I believe I'll be keeping this one short, since 1981's DEAD AND BURIED is one of those movies that holds more impact the less you know going in. Written by Ronald Shusett and Dan O'Bannon (the pair's first major gig after their breakthrough success with ALIEN) and directed by the criminally underappreciated Gary A. Sherman, it's a film that works best as a mystery, revealing its secrets one layer at a time until the full picture is shown.
Watching just the opening scene is a treat; not only is it a beautifully understated work of misdirection--what appears to be the beginning of a romance segues without warning into a particularly nasty murder--but it's the kind of slow build that rarely gets made these days.
DEAD AND BURIED also boasts a strong cast, including James Farentino (who seems to be channeling Christopher George), Michael Pataki, Jack Albertson, and Robert Englund in a pre-Freddy turn. Their work, along with superior cinematography and an effective score, make this a worthwhile example of fun '80s horror (that didn't involve knife-wielding maniacs).
I will say, though, that I'm not 100% sold on the story's resolution, but getting there is an enjoyably macabre ride.
Friday, October 3, 2008
Wednesday, October 1, 2008
DAY 319--AWAKEN THE DEAD
Casual movie-goers, be it those who don't watch many movies or whose tastes run closer to the local multiplex or Blockbuster outlet, will often gripe about film critics. "They don't like anything," they'll say, as if finding fault with GOOD LUCK CHUCK or TRANSFORMERS is some kind of profound character flaw. They're snobs, they say, interested only in subtitled arthouse flicks and not "real" movies.
Know why critics are so cranky and hard to please? Because they watch movies a lot, and by doing so encounter cliches and mediocrity more times than they'd probably like. And when you're watching films not for leisure but as part of your job (or a project such as this one), it becomes difficult to tolerate stories and plot elements that are weak and trite. Familiarity most certainly breeds contempt when it comes to watching movies.
Take for example the 2007 shot-on-video production AWAKEN THE DEAD. Were I to throw this on during a slow night to pass the time I might've been able to wring a little enjoyment from it, but having suffered through this very same movie time and again over the last eleven months I found myself rather antagonistic.
Amidst the same ol' virus-generated zombie wasteland a prostitute and a preacher-turned-assassin team up to survive. And within this well-trod territory writer/director Jeffrey McMichael Brookshire takes us on a journey we've been on before, revisiting every familiar stop like a veteran tour guide. It's the kind of film that inspires boredom from the very beginning, when it becomes apparent we're getting nothing new. I'm as tired of man-of-the-cloth anti-heroes as I am of those two-fisted action sequences that work in Honk Kong films but look ridiculous in DIY flicks like these. Nor is the single-set story any help, creating an atmosphere that's claustrophobic in all the wrong ways.
The story's not the only moldy-oldie on display, either. Think of any technical flaw found in micro-budget cinema and it's bound to be in this movie. We've got terrible acting, pedestrian direction, and grainy, cheap-looking videography, not to mention the ever-reliable shitty audio. (Note to no-budget filmmakers: if you're going to tell your story mostly through dialogue--and God knows most of you will--make sure you film said dialogue so that it's audible.) All this, and Brookshire even resolves his tale with a simplistic, pat ending loaded with cheesy symbolism.
Pass on this one, even if you're not weary of cheap zombie flicks.
Know why critics are so cranky and hard to please? Because they watch movies a lot, and by doing so encounter cliches and mediocrity more times than they'd probably like. And when you're watching films not for leisure but as part of your job (or a project such as this one), it becomes difficult to tolerate stories and plot elements that are weak and trite. Familiarity most certainly breeds contempt when it comes to watching movies.
Take for example the 2007 shot-on-video production AWAKEN THE DEAD. Were I to throw this on during a slow night to pass the time I might've been able to wring a little enjoyment from it, but having suffered through this very same movie time and again over the last eleven months I found myself rather antagonistic.
Amidst the same ol' virus-generated zombie wasteland a prostitute and a preacher-turned-assassin team up to survive. And within this well-trod territory writer/director Jeffrey McMichael Brookshire takes us on a journey we've been on before, revisiting every familiar stop like a veteran tour guide. It's the kind of film that inspires boredom from the very beginning, when it becomes apparent we're getting nothing new. I'm as tired of man-of-the-cloth anti-heroes as I am of those two-fisted action sequences that work in Honk Kong films but look ridiculous in DIY flicks like these. Nor is the single-set story any help, creating an atmosphere that's claustrophobic in all the wrong ways.
The story's not the only moldy-oldie on display, either. Think of any technical flaw found in micro-budget cinema and it's bound to be in this movie. We've got terrible acting, pedestrian direction, and grainy, cheap-looking videography, not to mention the ever-reliable shitty audio. (Note to no-budget filmmakers: if you're going to tell your story mostly through dialogue--and God knows most of you will--make sure you film said dialogue so that it's audible.) All this, and Brookshire even resolves his tale with a simplistic, pat ending loaded with cheesy symbolism.
Pass on this one, even if you're not weary of cheap zombie flicks.
Monday, September 29, 2008
DAY 318--ROUTE 666
I was kind of surprised by this 2001 offering from director William Wesley, expecting it to be the same brain-frying, derivative idiocy that usually lurks on video store shelves. Don't get me wrong, we're not talking THE SEVEN SAMURAI here, but ROUTE 666 is the kind of horror film that's becoming increasingly rare: admittedly lightweight, allowing you more time to contemplate another bowl of popcorn than its plot, but provides enough twists to keep it consistently entertaining.
Wesley, who also directed the little-seen 1988 shocker SCARECROWS, spins a tight, action-oriented horror yarn: Lou Diamond Phillips and Lori Petty play a pair of U.S. Marshals sent escort a mob informant on the run (THE X FILES's Steven Williams) back to California for his testimony; when gun-toting thugs show up to take Williams out of the picture, the three leads--along with a second carload of victims, er, Marshals led by PET SEMATARY's Dale Midkiff--take off down a deserted stretch of desert road in order to elude them. Of course, if you've been paying attention to the title, you know that bad things lie in wait for them, literally in the road.
ROUTE 666 wastes little time getting the action started, and pauses only to flesh out his characters a bit or build upon its backstory, though a great deal of the action feels like a poor man's John Woo and doesn't work as well as it should. But when it gets all cylinders firing it plays very much in the '80s buddy-action mold (imagine if Romero had directed 48 HRS.), with nice sense of momentum and plenty of back-and-forth banter between the cast. It's pulpy, to be sure, but it still delivers the goods.
Nobody here offers an Oscar-caliber performance, though Phillips and Petty (who've fallen a bit from more high-profiled fare) refuse to phone it in. In fact, it's the fairly well-rounded characterization that makes it better than average; yes, Phillips's past fits into the storyline a little too conveniently and sets up a sappier-than-needed ending, but it's sure beats listening to them talk about their favorite G.I. Joe characters.
Wesley tosses in a couple of novel conceits, such as restricting his undead to asphalt surfaces, and even finds twists in the newer material. Not exactly a gorefest, but enough red stuff gets spilled to satisfy the grue brigade. ROUTE 666 was a good time, and a pleasant diversion from my recent shot-on-video stagnation.
Wesley, who also directed the little-seen 1988 shocker SCARECROWS, spins a tight, action-oriented horror yarn: Lou Diamond Phillips and Lori Petty play a pair of U.S. Marshals sent escort a mob informant on the run (THE X FILES's Steven Williams) back to California for his testimony; when gun-toting thugs show up to take Williams out of the picture, the three leads--along with a second carload of victims, er, Marshals led by PET SEMATARY's Dale Midkiff--take off down a deserted stretch of desert road in order to elude them. Of course, if you've been paying attention to the title, you know that bad things lie in wait for them, literally in the road.
ROUTE 666 wastes little time getting the action started, and pauses only to flesh out his characters a bit or build upon its backstory, though a great deal of the action feels like a poor man's John Woo and doesn't work as well as it should. But when it gets all cylinders firing it plays very much in the '80s buddy-action mold (imagine if Romero had directed 48 HRS.), with nice sense of momentum and plenty of back-and-forth banter between the cast. It's pulpy, to be sure, but it still delivers the goods.
Nobody here offers an Oscar-caliber performance, though Phillips and Petty (who've fallen a bit from more high-profiled fare) refuse to phone it in. In fact, it's the fairly well-rounded characterization that makes it better than average; yes, Phillips's past fits into the storyline a little too conveniently and sets up a sappier-than-needed ending, but it's sure beats listening to them talk about their favorite G.I. Joe characters.
Wesley tosses in a couple of novel conceits, such as restricting his undead to asphalt surfaces, and even finds twists in the newer material. Not exactly a gorefest, but enough red stuff gets spilled to satisfy the grue brigade. ROUTE 666 was a good time, and a pleasant diversion from my recent shot-on-video stagnation.
Saturday, September 20, 2008
DAY 317--CHOPPER CHICKS IN ZOMBIETOWN
Anyone trolling video shelves or surfing late-night cable in the early '90s no doubt stumbled across this memorably-titled Troma pick-up. Promoted at the time as featuring a glorified cameo by MTV VJ Martha Quinn, 1991's CHOPPER CHICKS IN ZOMBIETOWN has since become better known as one of Billy Bob Thornton's rent-paying gigs before his SLING BLADE breakout.
Like a lot of straight-to-tape horror flicks from that era, CHOPPER CHICKS is fairly enjoyable with the right frame of mind (or blood-alcohol level), but does little to satisfy beyond the slight requirements of a party tape. Director Dan Hoskins seems to be striving for more than just an undead quickie, but his handling of both the comedic and horrific elements sabotages his ambitions. The humor is ham-fisted and clumsy, and his makes the deadly mistake of playing the zombies for laughs (always a bad sign, and their accompanying music is so irritatingly moronic it makes their minimal presence almost unwatchable). Hoskins also has some serious pacing issues, letting his story get bogged down in domestic melodrama when it should be doling out zombies.
Aside from a couple of hammy performances by character actors Don Calfa and Earl Boen, the acting isn't too terrible, given the material, and a surprising number of the actors on hand have gone on to respectable, if not high-profile, careers. Quinn's slide into pop culture obscurity has rendered her blip of an appearance even more miniscule (honestly, I had trouble picking her out after all these years), but it's Thornton that most people will be curious to see. Shortly before getting trapped in his rednecks-n-retards pigeonhole, he comes off in CHOPPER CHICKS a little like Kevin Costner in his prime, albeit more low-key and kinda dorky.
Though technically competent, it's still inarguably a stupid and juvenile picture and should be approached with caution. I can't say if the younger generation of horror fans would even get a derisive laugh out of it (it seems somehow best appreciated, if that's the word, strictly by us Gen-Xers), but it'll do to pass a slow liquor-fueled night.
Like a lot of straight-to-tape horror flicks from that era, CHOPPER CHICKS is fairly enjoyable with the right frame of mind (or blood-alcohol level), but does little to satisfy beyond the slight requirements of a party tape. Director Dan Hoskins seems to be striving for more than just an undead quickie, but his handling of both the comedic and horrific elements sabotages his ambitions. The humor is ham-fisted and clumsy, and his makes the deadly mistake of playing the zombies for laughs (always a bad sign, and their accompanying music is so irritatingly moronic it makes their minimal presence almost unwatchable). Hoskins also has some serious pacing issues, letting his story get bogged down in domestic melodrama when it should be doling out zombies.
Aside from a couple of hammy performances by character actors Don Calfa and Earl Boen, the acting isn't too terrible, given the material, and a surprising number of the actors on hand have gone on to respectable, if not high-profile, careers. Quinn's slide into pop culture obscurity has rendered her blip of an appearance even more miniscule (honestly, I had trouble picking her out after all these years), but it's Thornton that most people will be curious to see. Shortly before getting trapped in his rednecks-n-retards pigeonhole, he comes off in CHOPPER CHICKS a little like Kevin Costner in his prime, albeit more low-key and kinda dorky.
Though technically competent, it's still inarguably a stupid and juvenile picture and should be approached with caution. I can't say if the younger generation of horror fans would even get a derisive laugh out of it (it seems somehow best appreciated, if that's the word, strictly by us Gen-Xers), but it'll do to pass a slow liquor-fueled night.
DAY 316--I RAN FROM A ZOMBIE
Can it be true? A fan-oriented, student-made zombie comedy that doesn't have me reaching for the nearest bottle of cyanide capsules? Yes, I'm happy to say one exists, and it's called I RAN FROM A ZOMBIE, a 2008 short from writer/director Matthew Hatchard.
While it's not terribly original, borrowing heavily from the established cannon of undead classics--especially SHAUN OF THE DEAD--it sets itself apart by being genuinely funny. You won't be in any danger of gut-busting or side-splitting, but this what-if scenario in which a trio of pub-dwelling blokes discuss what they'd do in a zombie outbreak will get a few honest-to-Romero chuckles out of you. It's one of the few non-professional shorts I've encountered that successfully understands the use of repetition in humor, the actors are likable and charming, and many of the jokes are still funny even when the punchlines are telegraphed. Even its ending, which is nothing new, serves to sharpen the short's edge and close on a resounding note.
Undoubtedly the product of a fan's appreciation, I RAN FROM A ZOMBIE echoes its inspirations without coming off as geeky. There's even the novelty of the use of a historic fort that rises it above most home-bound productions.
A pleasant surprise, and I can't wait to see what Hatchard and company come up with next.
While it's not terribly original, borrowing heavily from the established cannon of undead classics--especially SHAUN OF THE DEAD--it sets itself apart by being genuinely funny. You won't be in any danger of gut-busting or side-splitting, but this what-if scenario in which a trio of pub-dwelling blokes discuss what they'd do in a zombie outbreak will get a few honest-to-Romero chuckles out of you. It's one of the few non-professional shorts I've encountered that successfully understands the use of repetition in humor, the actors are likable and charming, and many of the jokes are still funny even when the punchlines are telegraphed. Even its ending, which is nothing new, serves to sharpen the short's edge and close on a resounding note.
Undoubtedly the product of a fan's appreciation, I RAN FROM A ZOMBIE echoes its inspirations without coming off as geeky. There's even the novelty of the use of a historic fort that rises it above most home-bound productions.
A pleasant surprise, and I can't wait to see what Hatchard and company come up with next.
DAY 315--DELLAMORTE DELLAMORE
Better known stateside under the less poetic title CEMETERY MAN, Michele Soavi's 1994 release DELLAMORTE DELLAMORE not only stands as one of the best horror films of the 1990's (zombie or otherwise), but marks the end of the classic Italian zombie-film era. It's a fitting end note, a meditation of life and death, of unrequited love--the title itself translates to OF DEATH, OF LOVE--that works as both an entertaining zombie film and an expression of artistic beauty.
Rupert Everett, a few years before becoming known as Madonna's trophy gay buddy, stars as Francesco Dellamorte, a most unusual type of cemetery caretaker. Accompanied by his grunting, Curly Howard-lookalike sidekick Gnaghi, Dellamorte's duties include dispatching Returners, the flesh-hungry zombies that arise seven days after burial. Yet despite the frequent appearances of the living dead, Dellamorte's job is still a grind, a routine so all-consuming that, much like Dante and Randall in CLERKS, he finds his life passing him by. But things change when he meets a beautiful young widow (the stunning Anna Falchi).
Soavi mentored under Dario Argento, and as an actor worked with Lucio Fulci; their influence is unmistakable in DELLAMORTE DELLAMORE, as are those of Orson Welles and Alfred Hitchcock (there are glaring homages to CITIZEN KANE and VERTIGO, and the ending recalls the reality-bending denouement of THE BEYOND). Although it works well enough as a zombie movie, with plentiful helpings of gore and a healthy sense of gallows humor, Soavi's stylistic and thematic underpinnings elevate the film beyond a Peter Jackson-esque splat-stick.
Many of you have noticed I'm relatively quiet when it comes to good or classic films, and usually it's because those movies (say, THE EVIL DEAD or DAWN OF THE DEAD) are so well-known that a detailed analysis would most likely be redundant. I'm also hesitant to extol a movie to much, lest the movie get lost under a sea of hyperbole, and I'd rather just tell you, See this movie, it's really good and you'll like it. That probably makes me a poor film reviewer, but so be it.
I'm taking the same approach to DELLAMORTE DELLAMORE. Take a look if you haven't, and be sure to pay careful attention to that just below the surface. It's a beautiful, rewarding experience you won't regret.
Rupert Everett, a few years before becoming known as Madonna's trophy gay buddy, stars as Francesco Dellamorte, a most unusual type of cemetery caretaker. Accompanied by his grunting, Curly Howard-lookalike sidekick Gnaghi, Dellamorte's duties include dispatching Returners, the flesh-hungry zombies that arise seven days after burial. Yet despite the frequent appearances of the living dead, Dellamorte's job is still a grind, a routine so all-consuming that, much like Dante and Randall in CLERKS, he finds his life passing him by. But things change when he meets a beautiful young widow (the stunning Anna Falchi).
Soavi mentored under Dario Argento, and as an actor worked with Lucio Fulci; their influence is unmistakable in DELLAMORTE DELLAMORE, as are those of Orson Welles and Alfred Hitchcock (there are glaring homages to CITIZEN KANE and VERTIGO, and the ending recalls the reality-bending denouement of THE BEYOND). Although it works well enough as a zombie movie, with plentiful helpings of gore and a healthy sense of gallows humor, Soavi's stylistic and thematic underpinnings elevate the film beyond a Peter Jackson-esque splat-stick.
Many of you have noticed I'm relatively quiet when it comes to good or classic films, and usually it's because those movies (say, THE EVIL DEAD or DAWN OF THE DEAD) are so well-known that a detailed analysis would most likely be redundant. I'm also hesitant to extol a movie to much, lest the movie get lost under a sea of hyperbole, and I'd rather just tell you, See this movie, it's really good and you'll like it. That probably makes me a poor film reviewer, but so be it.
I'm taking the same approach to DELLAMORTE DELLAMORE. Take a look if you haven't, and be sure to pay careful attention to that just below the surface. It's a beautiful, rewarding experience you won't regret.
Monday, September 15, 2008
DAY 314--GHOST LAKE
The near two-hour running time for GHOST LAKE, director Jay Woelfel's 2004 shot-on-video feature, told me the movie was going to be rough going even before I watched a single frame. As I've learned from previous films--and what a painful lesson it was--DIY filmmakers rarely have the breadth or scope requiring an excessive length. Usually it means they lack an understanding of pacing or script economy; GHOST LAKE is no exception.
The movie, a potentially interesting marriage of the living dead and traditional ghost stories, reveals its amateurishness by saddling its very first scene with an inordinate number of flashbacks. It's an egregious misstep that kills any confidence one has in Woelfel's storytelling abilities; if a director doesn't understand the dangers of an exposition dump at a time when he should be hooking the audience, how will he handle the further development of his plot? As GHOST LAKE progresses, it justifies that fear.
That's not to say Woelfel's made a complete bomb; he makes effective use of a bucolic rustic setting, his film's solid on a technical level (though I could've done without the pointless use of split-screen), and he's got the makings of a good ghost yarn. But the mistakes he makes sabotages GHOST LAKE into becoming a cobbling of could've-beens. His choice of heroine is glaringly inappropriate, and not simply because she's a rather weak actress (all the performances are a bit undercooked across the board); she's supposedly haunted by a selfish error of judgment--she could've prevented her parents' death if she hadn't been hooking up in the backseat of a car--which makes her obligatory romantic subplot icky and more than a little cold. And though he mostly handles the spectral aspects of his story well, maintaining a suitably Gothic atmosphere, Woelfel blows it whenever he has the dead rising from the titular body of water to claim their victims, sequences that resemble a ZOMBIE LAKE remake.
It's this kind of creative inconsistency that makes micro-budget cinema so frustrating. Woelfel almost delivers a striking climax with an undead uprising, but fumbles by giving his zombies distorted electronic voices and tacking on a syrupy ending.
Fans of quiet supernatural horror may take to this more than zombie fans, given its less than visceral approach, but even they might be turned off by GHOST LAKE's late emphasis of walking corpses over spirits. Though displaying a few flashes of competence, it suffers too much under the weight of its considerable flaws.
The movie, a potentially interesting marriage of the living dead and traditional ghost stories, reveals its amateurishness by saddling its very first scene with an inordinate number of flashbacks. It's an egregious misstep that kills any confidence one has in Woelfel's storytelling abilities; if a director doesn't understand the dangers of an exposition dump at a time when he should be hooking the audience, how will he handle the further development of his plot? As GHOST LAKE progresses, it justifies that fear.
That's not to say Woelfel's made a complete bomb; he makes effective use of a bucolic rustic setting, his film's solid on a technical level (though I could've done without the pointless use of split-screen), and he's got the makings of a good ghost yarn. But the mistakes he makes sabotages GHOST LAKE into becoming a cobbling of could've-beens. His choice of heroine is glaringly inappropriate, and not simply because she's a rather weak actress (all the performances are a bit undercooked across the board); she's supposedly haunted by a selfish error of judgment--she could've prevented her parents' death if she hadn't been hooking up in the backseat of a car--which makes her obligatory romantic subplot icky and more than a little cold. And though he mostly handles the spectral aspects of his story well, maintaining a suitably Gothic atmosphere, Woelfel blows it whenever he has the dead rising from the titular body of water to claim their victims, sequences that resemble a ZOMBIE LAKE remake.
It's this kind of creative inconsistency that makes micro-budget cinema so frustrating. Woelfel almost delivers a striking climax with an undead uprising, but fumbles by giving his zombies distorted electronic voices and tacking on a syrupy ending.
Fans of quiet supernatural horror may take to this more than zombie fans, given its less than visceral approach, but even they might be turned off by GHOST LAKE's late emphasis of walking corpses over spirits. Though displaying a few flashes of competence, it suffers too much under the weight of its considerable flaws.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
