Movie Write-ups, Musings, Impressions…

Amidst the vast wasteland of grindhouse trash and no-budget schlock to come out of the periphery of the 1970s film world, the cult horror/black comedy Children Shouldn’t Play with Dead Things proves to be a rare gem of a find. Make no mistake; it’s nowhere near remarkable enough to be considered ‘misunderstood classic’ or even exceptional horror by any, uh, sensible interpretation, but in a weird workaround way that’s exactly the point—the apparent effects of the film’s almost nonexistent budget, amateur production values, and bare-bones story are exactly what adds to its charm. For in the manifestation of those things we can sense that there is an unhinged, demented kind of inspiration at work—a kind you don’t necessarily find in ‘the Greats.’

Some of the most fascinating things about the film can be found in the miracle of its own making: Children Shouldn’t Play With Dead Things was directed by Bob Clark, for one thing—the same Bob Clark who would later direct Porky’s (1982) and, amazingly, the much-beloved family classic A Christmas Story (1983). It was produced on a budget of only $50,000 and involved 14 days of shooting in Miami’s Coconut Grove district, with much of its cast comprised of Clark’s real-life college friends, lending the film a kind of authenticity and casualness that makes it somewhat refreshing to watch.

The movie’s plot is laughable in its stark plainness. At night, a troupe of six theater companions travel to a small island just outside the twinkling lights of civilization, used largely as a cemetery for deranged criminals and delinquents. A long night of shenanigans and snappy banter ensues as our group, spearheaded by its leader Alan (Alan Ormsby), digs up graves, performs satanic rituals, and executes pranks at the careless expense of whatever respect the cemetery ought to have warranted in the first place.

Eventually, things take a step too far when Alan orders his ‘children’ to exhume a dead body from the ground, where they proceed to host a mock wedding between him and the deceased inside an abandoned caretaker’s house. It’s at this point that the dead, rest their souls, have apparently had enough of these ill-mannered transgressions; they then crawl out from the earth to inflict their wrath upon the group of troublemakers, and the result is a satisfyingly chilling and blood-curdling zombie infestation of Night of the Living Dead proportions (or flat-out replication, if you wish to see it that way).

It’s worth noting, however, that we don’t really see any evidence of zombies for the entire first hour of the film. This may be off-putting to folks who want their zombie flicks laced with action, gore, and thrills from the get-go, but I cherish the slow, languid pace of the movie, which ends up making for excellent build-up material in light of the impending climax anyway.

And while not much action takes place for the first two-thirds of the film, that doesn’t mean it isn’t entertaining. I actually found it captivating to just watch these six different character types try to interact with each other. By far the most ostentatious of them is Alan, whose long-winded orations and attempted witticisms are both obnoxious yet fascinating to listen to (in a sardonic sort of way). And the rest of the group constantly jabs at his self-perceived eloquence and self-grandeur, which allows for plenty of amusing dialogue and banter to take place throughout the film’s first sixty minutes. There are also a couple of wonderful self-referential nods in the script (a tongue-in-cheek staple typical in films not beholden to reputable subject matter) such as when, referring to Alan’s incantations, one of the characters says, “Good thing he’s a director, because wow, what a bad actor.”

The slow-moving, first two-thirds of the film is also when we get a chance to absorb the film’s eerie atmosphere. The interesting thing is that, production-wise, it’s not fueled by much; the low budget ‘aesthetic’ of this film, far from being a creative hindrance, actually turns out to be somewhat of a silver lining. While our characters tend to be lit by some kind of flashlight, the background is almost always immersed in the darkness. Sometimes we can’t see the background at all, just that obvious foreground light tracking the characters as they walk across an empty void of blackness—triggering such phrases like ‘left to the imagination’ and ‘fear of the unknown’ to spring to mind.

In the same vein, sound in the film is likewise enhanced by its moderation. Too many horror films, it seems, try to punch up their scares with loud clangs, big bangs, and *way* too much screaming. Others opt for a buffed-up soundtrack in hopes that it will cue the audience as to exactly when they should be frightened, excited, unsuspecting, curious, etc. However, it tends to be that true horror is born out of uncertainty and restraint; and fittingly, the soundscape of Children Shouldn’t Play with Dead Things is comprised of sounds that are used sparingly to great effect. There is a persistent, spooky ambiance of chirping insects, croaking frogs, cooing birds, and noises of whatever other creeping organisms lie in the island’s dense, Floridian wilderness. A mix of experimental-like sounds and oh-so-’70s atmospheric ‘throbs’ also punctuate the film’s creepier moments in a surprisingly effective manner, far from the rehashed ‘suspense cues’ that are clichéd to death in much of today’s horror.

To top it off are the generally morbid subjects of exhumation, satanic rituals, and even hinted necrophilia adding to the film’s bizarre quality. While the PG (!) rating of the film ensures that the amateurish-looking makeup and lack of explicit gore somewhat dilutes the impact of these themes, it thankfully does not change the delightful fact that they’re there at all. On one hand it’s a given that these elements exist to up-play the ‘horror’ element of the film, but it’s the sheer, flat-out ridiculousness of these topics—as we watch them play out in amateurish fashion on the screen—that ultimately redeems the film. In other words, the ‘horror’ aspect of the film plays ultimately to its warped sense of humor, which is what ends up making the film so precious. In some scenes you’re not sure whether to look questionably at what’s unravelling on the screen, or bust out laughing; and usually, it’s this tension itself that ends up prompting the latter.

All in all, Children Shouldn’t Play with Dead Things—just take a moment, if you haven’t yet, to appreciate that title—is an eccentric mix of strange horror and macabre humor, with a charming degree of amateurish giddiness to make the viewing experience all the more enjoyable. We live in a world, for better or for worse, where some of the most forgotten, most obscure, and oftentimes most terrible low-budget films are being endowed the prospect of immortality with 4K restorations, deluxe Blu-ray treatment, and widespread prominence on major streaming platforms. So if you ever find yourself dabbling in this genre for whatever reason, keep my recommendation in mind that Children Shouldn’t Play with Dead Things makes for a worthy choice, Halloween or otherwise. Or if not—well, come Christmastime, just watch A Christmas Story and appreciate that Bob Clark has since moved on to finer things.

I’ll just say it right off the bat: Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban is my favorite movie. I’m left spellbound every time I see it. I’ve seen it more times than I can quantify, yet I cherish it so much that I deliberately try to avoid seeing it so as not to make it lose its luster on repeat viewings. Whether or not I’ve succeeded with this (spoiler: I haven’t), I’ve come to find that with every revisit, the movie remains as fresh and riveting as ever. I really find it that great.

Yet it’s actually not easy to explain why. It’s not that I regard Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban as the gold standard of cinema, as some poster child for what all movies should strive to be. It’s not as if it contains certain special things that if only other movies had them, they would be as equally great. All I can really say is that I’m prejudiced: this movie is my favorite simply for what it is. It has a huge, cavernous, Gothic castle. It has dementors, werewolves, hippogriffs, ghosts, and all sorts of mythical, magical creatures. It has a haunted house. It has the memento mori of skulls, skeletons, and shrunken heads. It has humor. It has secret maps. It has old-world, mechanical clocks. It has rain, snow, clouds, and dramatic moonlight. It’s as if all the elements that appeal to my particular sensibilities and fancies have all been brewed together into a magic elixir, whose power will forever entrance a select few. Well bloody hell, it worked on me.

So for the time being, I’ll elaborate on some of those fine ingredients I cherish. Again, it’s not that I wish more films had them. It’s that when all of these particular cogs and gears and rivets and bolts are put artfully together into the eventual working apparatus that is Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, it works like clockwork, and it works beautifully, producing something in effect that is greater than the sum of its parts.

I will admit that this probably wouldn’t be my favorite film if the Harry Potter series didn’t mean a thing to me. Of course I grew up with the Harry Potter books and films; it was essentially my generation’s Star Wars (along with, perhaps, Lord of the Rings, but that was just before my time), wherein we were presented with a fantasy world and pure spectacle nobody had ever seen on the silver screen before. Yet the decade-long reach of the Harry Potter movies meant that, in order for it to remain fresh, fulfilling, and interesting throughout its run, it had to evolve, change, and explore new ground in some way.

It just so happens that Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban was the first Potter film to be at the helm of a new director—that of Alfonso Cuarón, who continued the Potter saga from where former director Chris Columbus left off. Now, I really like what Columbus did with Sorcerer’s Stone and Chamber of Secrets. I think that Columbus’ more conventional approach to the first two films perfectly suited the innocent, wide-eyed fascination embodied by Harry and his first and second-year peers as they, like us, stepped into a new and exciting world.

However, by Prisoner of Azkaban, change was in the air. Columbus had already ventured into darker territories with Chamber of Secrets, a trend that would then be inevitable for the rest of series. And perhaps most drastically of all, Harry and his friends are now 13, which means that the once novel entrancements of Hogwarts are now but nostalgic memories, and in its place the imminent and uncertain world of adolescence now lies at the forefront.

Surely, all of this necessitated a change of tone in the Potter series, which Alfonso Cuarón’s new direction achieved perfectly. Bridging the innocent past of the first two films with the vast, uncertain grayness that lie ahead, Prisoner of Azkaban is a darker, moodier film that still retains an air of whimsy and fantasy to keep things in just the right balance.

For one thing, Prisoner of Azkaban is unique in the Harry Potter series in that it’s the only film we don’t see Voldemort in one form or another. In one sense this gives the film more latitude to expand its showcasing of the wizarding world: we are introduced to Hogsmeade, new castle towers, new characters, dementors, boggarts, divination, hippogriffs, shrunken heads, werewolves, and so on. And while the tone of Azkaban is darker, this really is the last film that doesn’t have the pervasive threat of Voldemort or his band of Death Eaters weighing down upon the more whimsical elements of the wizarding world, allowing for some playful mischief to remain sprinkled well throughout Azkaban.

In another sense, though, it allows the film to focus predominantly on Harry, and how, faced with the threat of his parents’ murderer, he must learn to cope with the troubles of his past. Thus, it makes it all the more fitting that Cuarón deliberately set out to make Azkaban from Harry’s point of view. While the first two films were very much about Harry, Azkaban concerns itself more than ever with Harry’s inner life. There is a heightened subjectivity to each of the stylistic choices in Azkaban, from the shadowy lighting, subdued color palette, lively camerawork, etc., as if each of these elements were illustrative of Harry’s own internal state. The stylized visuals, in this sense, are windows into Harry’s inner emotions, which in turn further validate the weight of the story and enliven the wizarding world he interacts with.

In tandem with Harry and his peers’ foray into adolescence, the atmosphere of Azkaban is suitably more somber, and wreaked with excitement and paranoia between pauses of introspection and whimsy. While Sorcerer’s Stone and Chamber of Secrets surely had their ‘scary’ moments, there was nothing ever quite as threatening as the prospect of an escaped serial murderer on the loose; reaper-like dementors who thrive off sucking the living daylight out of your soul; and an ending that, all things considered, leaves the stakes grim and uncertain at best, with the imminent possibility of the Dark Lord rising more palpable than ever before.

But despite the burgeoning gloom and doom of Azkaban, I also love it for its mischief and mildly irreverent spirit. I find Prisoner of Azkaban to be the most humorous of the Potter films; its quirkiness is unmatched, as in the incident with Aunt Marge, the frenetic sequence on the Knight Bus, or the ‘riddikulus’ lessons in Boggart training, each of which introduce us to the fringier, stranger elements of the wizarding world. Whereas in the first two films, magic was for the most part innocuous, delightful and wholesome, in Azkaban it takes on an uncannier and zanier quality, contributing further to the film’s eccentric sense of humor. The dialogue is also playfully clever at times, such as when, on the first day of class, the absent-minded divinations Professor Trelawney proclaims, “You will discover if you possess the Sight…” just as she stumbles into a table. The film is sprinkled with irony, puns, and little absurdities like this, helping to stir the pot and break up the film’s more serious scenes.

Also, the cinematography of this film is stunning: there are several shots in this film that render like Romantic or Gothic oil paintings come to life, as when we see the panoramas of dementors floating spectrally over Hogwarts, backdropped by a cloudy, moonlit sky. Moreover, the visual style of Azkaban indicates a noteworthy departure from what we’ve gotten used to in the prior two films. Gone are the bright and saturated blue/gold hues of Sorcerer’s Stone—instead a perpetual rain-drenched palette characterizes the third film, as if the dementors themselves have sucked out the vibrant impressions of years past. Lighting also takes on a harsher and more naturalistic look, allowing for more pronounced shadows and a silvery, natural light to permeate the frame.

In further regard to the film’s more ominous tone and look, it’s always interesting to observe the role of weather when watching a Harry Potter film. Nigel Stone, model-unit director of photography on Azkaban, recounts that “Alfonso and [cinematographer] Michael [Seresin] were brave—they let the weather in Scotland influence the look of the film.” Michael Seresin himself mentions that “in 30 days, we had 28 or 29 days of rain . . . We had that soft, gray light, which dramatically is incredible. And the continuity is amazing.” Indeed, whereas nature seemed to provide nothing more than a picturesque backdrop for the previous films, by Azkaban it plays an active and vigorous role, almost as if it were a magical force of its own, mirroring the varied emotions of Harry himself. Whereas one scene will emphasize the tranquil, temporal beauty of the changing seasons, the next will depict nature as an incursive and virulent force not to be reckoned with. It’s amusing to see just how progressively awful the weather gets as the series moves on: in the first film, a game of Quidditch is played atop a bright green field against a clear blue sky; in the second, it’s played in slightly overcast conditions; and by the third, whatever spectacle Quidditch used to possess now pales in comparison to the interference of a full-fledged lighting storm. In fact, there’s not one clear blue sky to be seen in the entirety of Prisoner of Azkaban.

Continuing with the cinematography, I absolutely love the camerawork in this film. Unlike the more restrained camera from Harry’s simpler years, the camera this time around is as mobile as a flying broomstick, which helps elate the frenzied emotions and sense of adventure experienced by our characters. Director Alfonso Cuarón was particularly intent on establishing a “geographic eloquence of space and time” throughout Hogwarts, and the result is indeed a living, breathing castle that could very much be called a character itself. And the way the camera elegantly sweeps through windows and mirrors fits only too well in the magical world of Harry Potter, where the boundary between the material and immaterial can be playfully bent to accommodate the fantastic.

Furthermore, isolated shots and scenes are stitched together is a way that is strikingly…poetic. Unlike the unmotivated shot changes or thoughtless transitions that are all too common in comparably big-budget studio releases, one can tell that a true artistic vision is at work behind Prisoner of Azkaban. The examples are in the details, such as when the camera tracks a flying bluebird to gracefully establish the castle grounds; in the visual parallels between “Lumos” and the Patronus charm; the artful effect of water turning into ice at the presence of dementors; a shot in which the camera pans to follow an owl heading toward Hogwarts as the seasons magically transform from Fall to Winter; or when Harry stares at his reflection in a train window, only for the image to subtly transition into the form of a puddle just outside the Hogwarts grounds during a rainstorm. Such visual continuity is the very ‘language’ of cinema, and Prisoner of Azkaban is made all the more enriching and lyrical because it implements these techniques so masterfully.

Perhaps the thing I cherish most of all about Prisoner of Azkaban is that its world is so rich with detail. I always seem to notice something new with each viewing, whether it’s an extraneous story detail, some world-furnishing embellishment, or a bit of dialogue I didn’t catch the full significance of the first time around. For example: toward the beginning of the movie when Harry reunites with Ron and Hermione at the Leaky Cauldron, there are all sorts of things taking place in the background: chairs set themselves up on the table; each newspaper image is animated with a life of its own; a floating teapot pours tea into someone’s cup when prompted; and a waiter carries an impossible six-foot stack of plates—and all of this is executed in one gigantic long shot as Harry and Ron’s father converse in the foreground. The amount of effort and coordination required to pull off a scene like that seems impossible, yet this is only a glimpse of the kinds of secret marvels Azkaban contains.

There is also a clever touch during the Boggart lesson scene in which the camera, approaching a mirrored Boggart wardrobe, passes through the mirror, and everything we see from then on is an inverted image until the camera pulls back from the mirror at the scene’s end. It’s a fitting stylistic device, given that we learn that it’s in a Boggart’s nature to mirror the appearance of its subject—what does a mirror/Boggart look like when it has nothing to mimic, anyway? Or, consider a brief detail in which, when Hogwarts goes on lockdown, we see a shot of the castle gates descending, backdropped by a full moon with the sound of howling just audible in the background. The next day, it’s no coincidence that we find Snape substituting for Professor Lupin during Defense Against the Dark Arts class—mentioning that Lupin is “incapable of teaching at the present time” as the day’s subject revolves around werewolves.

We also hear the chiming of the Hogwarts clock tower whenever the workings of the time turner device are hinted at; and during the scene that takes place inside the Shrieking Shack—make sure to look closely at the walls in the background. It’s true, sure, that these little details bear nothing crucial on the plot; they’re not ‘required’ in order for us to follow the story. Yet the filmmakers behind Azkaban put in the extra effort and ingenuity to weave them seamlessly into the film’s world and storyline anyway. These are the kinds of things that capture what great moviemaking is all about.

I should also mention that John William’s score for this film is perhaps my favorite of his. The way his orchestral score combines with the dynamic images of the film sends shivers down my spine. Unlike other films, it doesn’t feel at all like a soundtrack that’s been slapped on top of images in an attempt to elevate the material as a whole; rather the music feels as inspired by the images as much as the images feel inspired by the music, and the end result is that it all turns into music—everything ends up being in perfect harmony. The melodies are also more haunting and mysterious than the grandiose, triumphant scores of say, Star Wars, Superman, Indiana Jones, or even the first two Harry Potter films, which of course suits the drearier, more lyrical tone of Azkaban perfectly.

I also love this film for its ingenious use of special effects. Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban came out at an exciting time regarding the development of visual effects technology, something that I think goes unappreciated as we become increasingly desensitized to new images. Hogwarts set extensions and flyovers—as well as Hogsmeade Village—were realized using the age-old craft of miniatures and practical models (it wasn’t until Goblet of Fire, a year later, that a computer-generated version of Hogwarts was actually created at all). Plenty of awesome prosthetic and makeup effects were used in many scenes: notably, during Aunt Marge’s unfortunate (but well-earned) inflation, which was accomplished largely (no pun intended) by practical means involving an inflatable body suit, with digital aid used only to remove rigs and wires on set.

Of course, Azkaban was no stranger to a wide array of dazzling computer-generated effects as well, used for creatures such as the Grim, the dementors, a hippogriff, a werewolf, and the Whomping Willow; and for environments such as the Quidditch field, dramatic skyscapes, and background terrain. Azkaban was born at a time when CGI was still somewhat novel and technologically limited *just* enough to retain a certain quality of excitement and magic whenever it was used—but even looking back on Azkaban from today’s lens, its effects are so well integrated into the cinematography to an extent that is rare, and therefore special to see, today. Perhaps the carefulness and moderation with which CGI was approached back in those days prevented its haphazard overuse; in other words, people may have been more thoughtful about what it should be used for, and how.

And because I can’t curb my fondness for the technical aspects of filmmaking, I have to point out that Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban also marked the first time that a Potter film underwent a digital intermediate (DI), in which the entirety of its final cut negative was scanned into the computer, color timed completely in the digital realm, and output back onto celluloid for theatrical distribution. This certainly facilitated the more contemporary and stylized look of Azkaban, and I believe also allowed for a more seamless integration of visual effects than what was possible in the prior films, which underwent a more traditional, film-finished post. All this to say, Azkaban marks an interesting turning point in film history in terms of bridging the older, undeniably charming techniques of models, practical effects, and actual celluloid film used as the source medium, with some of the exciting new developments being made in digital post-production and VFX at the time. I imagine the production artists, designers, and craftspeople had a wicked amount of fun making this film, and watching this I seem to vicariously experience a good amount of this passion.

That’s really all I have to say about my favorite movie for now. I don’t really know what this accomplishes, other than expressing my deep admiration for this film’s existence, which apparently I felt the need to do. I guess I’ll add that, whenever I revisit this film, I’m a little—maybe extremely—dejected when I compare it to the state of our current ‘tentpole’ films, akin to the status Azkaban had when it came out. While I’ve surely enjoyed a fair few of them, I also can’t deny that most of them feel so uninspired and homogenized—like dementors sucking the oxygen out of the film industry itself—whereas Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban’s infinitely more artistic, personable, and quirkier qualities render it a breath of fresh air by comparison. Prisoner of Azkaban proves that, when the faculties of big budget moviemaking—grand special effects, elaborate set pieces, an all-star cast, etc.—are entrusted to pure artistic vision, a captivating story, and compelling characters, great things can be accomplished…great things!

Mischief managed ✨

Just about two years ago, I attended American Cinematheque’s all-night Horrorthon in Los Angeles for the first time. For those unfamiliar, it consists of seven horror/cult films that are played back to back amongst a slew of other crazy trailers and videos, typically lasting from 7:30 at night to 8 the next morning. Part of the event’s intrigue for me is that while there are usually one or two titles I’ve seen before and are fun to revisit with a passionate and appreciative crowd, the remaining titles are ones I haven’t seen, or let alone heard of – ones whose reputations or very names altogether have been forgotten (or completely neglected) with time, and as a result ones I probably wouldn’t have chosen to waste my time with had it been up to me sifting through the typical old deluge of media accessible from home.

But these unpopular films were plucked out of the ether, resurrected by B-movie archaeologists who had crafted a mystery package all too tempting for us uninformed to ignore. The fun thing about seeing these types of movies at an event like this – typically the ones with Rotten Tomatoes scores of 59 or less and only a handful of acknowledgement on IMDb by the common reviewer – is that you and the people around you are kept largely in the dark as to what to expect out of these mysterious flicks, so that as it unravels, both yours’ and the audience’s reactions are entirely pure and collectively shared at that very moment.

Fast-forward six movies through – so far we’ve covered the relatively popular and beloved An American Werewolf in London (1981); the modest gem-of-a-find Popcorn (1991), whose horrorthon-involved plot proved gratifyingly “meta” and resulted in rapturous enthusiasm from the audience; the charmingly old-fashioned black and white William Castle/Vincent Price flick The Tingler (1959); the virtually no-budget Hack-o-Lantern (1987); the scattered, bafflingly-paced Shocker (1989); and the ’90s-era virtual reality thriller Brainscan (1994). All so far very interesting in their own right. And by the time these are through, half the theater is empty, with some half of those remaining slouched in their chairs, heads resting crookedly on the backs of their seats – littered popcorn bags, shreds of candy wrappers, and scattered snores galore. It’s about 6:30 a.m. – according to our bombarded senses still nighttime. Those still awake are somewhere between half-asleep and fever-dream hysteria. The last and final movie, Death Bed: The Bed That Eats (1977), is about to start.

Initially, I expected Death Bed: The Bed That Eats – by virtue of its title and almost non-existent status – to be a fun but ultimately trivial adornment to an otherwise pretty solid line-up. William Castle, John Landis, Wes Craven, and even John Flynn – but George Barry? His film must be some rediscovered, hastily slapped-together ’70s Z-grade trash reserved as the last show simply due to the strong likelihood that most attendees will be gone by then. In other words, I’d probably get a few good chuckles out of shoddy production values and cheesy storyline straight out the minds of a team of film school rejects, but if I did end up missing it, no big deal. It wasn’t like I’d be missing the greatest film in the world, right?

Well, closer to wrong than right. Turns out that by the time Death Bed ends and the screen goes blank – as people are waking up, readjusting their clothes and ascending sluggishly from their seats all in funeral-like silence (save for the reverberating ‘clunk’ of the seats as all the cushions bounce back up) – I realize that this film had a lot more to it than I’d expected. What I thought would be typical, clumsily-made grindhouse fare actually turned out to be quite beautiful, evocative, and unique. Indeed, everything about that exact moment seemed inverted: the once-uproarious crowd silent, the formerly bustling nighttime surroundings of the place turned into Sunday morning stillness, supposed Z-movie schlock turned transcendent film-watching experience. While I didn’t exactly revere the film at that moment as much as I would say I do now, for some weird reason the overall impression of the film stuck with me for months. I started to entertain the thought that perhaps the best was saved for last. It wasn’t until a little while later that I truly found my utmost appreciation for it, and by now would rank it as one of my favorite cult films.

I won’t spoil anything too fun, but the movie is about a killer bed situated in the abandoned room of an old mansion. Unsuspecting victims visiting the locale eventually find their way into the room and onto the bed, which soon proceeds to gobble them in a most imaginative low-budget fashion: foam starts to froth around their bodies – as if the bed were drooling with primal delight at the doom of its prey – which then slowly begin to sink into its sheets like quicksand, until they are immersed and dissolved in a vat of acidic, amber-colored digestive fluid located somewhere within the hellish bowels of its mattresses. We are also introduced to the spirit of a deceased young man, our narrator, who is existentially trapped behind a see-through painting of The Bed in that same room, able to do nothing but observe and ruminate vacantly over whatever events take place before his eyes. Soon it is revealed to us that there is an entire backstory and wild dream-logic to the given circumstances from which, intriguingly, the rest of story will develop.

My fascination with this film is mainly due to how a film with such a silly premise somehow manages to be simultaneously serious about itself. It is achieved by maintaining a particular, offbeat tone: a dream-like fusion of fantasy, horror, and comedy, in which each of those elements do not break each other’s merits but work together harmoniously to achieve the film’s signature, contradictory ambiance. It’s a fairy tale in the fullest sense, albeit renewed in more contemporary terms in that it uses the absurdity of its “B-movie” premise – a bed that eats people, for crying out loud – as a counterpoint to its more traditional fairytale motifs. The juxtaposition/unification of campy, B-movie ridiculousness and morose, somber Romanticism expressed in the film is what gives it its unique aura – and treating its story and subject matter in the serious manner that it does only serves to amplify its underlying absurdity – analogous to how some jokes are funnier when told in a serious manner. In these days, where we are no longer mystified by enchanted lands or magical realms and entities at face value, part of the brilliance of Death Bed is that it replaces this naive raptness with a more self-aware and ambiguous tone that, while cognizant of its own absurdity, plays fair to its storybook plot and more fantasy-oriented elements. Refreshingly, the humor in Death Bed isn’t used to subvert the fairy tale genre inasmuch as it’s used to reinvent it and expand it to new territories.

A pet peeve of mine is the overuse of words like “surreal,” “hypnotic,” or “dream-like” when used to describe films, which especially seems to come up in the horror genre. It might be because a lot of “horror” films aim for these qualities so desperately to the point that when these “states” are attempted it seems manufactured, caricatured, and resultantly clichéd rather than organically developed from a meaningful point of view. (Or, it might be just be due to reviewers’ lazy writing practices, in which those same three words are used to describe seemingly everything.) But to hell with it; I’ll describe Death Bed as hypnotic, surreal, and dream-like anyway. The majority of words spoken is told in narration, thereby removing the need for the camera to accompany lots of exposition from different characters, or follow the action of the story in a linear fashion, etc. The images then have the latitude to speak solely for themselves, free to show anything integral to the film’s spirit rather than be constrained by mundane action confined by time and space. As a result, in true Romanic fashion the richness of the setting is given far more prominence and depth than the few characters we’re introduced to. Romantic motifs like the blooming roses, skulls, abandoned castles, and ornate, regal beds, to name a few, comprise much of the film’s beautifully composed and haunting images, that when combined with the detached tone of the narrator and some very interesting, “pulsar” choices for sound design, make for a film that in the end rings closer to the nature and pacing of a dream rather than any sort of traditional narrative structure.

I acknowledge that about half of this so-called “review” consists of my describing my experience at the horrorthon, and so for that – I guess I’m sorry. But a large part of why Death Bed resonated with me so much was precisely because of the context with which I saw the film. As I watch more and more stuff, I become increasingly aware that the motives for why and the conditions in which I see the films factor a great deal into how I end up engaging with them. As I continue to tire of the tropes I see over and over again in movies – visual, story, or otherwise – the qualifications by which I deem a film “good” tends be increasingly for subjective reasons rather than objective ones (if there were ever such ones in the first place). Thus, being that I was nearly in somewhat of a trance-like state to begin with after having been up all night seeing six other horror films, Death Bed‘s dreamy atmosphere and languid, drifting pace proved especially transfixing to me, especially given that it was such a drastic departure from the faster-paced, “harder-edged” horror movies it followed. When the movie was over the dream seemed to continue; I left my seat and went outside where the formerly lit marquee was now backdropped by a blank white sky; and I proceeded to drive the two-hour drive home on the eerily empty Sunday morning Los Angeles roads.

Time for bed.

Many reviewers and casual cinema-goers alike have complained about being put off by this film’s dated CGI and hackneyed story-line.  To the contrary, I was quite intrigued by the film’s premise and was excited seeing the film’s early and revolutionary use of computer graphics used for the still-novel concept of virtual reality.

The film’s plot is essentially that of a modernized Frankenstein’s transplanted into the burgeoning virtual reality cyber-culture of the early 1990s.  Seeing this film for the first time, I was shocked at some of the ideas introduced into this film, especially considering it was 1992 (even disregarding virtual reality): the evolutionary relationship amongst humans and computers, the ethical dilemmas and repercussions involved with the immediate acceptance of technology into mainstream usage, the digitization of consciousness as a possible segue into immortality… I don’t think it’s too far-fetched to mention that some of the ideas presented here resonate with those of Ray Kurzweil, amongst other futurists and computer theorists. Forget 1992, even today this is some hot new stuff.

The dated effects depicting the VR technology in this movie are still fascinating to watch.  Perhaps I’m biased since I’m keenly interested in the evolution of special and digital effects across film history, but watching the often surreal CGI abstractions displayed in this film left me mesmerized considering this stuff came out twenty-five years ago.  There is something distinctly artistic about the energetic, free-form CGI in this piece, not at all bounded by the redundant photorealism that all mainstream CGI today seems enslaved to.

Does the movie present these ideas perfectly and seamlessly tie them together by time the credits roll? Well, no.  Towards the end of the film the movie spins out of control, to put it lightly, and it tragically hammers in the Hollywood romance subplot without any useful reason for doing so – but as I see them, those are relatively minor complaints compared to what else the film DOES indeed give us: groundbreaking ideas, pioneering and mind-warping visual effects, a novel yet traditional story-line, some heartfelt performances, and purely entertaining scenes that remain distinct to a particular zone of early 90s zeitgeist.  Perhaps this film was misunderstood in the pre-Internet days of 1992, but watching it again today it’s clear that this film really sought to grapple with some pretty revolutionary and complex ideas that most studio productions wouldn’t dare touch on today. And for that, I really admire this film.

If you’re looking for a film that brings something fresh to the table, feast your eyes on Julia Docournau’s feature debut, Raw.  It’s a coming-of-age story depicting a young vegetarian as she enters the wacky world of college (veterinary school) and all of its crazy antics! And by “crazy antics” I mean cannibalism, of course.

The film gained some notoriety when it was revealed that multiple viewers fainted and vomited due to a particularly graphic scene at the Toronto International Film Festival. On top of that, it’s rumored that about thirty people left the theater at some other screenings. If that didn’t lure me into seeing Raw, I don’t know what else would! But to my delight, the film wasn’t your humdrum shock-fest; at its core, the movie was an amazingly well-crafted and well-told film about the frenzy surrounding adolescence, where the raving battle between the id and the ego runs high, and primal instincts are roused in a soup of muddled hysteria. Am I whetting your appetite yet?

The film maintains a nice balance of hypnotic, ethereal visuals and visceral, lurid shocks. Unlike a vast slew of dumb horror schlock out there (or low-budget “extreme” cinema), this film was especially clever and effective in presenting these images in service of a riveting story, compelling characters, and an empathetic lead, all among the exhilarating and demented twists and turns along the way. Even behind this literal portrayal was a persistent aura of symbolism, making the film much more thought-provoking and artsy than your typical cannibal movie.

Deeply atmospheric, original, disturbing, and surprisingly relatable, Raw is the type of “horror” film that the filmic landscape has craved for a long time. I’m glad that this is getting a somewhat wide release, so if cannibalism is your schtick then check it out in theaters while it still lasts!

(DISCLAIMER: Some spoilers and violent images ahead.)

With it being David Cronenberg’s birthday earlier this week, revisiting his bleak yet intriguing Videodrome is my token of admiration to the visionary auteur. First released in 1983, Videodrome entered the world at the apex of the home video revolution. Though in hindsight exceptionally relevant to its time, it is clear today that the film has transcended its literal 1983 world of Betamax tapes and clunky cathode-ray screens, establishing itself as a disturbingly accurate metaphor of the way in which instant telecommunication has dominated and transformed our lives in the modern world. While many other, more recent representations have beaten this idea to death to the point of cliché, often exploiting the trendy topic for sole entertainment value (nothing wrong with that if it’s genuinely entertaining, I suppose), Videodrome remains a prescient warning that raises important questions about the muddled landscape of our computerized, consolidated world. What was initially a dystopian and hyperbolically satirical prognostication in its own day has turned out to be a widespread reality as we rewatch the movie on our flatscreen TVs, tablets, computer screens, and/or cell phones in the infancy of the new millennium.

To summarize Videodrome’s complex and rather mystifying synopsis would be almost impossible; I’d hate to oversimplify the fascinating and subtle underpinnings of the film’s story that ultimately make it something to be experienced rather than just “seen.” I’ve sat through the film about three times by now, and each time I still discover new symbols or questions that I hadn’t noticed previously. I’ll still admit there are certain aspects of the film I have yet to uncover, and even truly comprehend–yet it’s this same, lingering sense of ambiguity that makes the film work on a deeply visceral level. Videodrome raises serious questions about the interplay between mass media, psychology, phylogeny, ethics, and technology, where multiple viewpoints can be derived based on one’s own interpretation of the film (within a reasonable framework, of course). The film is meant to be puzzling, portraying a dystopian vision of chaos, confusion, and corporate despotism in a world governed by technology.

That said, I’ll still treat you to the film’s premise if you’re not already familiar: we are first introduced Max Renn, the cool and callous president of Channel 83’s sleazy cable network CIVIC-TV, as he scrounges for increasingly lurid content that will keep the small TV station alive and edgy. He is then introduced to a pirated signal called Videodrome, a compilation of footage depicting torture, abuse, and murder. Drawn into its graphic nature, while assuming it’s all simulated, Max believes this is exactly the type of jolting programming that his station needs. However, from this moment on, the narrative takes a sudden and outlandish turn. As he becomes obsessed with this mysterious Videodrome signal and continues to expose himself to it, he begins to hallucinate intensely–a direct effect of the Videodrome signal–to the point where the line between real life and these altered states become not only blurred, but intertwined: videocassettes pulsate and throb with organic life, humans are turned into technological-biological hybrid weapons, and the figurative screen separating the video world from the real world shatters. At one point in the film, Max is warned that “whatever appears on the television screen emerges as raw experience for those who watch it. Therefore, television is reality, and reality is less than television.” As Videodrome continues to consume his life, this becomes his reality.

In addition to those individual transformations/mutations, Max is exposed to the underlying conspiracy behind Videodrome. Whereas its brutally tabloid snuff content is depraved enough, its true danger sprouts from its more “latent” motives. As our main character is warned about a third into the film, “it has something you don’t have, Max; it has a philosophy. And that’s what makes it dangerous.” This reflects a deeply overlooked yet essential concept in our mass media-infused world, one that was rapidly spreading on a scale never before throughout the early 1980s: while many people look to the media simply as entertainment without any sort of “philosophy” in mind, those in power controlling the airwaves are typically motivated by clear political/ideological motives, most of which its viewers mindlessly submit to without thinking twice about it. In the movie we see Max turn into a mindless android, constantly reprogrammed and used back and forth as a weapon for two ideologically opposed sides at war with each other. Sure–these two regimes represent the “good vs. evil” diametric, but regardless of their intent they both seek to brainwash and manipulate individuals toward serving a common goal and conforming to their specific needs.

This is literalized and completely hyperbolized in Videodrome as Max grows a vaginal-like slit on his stomach, into which tapes are inserted into like commands are into a computer. By the film’s end, Max has essentially been dehumanized into a killing machine, force-fed tasks which he obeys without question. We learn that originally this reality-altering technology was idealized by a philosopher named Brian Oblivion, as a means to help the human species evolve into its next stage dubbed as the “New Flesh”: a fusion of the biological with the technological, in which humans are merged with rapidly evolving technology that allows them to transcend their current physical limitations. According to Oblivion, “The television screen is the retina of the mind’s eye. Therefore, the television screen is part of the physical structure of the brain.” Videodrome literally depicts this concept as Max is deluded by his hallucinations and no longer sees the real world for what it is, which become increasingly bizarre as he continues to subject himself to Videodrome. Despite this transcension of body, however, it is at this stage where Max no longer exists as an autonomous individual; he is quite literally and physically programmed and “used” to meet the needs of those pulling the strings from behind.

In today’s world, the way in which we merge with technology couldn’t be more apparent. In 1983, videocassettes allowed people to record and distribute their thoughts, dreams, and darkest impulses in an affordable and wildly accessible way. Today, however, we use our cell phones like an extra appendage, and the Internet gives us access to information and all kinds of content like never before. Videodrome was certainly aware of the upcoming Information Age, asserting that there comes a point where there is no longer any boundary between physical reality and the internet/video-world. The “New Flesh” will essentially be the next step in mankind’s evolution.

Videodrome also warns us of the danger of corporate tyranny. In an age where media has become so consolidated, where the sensational is heightened dramatically over the substantive, the film epitomizes the battle between true free speech and the potentially manipulative power of the media to distort the truth. Much like how the Internet has rendered the filtration of the news through media outlets increasingly obsolete, Videodrome pits the anarchic ideology of the New Flesh against the manipulative/propagandizing schemes of streamlined, unaccountable corporate conglomerates.

On more filmic terms, Cronenberg definitely has a gift for tone. The way in which he utilizes sound, imagery, and symbolism in Videodrome is outstanding, and makes the intellectual message of the film have a much more visceral edge. Whereas other early “computer” movies like Tron (1982) revelled in the sleek, neon aesthetic of the early ‘80s technological revolution, Videodrome presents the flip side of it, where the fusion between flesh and technology leads to some gruesomely bizarre and violent scenes. This is all the more emphasized by the ominous soundtrack, which coalesces perfectly with the dreary, desaturated, and graphic nature of the visuals.

So make sure to check out Videodrome if it’s your type of thing. The movie definitely presents itself as an exaggerated, fiercely satirical and over-the-top science fiction bizarro that just gets weirder and weirder, but revisiting it today it’s clear that its ideas ring much truer than they did back in 1983. So treat yourself to this remarkably imaginative yet grounded masterpiece from the Cronenberg oeuvre, but just be warned, it hits a little closer to home than you might expect.

The start of this year has brought a deluge of surprisingly well-made movies, both in the obscure and the mainstream. Anna Biller’s The Love Witch was an homage to the colorful, fashionable glamor of classic cinema, while encompassing more contemporary views on femininity and sexuality. The LEGO Batman Movie was a jokey wink to the superhero genre, exploding with energy, inspired references, and clever satire. Jordan Peele’s film directorial debut, Get Out, was a darkly comedic yet disturbing horror mystery film, layered with metaphor and social commentary on racial discrimination.  John Wick 2 was a frenetic thrill ride of eye-popping visuals and nonstop adrenaline action violence. Logan, on the other hand, was essentially a modern remake of Terminator 2 (1991), though with more grit; its gruff intensity, however, was warranted by the interplay of intricate characters, heartfelt emotions at play, inherent morals of family and sacrifice, and a universal but well-executed plot. I appreciate each of these films on their own merits, but none do I feel as inclined to write about than that of Kong: Skull Island. Out of all these films, I have to say that I had the most fun with Kong. To be honest, it’s hard to feel that way in a movie these days. The Marvel factory/emporium has done an impressive job mass-producing their line of entertaining and overall well-made superhero sagas, but outside the risky, boundary-pushing Deadpool, Guardians of the Galaxy, and Logan, they seem to otherwise play it relatively safe–and it’s starting to get a little bit stale. Most of the good “films” of recent conversely tend to rely on their dramatic stories and “deep” characters, automatically giving them the edge when it comes to making a compelling picture. It seems like most of the recent attempts at creating a successful and, at the very least, competent fantasy-adventure movie have fallen flat–constituted by a lack of originality (in both plot and visuals), bland acting/writing, and a formulaic reliance on tropes and clichés that we’ve all seen before.

But Kong is a little more clever than that. While we’ve seen the same story reincarnated at least three times by now, it’s the embroidered details of this film that really pack the punch (and, by the way, there are lots of them in this film). Kong is the perfect popcorn movie; it reminds us why we love the movies so much, and why the art of film doesn’t always have to be restrained to humble little films with melodramatic plot lines interwoven with a “socially redeeming” message. No, Kong is the perfect symbol for the grandness, the wonder, and the unparalleled spectacle of the movies, fueled by impressive special effects, imaginative storytelling, dramatic visuals, and a steady dose of humor that ultimately makes everything else work together.

Almost each previous King Kong film has been groundbreaking in its own right. The original 1933 version remains one of the most influential examples of movie special effects, inspiring later directors such as Peter Jackson, Tim Burton, and Ray Harryhausen. The 1976 remake was forgettable, however; I think the fact that I haven’t seen it proves it (just kidding; I haven’t yet seen Citizen Kane, either). Then, Peter Jackson’s 2005 revival brought computer effects and motion capture to a whole new level of epic proportions (quite literally; the original 1933 Kong only stood 24 inches tall). By this point, though, in 2017, special effects can’t carry the whole weight of a film. So what makes this Kong so special?

Again, it’s not really the plot. To recap, it’s the same old story retold from within a 1973 setting. Some characters, among them a group of Vietnam-army soldiers, go to Skull Island for some reason that the movie demands, and like always, they encounter some wacky creatures along the way: giant-sized reptiles, humongous spiders, a monstrous octopus, and, of course . . . “is that a monkey?” In fact, the movie parallels some of the key scenes of Apocalypse Now (1979) to the point where I think it’s safe to call the movie both a parody of Coppola’s film and the monster-adventure genre in general. Clearly mimicking Kurtz’s dramatic revelation in Apocalypse, our cast of main characters in Kong stumbles across the abandoned and crazed. . . wait for it . . . Dr. Steve Brule, “for your health”!!!  This is when the movie, surprisingly, really starts to work, becoming something entirely special and unique. The highly idiosyncratic humor that John C. Reilly purports throughout the film is no different than it is in Tim and Eric; he has the uncanny ability to say any line in the script, and BAM!–immediately it’s so absurd and unconventional in its delivery that it’s hilarious. Normally you wouldn’t find this in your typical Kong remake, but I’m glad the filmmakers had the courage to take the risk. The humor worked; it fused the story with life and an extra layer of self-awareness, subverting the norm of a conventional Hollywood remake and instead creating something that’s surprisingly original and effective. Even if Dr. Steve Brule’s wacky humor feels out of place in a Hollywood Kong movie–well, that’s exactly the purpose, ya dingus. And even though it does feel a bit too superficial at times, the movie still miraculously delivers on the entertainment-meter.

The movie was also impressive on a visual scale. The special effects were magnificent, and for the most part, amazingly realistic. King Kong especially moved with such enormous weight, and it was fully apparent that the surrounding environment of Skull Island was handled with such outstanding detail and care in making it a fantastical yet convincing location. While there was a satisfying assortment of all kinds of outlandish monsters and pestilent creepy-crawlies, they were given just the right amount of screen time necessary to keep the movie going. They didn’t lag on to the point of Peter Jackson’s tiresome use of digital puppetry in the 2005 version, which seemed to muddle the story in a state of perpetual videogame-esque repetitiveness. No, these creatures were used in a way that ultimately kept the thrills coming and moved the plot forward, leading to some well-executed action scenes reminiscent of classic monster movies of the ’50s (and the original Kong, if I didn’t hit you hard enough with that yet), enhanced with extravagantly-handled modern visual effects.

This brings me onto my next point: this movie was enjoyably violent! Both humans and monsters alike were ripped apart, straddled with bullets, smashed around, impaled (Cannibal Holocaust reference, anyone?), eviscerated, disemboweled, and thrown about in some pretty horrifying and gruesome ways. Of course, the movie stays well within its PG-13 limits, but the violence is executed in such a thrilling and over-the-top fashion that you just have to laugh at it, yet be horrified by it at the same time. It’s the pure definition of what “movie violence” is all about, and it brazenly assumes its well-deserved role at the forefront of the movie’s swashbuckling, fast-paced, and adventurous tone. The creativity, fantasy, and spectacle in which the action is handled is something I haven’t really seen much since the days of Lord of the Rings, Peter Jackson’s Kong, and Indiana Jones. It’s perfect within the boundaries of an entertaining action-adventure popcorn movie, and even handled in a lovingly schlocky sort of way.

So in a movie industry dominated by a tidal wave of the same deja-vu inducing Marvel movies, an envious yet incompetent DC superhero line trying to reach the same status, an influx of Michael Bay-inspired CG-explosion movies, a plethora of jump-scare-reliant horror movies, and the remainder consisting of overtly-serious Oscar-bait dramas, Kong: Skull Island is a refreshing theatergoing experience. In my opinion, Hollywood’s modern onslaught of adventure/fantasy films have been mostly disappointing, relying on banal computer effects, caricatured performances, unoriginal storylines, and the Disney logo. While Kong contains all of these (minus the corporate grasp of Disney), it goes the “extra mile” and, in a facetious, cheeky sort of way, turns those familiar tropes inside out. John C. Reilly’s eccentric layer of humor, the lavish visual effects, the creative and timely use of violence, and the surprisingly emotional core of the story will surely be enough to entertain you at the very least. If you have a soul, that is.