chain Saw Massacre" (of course), "House on the Edge of the Park" and "Phenomena" starts with an on again, off again couple: he loves her, she LJBFs him, they have sex in his car. Before long, they're attacked by three archetypal spaghetti sleaze thugs, your classic trio of jabronis driving around with cologne on their cheeks, narcotics in their veins and rape in their hearts. Thankfully, these idiots don't violate the heroine, but they do manage to bang the dude up pretty well. The imperiled couple gets away from the hoodlums, thanks to the intercession of another couple, a slightly older pair who are out for a drive and insist that the young semi-lovers come home with them. Of course, like most Good Samaritans, these two kill people and feed them to their mutant cannibal monster son. Suddenly, it's modern-style gore time, real up close and personal, with some sweet chainsaw action! Then the toughs show up again, at the crazy people's house! Actually, the unshaven, '80s-looking trio proves to be a pretty hilarious presence, an overblown parody of the sort of amoral psychopaths David Hess used to play. Along with a cheesy synth score, artsy-fartsy framing and awesomely pointless zooms, the coked-up ruffians are one of several stylistic tributes that make the flick play like half of a cut-rate "Grindhouse" sequel. I mean that in the best possible way, since this Albanesi character apparently admits to a lot of influence from other filmmakers' signature moves. Although he claims classy guys such as Kubrick, Lynch and Leone, I would situate the director's true cinematic forebears among names like Aristide Massaccesi, Lamberto Bava and Enzo Castellari... the colorful capitalist cobblers of Italian schlock. Even the now-esteemed Lucio Fulci belongs among that journeyman bunch, so who knows what we can expect from Albanesi in the future? Hopefully not some remake-for-hire ignominy, but more pernicious and pretentious perversion.
posted by SoulReaper at 3:19 PM
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