Let’s face it, most of us at one time or another have wanted to smash Dennis Waterman’s face in. Whether it be not being as good as John Thaw in The Sweeney, not looking at all comfortable ‘having a ruck’ or ‘pulling the birds’ in Minder, or lisping his way through another tedious 55 minutes of New Tricks, Mr Waterman seems to project an air of ‘Please, smash my face in’ whatever he’s doing.

But you can vicariously live out the thrill of smashing in Dennis’ face without incurring any penalties from the police by simply watching Fright, a cracking, little-known Brit-thriller.

Fright falls into a strange little genre of still-mildly shocking Brit-thrillers from the early 70s which now are not only forgotten, but are hard to find and never turn up on TV (mainly because of network TV’s unwritten law that anything older than 10 years can only be shown in daytime. Except on Channel Five). This group also includes the likes of The Brute (soon to be reviewed exploitation study of domestic abuse) and the Joan Collins-starring Revenge (a strangely still prescient account of a community reacting to a child molester). Films such as these should not be forgotten by their homeland and need to be seen. Strange then that many are available elsewhere in the world.

But back to the matter in hand. Fright is probably the earliest film to depict the now standard (even cliched) babysitter in peril gambit. In this instance, Susan George is the unfortunate girl, babysitting a well-to-do couple’s child, whilst they celebrate an ‘anniversary’. Given the ominous glances exchanged by all and sundry, you begin to suspect that something is up, and sure enough things start to go bump, creak and smash in the night. Turns out the couple are celebrating the divorce of the lady (Honor Blackman) from her first husband who has been incarcerated in a loony bin, so she is now free to marry George Cole. Stop sniggering at the back.

Unfortunately on that very night, hubby #1 (Ian Bannen) has escaped his shackles and is returning home…

I know it all sounds very cliched, but as one of the first of its kind, Fright set the template for so many things that followed. There are fake scares with washing lines, creaking doors, trees banging on windows, the usual. But what raises Fright above the flotsam are the performances from the relatively small cast.

First up is Susan George, who in the early 70s made a very nice career being abused and having her clothes ripped off by vile men. Before Fright she’d been raped and stabbed by Ian Ogilvy (The Sorcerers) and had a schoolgirl affair with Charles Bronson (Twinky). This was to be followed by Die Screaming Marianne (guess the name of her character in that), getting raped twice in Straw Dogs, and the final indignity of appearing in an Italian Jaws-rip-off (Tintorera). The woman seems to have a serious psychological problem where she can only appear in films in which she must be firmly humiliated, preferably wearing very few clothes. I know actresses have a hard time of it compared to their male counterparts. Either that or her agent was a complete perv.

Here, she not only has to wear a dreadful purple mohair minidress, she has to fight off the advances of a cardigan-wearing Waterman, but she is then deflowered by the insane Bannen who is convinced she is his wife.

It’s this aspect that makes Fright such an interesting film. The second half of the film is almost entirely taken up with Bannen’s increasingly deranged belief that George is in fact Blackman. This is portrayed with great by director Peter Collinson (The Italian Job) and this section is easily the most unnervingin the whole film. Bannen is superb, only occassionaly slipping into full-blown mental mode, but it all seems perfectly natural.

The unhappy couple are superb too. This is easily Honor Blackman’s best performance in anything, and shows what a fine actress she could be given the right role, which sadly she rarely did. Cole too, at this point best known for his spiv character Flash Harry in the St Trinnian’s films, shows that given a good role (in this case, an emasculated husband-to-be) he could deliver a good dramatic performance. The one weakness is the supporting characters. During the unbelievably tense stand off between loony and victim, we constantly cut back and forth to Blackman and Cole’s friend, and Bannen’s doctor, trying to get the police to investigate his escape. The police seem less than excited at the prospect, and come across as foolish, not helped by the fact that one of them is Roger Lloyd-Pack (Trigger from Only Fools and Horses, showing a comic touch even then).

But it’s a minor quibble in a film that deserves wider acclaim and should be seen by anyone who loves a good, taut thriller.

Way Hey for Youtube! It’s on there…

If you just want to see Dennis waterman get his face smashed in… 7.00 mins onwards…

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NAKED SPACE VAMPIRES!!!!!

Need I say more?

Well, OK then. First a bit of history…

Cannon films, run by Israeli cousins Menahem Golan and Yoram Globus (the “Go-Go Twins”) had by the early 80s found itself a niche in mid-range trash, normally starring Charles Bronson or Chuck Norris. They had also invested heavily by purchasing the ABC cinema chain, in a misguided attempt to circumvent traditional distribution. they would simply show their films in their cinemas.
By the mid-80s the Go-Go’s ego’s were far outweighing their talents, and despite owning the rights to several Marvel properties (including Spiderman), eventually adding Superman and He-Man to their slate, their big hope for 1985 was a huge, sprawling sci-fi epic, as the trailer proudl proclaimed “from the writer of Alien and the director of Poltergeist and The Texas Chainsaw Massacare!”.

What emerged was a $25 million dollar car crash of a movie, which is only epic in terms of budget and shoddiness.

Let’s not forget $25 million in 1985 was a LOT of money. (In comparison, the year’s biggest hit, Back to the Future, cost a relatively respesctable $18 million, and that had to deal with special effects and, notoriously expensive, period trappings. Also, the greatest film of 1985, if not the whole decade, Fletch, cost about half of Lifeforce‘s budget.) $25 million for a BRITISH film was even more unbelievable. That kind of budget was reserved for box office certainties, usually directed by Dickie Attenborough. Even today, you could count on one hand the number of Brit movies in the past five years that have come close to costing that much.

The Go-Go’s had secured Tobe Hooper (the aforementioned director) to a three-film deal. This would result in two personal projects (a dreadful remake of Invaders From Mars, and an entertaining, but flawed, sequel to TCM), but would start with Lifeforce. Hooper was a fan of the novel on which the film was loosely based (Space Vampires by Colin Wilson), and wanted to keep the title. But the Go-Go’s envisioned this movie about ‘naked space vampires’ as being something special. Therefore having a film about ‘naked space vampires’ being called ‘Space vampires’ would give off completely the wrong message (they seemed to have no problem with the posters though, which depicted… oh, a naked space vampire.)

The Quatermass-riffing plot involves a joint US-GB space mission, in the shuttle Churchill, to investigate (the then topic du jour) Halley’s Comet. There they find an enormous space ship hiding in the comet’s tail. Inside they find several dessicated corpses huge of bat-like creatures, and three naked bodies (2 male, 1 female) encased in clear boxes. They decide, obviously, to take them back to their shuttle.

Fast forward three months, the shuttle returns having had a fire on board. the crew are all dead, but the clear boxes, and their naked inhabitants, have remained intact. They are taken to London.

Turns out these guys and gal are space vampires who need to ‘feed’ every two hours to survive. This they do by sucking the ‘lifeforce’ from another human. This is rendered surprisingly well, with some excellent animatronics standing in for the lifeforce-less victims.

After the first attack, SAS expert Colonel Caine (an absolutely dreadful Peter Firth) joins up with Dr Fallada (an embarassed-looking Frank Finlay) to try and figure things out. At this point the shuttle’s escape pod is discovered with the only survivor from the Churchill: hooray, it’s confused prank monkey Steve Railsback! (see review of Turkey Shoot for more on this titan of bad movies).
Colonel Carlsen (Railsback), is flown over from the States to mission control in London where things have gone a bit tits thanks to those pesky space vampires, in the space of what seems about three hours.

Things now take a very odd turn, and to try and explain everything that happens for the rest of the film would be both pointless and utterly confusing. But I’ll try.

The space vampires can jump bodies; the lady space vampire takes any opportunity to show her norks, whilst her male counterparts often find objects nestling, Austin-Powers-style just in front of their meat and two veg; Carlsen develops a telepathic link with lady vampire.

About an hour in, Carlsen, Caine and ‘the minister’ (perfectly played by Aubrey Morris) find themselves at an asylum run by a clearly demented Patrick Stewart, whilst tracking down the now body-swapping lady vampire. This sequence takes up about half an hour of screen time, but does set up the marvellously convoluted set up for the final act: London In Ruins!

Yes, our heroes return to town to find a badly rendered miniature London burning to the ground while vampires (who now seem to resemble zombies) run riot. Of particular interest to me was the wonderful reproduction of Chancery lane tube station: exact in every detail you could believe it was a real tube station. Unfortunately not Chancery lane, to which it bears no resemblance whatsoever.

The final twenty minutes is an absolute mess of incident, nothing makes any sense, but there’s some good gore, and what a surprise, that sword that Dr Fallada took delivery of earlier may just come in handy.

Sadly, Lifeforce has been all-but-forgotten in the annals of history. Which is a shame because I believe it was a genuine attempt to make a spectacular, Hollywood-style movie in Britain. I admire its balls, even if it’s sadly a bit of a mess. An entertaining mess, but a mess nontheless. Railsback and Firth are utterly dreadful. Peter Firth, particularly given his wonderful performance as MI5 boss Harry Pearce in Spooks, seems to think he’s in a silent movie: every action is exaggerated beyond belief, he reminded me of Eddie Izzard’s silent movie star in Shadow of the Vampire. The rest of cast is filled with reliable Brit stalwarts like Finlay, pre-Picard Stewart, Nicholas Ball and the excellent Michael Gothard, who disappears halfway through the film for some reason.

One high point is the fantastic score by, of all people, Henry Mancini. But this is no cool, jazz soundtack, this a bombastic symphony of thundering action themes. The main theme is amongst the best of John Williams or Jerry Goldsmith. Lifeforce was heavily cut for it’s US release (losing about 20 minutes), and sadly this theme, as well as some music within the film, was replaced by Alien-a-like music by Michael Kamen. It’s fine, but also seems to be an attempt to ‘class up’ the movie (as with replacing the opening narration with a text crawl).

This film does need reappraisal. It’s no classic in the traditional sense, but it is a classic of British Exploitation, a genre that lies dying and unloved in our post-post-post modern society. I bet Neil Marshall (The Descent, Doomsday) loves it.

Trailer!

(Note: while the DVD is easily available at a budget price (expect to pay no more than a few quid)  some wonderful chap has put the whole bally thing up on Youtube…so try before you buy. But do buy.

Choice Peter Firth acting moments can be found here particularly 3 mins in)

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‘Freedom is obedience, obedience is work, work is life’

 Ozploitation is big business at the moment. Since the release last year of the excellent documentary Not Quite Hollywood, everyone and their dog has been jumping on the bandwagon and claiming that Brian Trenchard-Smith is an unacknowledged genius and Tony Ginnane movies piss all over Jerry Bruckheimer’s.

Of course this is nonsense. Whilst Aussie films of the 70s and early 80s did chuck up a few gems (Patrick, Road Games, the Mad Max series) they also made just as much useless tat as Hollywood did, and were as keen to exploit hollywood product as much as any other third world country (in cinematic terms, that is).

With this in mind, I finally decided to check out Turkey Shoot, a film which had sat unwatched on my shelves for almost two years.

It’s far from original, has some dreadful acting, a terrible script, and a budget that would barely cover a couple of episodes of Neighbours. And yet, bugger me, if it’s not one of the most balls-out entertaining exploiters I’d seen in a long long time.

In a dystopian near-future (aren’t they always), a totalitarian rule is enforced, and disidents and trouble-makers are rounded up and taken to ‘training camps’, where under a scrict regime of monotonous tasks and regular beatings, they are re-trained to be allowed back into normal society.

We open with three new residents on their way to Camp 47, the most notorious of the lot. Run by governor Charles Thatcher (sounds like Charles Gray, looks like Alistair Darling’s dad), and his vicious head guard Ritter. Our three new guys are seasoned camp escapee, Anders (Steve Railsback), gorgeous wrong woman in the wrong place at the wrong time, Chris (Olivia Hussey), and another woman who has been accussed of being a prostitute, Rita (Aussie TV regular Lynda Stoner).

The opening act introduces the day to day of the camp, including a couple of other characters including the cowardly Dodge, and Andy, both of whom are dragged into the governor’s evil plans.

What the residents of Camp 47 don’t know, is that Thatcher likes to have his rich friends over for a bit of sport. Each friend gets to pick a prisoner, who is then given their freedom, if they can avoid being hunted by their chosen big-knob for 24 hours. Such is the fate that befalls our heroes, each is hunted by either the odious Secretary Mallory (some kind of politician), lesbian femme fatale, Jennifer, “camp Freddie” look-a-like Griff (and his strange circus freak, dog-boy Alph(!), the film’s one big bad idea), and Thatcher himself, who has his sights trained firmly on Andy and Anders (not as confusing as it sounds).

If this all sounds familiar, well that’s because it blatantly is. Whilst the kids on imdb discuss which bits were ripped off for The Running Man (and undoubtedly some were) the rest of us will of course recognise it as the basic plot of The Most Dangerous Game, a story that has been filmed, officially and unofficially, so many times it’s orgins are almost forgotten.

Whilst the story may be as original as a baked bean, it’s execution (pun intended) is surprisingly good.

The pacing of the opening exchanges is superbly handled, taking in an introduction to the camp, the main characters, and the governor’s plot within about 20 minutes. Ritter (played by Roger Ward, should be familiar to fans of Mad Max) clearly establishes himself as the character you’re going to remember the most, and is, of course, not given nearly enough screentime.

Railsback and Hussey were, in 1982, very established names, but neither really excels here. Railsback falls into that category of actor where you just can’t help thinking “who the hell must have turned this down for HIM to get the part?”. After making his name as Peter o Toole’s confused prank monkey in The Stunt Man, he seemed to sleepwalk his way through the 80s and 90s, nearly always playing the confused prank monkey in films such as the underated Lifeforce, Alligator 2 and , god help us, Barb Wire. Hussey always seemed ready to break out into superstardom after her appearance in Jesus of Nazareth, but never did. Instead she ended up in TV movie/animation voice-over hell. Here she is given NOTHING to do, except cower and whimper lots. She does get her top undone a couple of times by the lecherous prison guards, but her big topless scene is rendered laughable by the substitution of a pair of stunt breasts which are hilariously over-sized in comparison to Ms Hussey’s own.

This scene in fact raises the question of taste. Ozploitation films were never known for their taste, and many feel Turkey Shoot is no exception. I disagree. In scenes like the one above, many American or Euro sleaze films would have gone on for a full clothes-ripping, full frontal rape scene for no good reason other than the director/producer wanted one. In Turkey Shoot, the scene takes place in a shower, where we have already scene copious nudity, both male and female, and the attack is over almost as quickly as it starts, with the potential rapist coming out second best.

In the violence stakes too, the film manages to stay just the right side of the taste barrier. Most of the deaths are messy, and in-your-face, but, possibly given the slightly amateurish effects work, they somehow retain a charm that is never repulsive, and mostly raise a giggle. There is one exception, but thankfully the fate of one protaganist is kept off-screen, with the viewer merely left to view the build up and aftermath, and are left to wonder what happened in between.

The hunt itself takes up the majority of the film, and is surprisingly tense. Each prisoner is released at half hour intervals, allowing each to have their own mini-adventure in a suitably lovely looking location, each offering its own dangers. Railsback gets to clamber over some very dangerous looking wet rocks, whilst Hussey has to deal with a burning cornfield.

After a couple of deaths for either side, the scene is a set for an explosive finale, with the air force called in to firebomb the camp when it becomes apparent that Thatcher has lost control. Here, we get some nicely intergrated stock footage and some nice explosions.

There has been much discussion of the various versions of the film, with some said to be cut by anything up to fifteen minutes. The uncut version under review runs a tad over 90 minutes, and is a breezy ride. It motors along without pause for breath, and whilst the sleazehounds may be a little disappointed, anyone out for a fun action movie and some good gore could do far worse than this, mainly because it’s simply the sort of thing that just doesn’t get made anymore.

There are 3 clips on this page

Trailer

(Director Brian Trenchard-Smith briefly achieved fame by following Turkey Shoot with BMX Bandits, which introduced the world to a bright young actress called Nicole Kidman.

The DVD under review is the UK edition on the Hardgore label. If you shop around you should be able to get it pretty cheap; I got mine in my local Poundland. The cover prominently features the dog-boy Alph for some reason. The picture quality is excellent, but the sound is tinny and crackly.

Although the film never states it, the trailer says the film is set in 1995, so why the American title was Escape 2000 is a bit of a mystery.)

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 With Hollywood seemingly on a mission to remake every single film of the past 30 years, it’s nice to remember those more innocent times when smaller nations would shamelessly just rip-off the latest big budget blockbuster with little or no concern for international copyright law.

Whilst the Turkish variants of Star Wars and Superman are now the stuff of post-modern, kitsch legend, the kings of the rip-off were undoubtedly the Italians. usually they would just make a cheap knock off of a hit and stick a ‘2’ on to it’s title, until the lawyers came-a-knocking and they’d have to come up with something a bit more original (Alien 2 aka Contamination, Terminator II), or simply churn out their own variants of popular genres, such as the Dirty Harry riffing Mark the Cop series. Even the spaghetti zombie craze of the late 70s/early 80s was a response to the success of George Romero’s Dawn of the Dead (titled Zombi in Italy, Lucio Fulci’s Zombie Flesh Eaters, was known as Zombi 2 in its homeland… try and keep up).

“Alright, smart arse, what’s that got to do with Holocaust 2000?”, I hear you murmer. Well, perhaps the king of Italian rip-offs is one Alberto De Martino, the man behind Operation Kid Brother (aka OK Connery), Blazing Magnums and The Antichrist. It shouldn’t take long to work out the uncredited ‘inspiration’ behind those films. For it is he who also directed the film under consideration.

Consider the following: American industrialist, played by Hollywood has-been, lives in London; he has a rather odd son; he receives ominous, religious-flavoured warnings about the end of the world; several British character actors die in ridiculously contrived accidents… any of this sound familiar?

OK, one more clue: his son is in fact the son of Ol’ Nick himself!

Yes, it’s Omen 2! Except they couldn’t call it that because 20th Century Fox were already making that, so instead we get the Tesco Value Omen 2, Holocaust 2000.

Kirk Douglas plays Gregory Peck, an American in London, who has married into a rich family business. We’re not quite sure exactly what they do, but currently they are planning a large nuclear energy making machine in an unspecified Middle eastern country, that looks like Tunisia (very popular location at the time), but isn’t.

Just before destroying large swathes of the landscape, Kirk shows a sexy photographer an inscription, “IESUS”, in a cave, that has been there for over 10,000 years. Then blows it up. There’s the suggestion that this is all very ominous, thanks to one of the more barmy Ennio Morriconne soundtracks (much of which sounds like it was rejected from Exorcist 2 for being slightly OTT) , but this pre-credits sequence chucks so much at you in five minutes, that you’re not sure what’s important and what’s not. It is vital to remember how Kirks sexy new reactor will work to create the heat only found at the centre of the sun: “combining atoms and laser beams”. So that’s how it’s done.

Back in London, Kirk holds a banquet for his investors, whilst some anti-nuke interpretive dancers protest outside. Mrs Kirk decides she doesn’t like his project anymore (maybe it’s a bit late for that), and as, technically, it’s her company, there’s nothing he can do about it. Luckily for Kirk one of the protesters (bearing a spooky resemblance to General Zod from Superman 2) has crashed the party simply by putting on a tux and lighting a cigarette. He mumbles something about Kirk being evil and tries to stab him. Kirk’s grown-up creepy son (Angel, groovy name… or is it?) intervenes, only for Mrs Kirk to receive a gloriously gory shivving instead. So Kirk’s back in business.

This pretty much sets the tone for the first half of the film.  An obstacle is put in Kirk’s way, the obstacle is overcome by the intervention of a gory special effect. The best example probably bestowed on the military dictator who takes control of Madeupistan and decides to oppose the building of a giant bomb machine on his doorstep. He falls victim to one of the squishiest beheadings in film history (incidentally, this is far better than the much-loved version in Dawn of the Dead released the following year).

Within about two minutes of Kirk’s wife’s passing, he shacks up with the saucy photographer from earlier. Creepy son seems to positively encourage this. There is a truly jaw-dropping sequence where the two go to Kirk’s country retreat for a weekend of rumpy, which is preceded by a five minute sequence of them cooing over a deer. It’s like a catalogue photospread in movie form, made all the more insane by Morriconne’s music, which sounds like a rejected Emmerdale Farm theme.

Kirk says what we’re all thinking

Now things start to get a bit bonkers. There’s really far too much to go into everything, so here’s the edited highlights… A supercomputer testing the failsafe systems keeps churning out the number 2√231 (IESUS backwards in this film’s logic). The design of the reactor bears a ‘strong’ resemblance to the description of the beastie that will destroy the world in the Bible. Anyone who opposes the project meets a swift end (including one that was, believe it or not, ripped off itself in Omen 2). Kirk has a nightmare that spells out all the plot points in BIG BOLD LETTERS in case we haven’t got it yet… and gets his arse out. Yes, Kirk Douglas’ arse. It’s certainly the scariest thing in this film.

Through some exposition that I wasn’t really paying attention to, it transpires that Kirk’s second son is the son of the devil. As his new girlfriend is up the duff, this comes as a bit of a shock, and he spends the next 20 minutes of the film trying to trick her into an abortion. Then he remembers that earlier in the film he’d told his girlfriend that Angel had been born a twin, but his umbilical cord had strangled the other twin and it died at birth, so… DUN DUN DUUUR! Do I need to spell the rest out?

The final, delirious half an hour includes Kirk bashing his wife’s murderer’s head in with a wooden pole, a ward of babies being poisioned by a miopic nurse who keeps vitamin drops and bleach in identical bottles, and one of the most anti-climactic non-endings I’ve ever seen.

(NB: It’s here I should point out the various versions of the film. Apparently in Europe, the film has an open-ended climax where you don’t know what is going to happen re good vs evil. In the States an additional ending was filmed and clumsily tacked on to ensure you know who wins. Details of this ending can be found the imdb message board for the film. Incidentally, many reviews mention Kirk stomping the murderers’ head, but in the version I saw, entitled Rain of Fire, he definitely smashes it with a pole.)

And I still haven’t mentioned the Kubrick-a-like mental institution, where the inmates are bunched together in perspex boxes, the oh-so-subtle religious symbolism, or the terrible sight of actors like Anthony Quayle having to do this kind of nonsense to pay the rent.

What’s perhaps most suprising, apart from Kirk’s arse, is the fact that this was co-financed by a British film company. At the arse-end (pardon the pun) of the 70s there was very little British film industry to speak of, so you can’t help but wonder if they had the kind of money to spend on toss like this, what films they could have been making.

Toss it may be, but it’s entertaining toss if you are so inclined. Kirk gives a very enthusiastic performance, and doesn’t look anywhere near as embarassed as he could be. The set pieces are handled well and it’s rarely dull. It is appallingly written though. Scenes begin and end at arbitrary moments, there are plot holes so big you expect the film to be sucked inside out, and ultimately it makes little sense. Purveyors of bad movies will lap up every bonkers second of it.

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If you find yourself watching a high school comedy (it could happen) and you can’t decide if what you’re watching is a medium-budget piece of Hollywood fluff, or a zero-budget, heartfelt indie film, there are some simples tests you can apply.

(a) Is your main character a tall, attractive blonde, from a rich family, who’s a bit of a bitch, but will learn the error of her ways by the end of the film, and probably end up with the sensitive bloke rather than the wanky jock-type ‘stud’ she wanted?

(b) Or is she a, short, akward brunette, considered a bit odd by her peers, has a very small circle of friends, comes from a poor (probably broken) home and rejects all potential suitors until she realises that she fancies a boy who she’s probably been friends with since she was in nappies?

Or how about:

(a) Is the soundtrack filled with pop songs by the hottest acts and dance track remixes?

(b) Is the soundtrack filled with IMPOSSIBLY hip stuff by singer-songwriters, and ‘alternative’ acts, many of whom you’ve never heard of?

Or:

(a) Do the characters talk in exaggerated ‘teen’ talk, endlessly discussing going to the mall, cars, dad’s credit card?

(b) Do the characters talk in quirky slang, endlessly discussing cool bands and obscure films?

If you answered mostly (a), surprise surprise, you’re watching a probably guiltily entertaining piece of Hollywood pap like Clueless, or Mean Girls, chuckling away and probably hating yourself when its finished.

If you answered mostly (b) you’ve just wasted your time on another breakout indie hit, that critics have wet themselves to praise as ‘the future for filmmaking’, but you’ve considered a very dull, worthy comedy-drama, which forgot to include much in the way of laughs.

That, or Juno.

I really wanted to like Juno. At the time of its release I felt sorry for it, because its cinmea release in the UK coincided within weeks of the release of the bigger budgeted, high-profile, Knocked Up. Juno‘s later Oscar success meant it found its audience on DVD. Having seen both films now, I can only say my sympathy for Juno was misplaced.

It’s quite easy to say what’s wrong with Juno. It has nothing to do the cast, who are, to a man, brilliant. Ellen Paige is shaping up to be a star for years to come, and Michael Cera is a very gifted comic actor, despite (or maybe because of) his far-from-matinee idol looks. The support cast includes the wonderful JK Simmons, the astonishing Jason Bateman (watch Teen Wolf Too and tell me that’s the same actor) and even Jennifer Garner.

It’s not really the direction either. Jason ‘my dad made Ghostbusters‘ Reitman does a fine job.

What let’s it down, is ironically what won the film it’s Oscar. The script by Diablo Cody is diabolical.

Now, Ms Cody became the subject of much press attention when it emerged that this neophyte scritpwriter used to be a stripper. Whoop-de-fucking-do. I hope she was better at that than writing. Everything about Juno strikes of indie-by-the-numbers. Every scene has at least two crowbarred ‘quirky’ one-liners inserted into it; every character is a wise cracker, whether it suits them or not; everyone is cool in their own way; and absolutely NOTHING is believable in anyway. And that includes Ms Cody’s name. Becuase it’s not. Christ, she’s even created a quirky alter-ego for herself.

If you don’t know, Juno is a 16 year old who gets pregnant after her only sexual experience with her male friend, Bleeker, a geeky runner with an obsession with orange TicTacs (!). Her only other friend appears to be a cheerleader, Leah, who fancies the fat, bearded geography teacher (ker-azy!). She has absolutely so bearing on the plot at all, and merely pops up supportively at opportune moments, normally just as you’re forgetting that she’s in the film. So we’ve got a ‘deep’, emo girl who’s only two friends are a cheerleader and a geek jock… Mmmm… interesting mix. I’ve spent a day in an American high school, and believe me, Heathers is the most realistic portrayal of high school cliques I’ve ever seen. This is fantasy stuff.

Juno does make it to the abortion clinic, but after an encounter with a a girl from her school who is protesting and claims foetuses have fingernails, Juno then has a change of heart because the waiting room is bit noisy, what with everyone having amplified fingers and pens. So she decides to keep it, and give it up to a pair of Stepford Yuppies who can’t conceive, Mark and Vanessa (played by Bateman and Garner).

What so far, has been infuriating cutesy and kooky, but still watchable, now descends into another deminsion of awfulness completely. Juno and Mark become close, as they both play guitar (and seemingly nothing else). They have kooky conversations about music, but their tastes seem to be reversed, with Juno preferring 70s punk, and Mark liking late 80’s garage and grunge. They argue about the merits of Sonic Youth (Juno thinks they’re weird, but likes The Stooges!), and he introduces her to the joys of Herschell Gordon Lewis movies, which she proclaim are cooler than Suspiria (released in 1977, the same year as punk’s peak… mmm, I’m noticing something here. This is what passes as character development.

On the subject of music, the whole thing has one of the most grating soundtracks I’ve ever heard. The whole thing is filled with simpering, ‘cool’, guitar balladry of the alternative variety. It’s so self-conscious everytime I song started I expected Juno to face the camera and go “hey, cool tune… what do you mean you don’t know who Belle and Sebastian are? I can’t believe you don’t know them!” Well, I do, and they’re a good band, but two songs almost back-to-back, I could do without in a  film. Loved the Cat Power version of Sea of Love though.

But, as I said earlier the whole thing is soooooooo cool, it alienates you from the story. Hey, maybe that was the point. It’s just so by-the-numbers, there really isn’t an original idea in the whole 90 minutes (and it felt longer than that: I had three cigarette breaks; I can normally manage without if the film’s any good). Everything in it reminded me of things like Garden State, which, of course, just made it seem even worse, because anything that reminds me of that joyless two hours of my life should be taken out and shot. Fuck The Shins!

When all’s said and done though, Juno still retains a smidgen of sympathy from me because it was 2008’s independant toe in the water. Every year has one. The year before it was Little Miss Sunshine. You know, the quirky, wacky film that every critic falls in love with, and manages to persuade the public this is the kind of film they should watch all the time. Then the public forgets that it really likes films without the marketing budget equal to the GNP of some European countries and goes back to watching Epic Movie. And yes, there is no link to that.

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“Impress me”, M in Quantum of Solace

I should really have reviewed QoS back in October when it opened, but due to a combination of the usual month-long Bondmania (where every TV presenter and z-list celebrity declares their undying passion for Bond but probably couldn’t name one actor who’s played Blofeld, let alone all seven eight [props to harry Webshiter, see below]) and a rotten cold, I felt I couldn’t give the film a fair crack.

After two subsequent viewings, and a period of grace, the time has come. And I have to say it’s not great. And what follows may contain spoilers (if it’s possible to spoil the story of a Bond movie).

As someone who has long championed the Fleming-esque route to Bond movies over the space lasers and world domination world that tarred Roger Moore’s tenure (go and watch them again, they are not all like that), Casino Royale was the film I thought I would never see: a perfect mix of well-directed, exciting action, a decent story, good acting and a film that didn’t rely on outdated cliches.

QoS was suppossed to continue this trend. The hiring of Marc Forster, a man not normally regarded for his high-octane action films, to direct seemed to be a step in the right direction. Oscar-winning screenwriter (as we are CONSTANTLY reminded) Paul Haggis was retained from Casino Royale, along with Bond alumni Robert Wade and Neal Purvis, the men who are were rather cruelly blamed for Die Another Day‘s excesses, and then recieved no acclaim for Casino Royale.

The film begins just minutes after the end of Casino Royale, with Bond having captured the mysterious Mr White. he is being tailed, presumably, by White’s men in a hair-raising car chase opening, before Bond arrives at his rendezvous with M in Sienna. A traitor is revealed, White escapes, and so begins a hunt for the ‘organisation’ that White works for (“The first thing you need to understand about us is we have people everywhere”, White chillingly informs M), whilst Bond still tries to come to terms with Vesper’s betrayal and death at the end of Casino Royale.

Oh, yes. This is a proper sequel. If you haven’t seen Casino Royale, you will have no idea what the hell is going on for most of the film’s running time. But you won’t be alone.

The first of QoS failings is it’s length. Bond films have been criticised in the past for having too much padding, and regular run over two hours. Casino Royale was the longest ever, clocking in at almost 2 and a half hours. QoS by contrast is 45 minutes shorter, and the shortest film in the entire series. This means the film moves at such a relentless speed, it doesn’t have time to breath. This is fine for a high-concept film like …erm… Speed, where the plot is simple, and the film is all about the next action set piece. But QoS has an incredibly complicated plot, and factor in the baggage from Casino Royale, and you’ve got a lot of story to tell, mixed in with the action scenes (of which there is probably too much after the leaness of Casino Royale), and the whole thing feels like an over inflated balloon waiting to burst.

As a consequence important plot details get lost in the mix. Expositional dialogue is often played out over other scenes, competeing for your attention. In one particularly annoying scene the viewer is asked to read two seperate subtitled conversations at the same time while having no idea which on is the important one (one is completely superfluous, and is merely ‘ominous’, a nice touch that would have worked better in islolation).

As with Casino Royale, the casting is brilliant. Mathieu Amalric is a superbly odious villain, perhaps due to his terrifying resemblance to Roman Polanski. He’s a small chap, always flanked by larger bodyguards, but he fight’s dirty, and is a worthy adversary for Bond. Olga Kurylenkois a fine replacement for Eva Green as chief Bond girl. As usual, there’s the standard guff about she’s ‘not a dollybird, she’s Bond’s equal’, and to be fair, she is certainly a lot tougher than usual. She’s waging her own vendetta, gunning for the corrupt general (and secondary villain) who murdered her family when she was a child.

It’s also great to see Giancarlo Gianni and Jeffrey Wright reprising their Casino Royale roles, but sadly both are criminally neglected again. And of course Judi Dench steals every scene she’s in, and this time she is particularly grumpy.

As always though, there is one weak link, and in this case it’s Gemma Arterton. She claims to have based her portrayal of ‘Strawberry’ Fields on the classic Bond girls Honor Blackman and Diana Rigg. But to me it seems she based it more on Britt Ekland and Talisa Soto. She doesn’t have a great deal to do, just turn up wearing a Graham greene-era spy raincoat and awful suede boots (and, it’s implied, nothing else), sleep with Bond, go to a party and die. That’s all she’s there for. She doesn’t advance the plot or assist Bond in anyway. And she can’t even do this well. She has all the charisma of a wet rag, and less acting ability. It’s interesting that despite how little dialogue she has, most of it is obviously, and painfully, re-dubbed afterwards.

But what really grates, what really annoys, is the fact that this just doesn’t feel like a Bond movie. I know, it’s a statement as old as the hills (I remember my dad saying it when he saw The Living Daylights years ago), and it’s a bold claim to make because everyone has their own idea of what exactly a Bond film is.

When I say it doesn’t feel like a Bond movie, I don’t mean little things like the lack of a gunbarrel at the start, the loss of Q and Moneypenny, or even the absence of the Bond theme (again). These are really inconsequential when you consider the fact that you could substitute Bond for a generic secret agent, or any other man-on-a-mission type character, and it wouldn’t alter the film one iota.

The presence of so many Bourne crew members over the traditional ‘Bond family’ demonstrates a decision to move Bond on, which is fine. But into what? Bond movies have always been distinctive; they’ve always stood out from the crowd. How else to explain why the films kept on going when all those late 60s interlopers died out? Quite simply, Bond offered something that no-one else was doing, and sadly, that is no longer the case.

The producers (a finer pair of individuals than you could wish to find, alright, I fancy Barbara Broccoli…) may claim that the ‘traditional’ Bond movies wouldn’t work in our ‘troubled’ times, whilst the popular films at the box office are comic-book adaptations who do a fine job of making the most ridiculous scenarios believable. (Did any of the millions who flocked to The Dark Knight complain it wasn’t realistic?). Bond was never rooted in reality, that was part of the charm. By dragging him kicking and screaming into the 21st century they have stayed true to Fleming, but neglected their filmic roots.

What a don’t understand, is Casino Royale did an almost perfect job of straddling both stools, so it seems to me the fault lies at the feet of the director, and the unfamiliar crew. Bond fans would note that beyond the writers and producers, the only prominent Bond family members are SFX man Chris Corbould, composer David Arnold (doing his best Bond work since Tomorrow Never Dies) and casting director Debbie McWilliams, and all do sterling work.

Beyond that everything else is servicable, professional, but strangely generic. Forster is clearly no action director, and in combination with some of the worst editing in the series, most of the stunt scenes (mostly in-camera for a change) are rendered unintelligable. For instance, early on Bond chases an assasin across some Italian rooftops (in a neat reprise of a lost scene from On Her Majesty’s Secret Service). It’s easily the most exciting sequence in the movie. At one point Bond slips on some roof tiles and has to make a leap across to the next building. In the making-of documentaries, it clearly shows Daniel Craig performing this himself (on a wire, but still…), but in the film the scene is cut to shreds so you can’t appreciate the full magnitude of it. There’s at least four or five cameras, and everything is so shot so close, you get no sense of how high he is or how far he’s lept.

There’s a boat chase too, of which most was done for real, but for some reason the best shots again, only appear in the documentaries. The moment that Bond pierces one of the pursuers motorised dinghies replaces a spectacular shot of the boat somersaulting over Bond’s boat, with a ghastly shot that looks like poor CGI. It’s infuriating.

QoS isn’t a bad film. Not by a long shot. It’s a perfectly adequate action film. But that’s all. The proposed ‘character arcs’ are rather lumpen affairs realised through the use of deep and meaningful (and ultimately complete toss) dialogue, while you’re waiting for someone to explain what the bloody hell is going on.

My wish for Bond 23 would be for Wilson and Brocolli to beg borrow and steal to get Martin Campbell back in the director’s chair, give Bond a meaty story (it appears the QUANTUM organisation will continue to be the villains) and another worthy adversary. But give the film the room to breathe. Bond fans are not the same impatient teens who want their films beamed directly into their brains because they can’t deal with a shot that lasts longer than two seconds. You’ve proved a serious, mature Bond film can work, then gone and created a happy-meal version of it.

Sorry, but M will not be impressed with that.

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The news yesterday of the death of Jade Goody had a rather numbing effect on me. every TV and radio channel was running regular ‘reports’ on it, and the fact it had been so long in coming made it feel like a relief from the past couple of months media bombardment. Of course the worse is yet to come.

Whilst I have no strong feelings either way on whether I ‘like(d)’ Goody or not, I have found myself recently defending her from those who have chosen her illness as an opportunity to have cheap cracks and make crushing judgements on the poor woman. Normally, these people are the same people who always say how they hate reality TV, don’t read tabloids and despise our modern obsession with celebrity. In other words, people who have no idea what they are talking about.

I won’t bore you all with Jade’s tragic life (that’s what Wikipedia is for), but needless to say, it was the kind of upbringing that regularly finds a slot in the top ten paperbacks in Tesco.

What makes Goody such a fascinating character (and let’s be fair, most people can only relate to the Goody character rather than the person), is the way her adult life has existed solely in the media spotlight. From her first appearance on Big Brother, through fame and fortune, Celebrity Big Brother, the descent into hell, attempted atonement on the Indian Big Brother, and the final lazarus like ascent back into the nation’s heart in her final months.

This is the stuff Media Studies courses are based. Is Jade the first media-created celebrity? Probably not, but she’s certainly one of the most interesting cases you could study.

Looking back over archived materials today, it’s revealing how she herself has been treated to vilely by the very same media who today are very quick to criticse the public for their reaction to her. There’s much mention of ‘Kill the Pig’ placards, the record number of complaints about her ‘racist’ behaviour, and how her top-selling perfume (it really was the third most popular celebrity fragrance at one point) was withdrawn after sales plummeted. Yes, the public turned on her.

But, there’s very little about how much the media played into this, if not instigated it. One comment that HAS been mentioned a lot is Dominick Diamond’s comment about how Jade was ‘a slapper with the face of a pig’. This comment appeared in the Daily Star, a paper with the kind of readership who prefer not to wank over pictures of a slightly tubby girl, but would be more than happy to sleep with them after ten pints on a Friday night. How else does a girl acquire the ‘slapper’ label?

This lovely front page was brought to my attention this morning:

(cheers to Waz4444 @ B3ta.com)

This was, of course, the ‘Shilpa Shetty’ incident, where ugly, fat, working class Goody was branded a dirty racist and constantly attacked poor, defenceless, pretty, well-off Shilpa Shetty. This entered the public conciousness so much that for a while the prefix “Reality TV racist” appeared before Jade’s name.

Find me a clip where Jade says something racist. I dare you. Because I know you can’t. The nearest you’ll find is Goody calling her popadom. Given the ‘street talk’ colloqiolisms that infest the ‘standard’ BB, this is small fry. The worst offender in the race row was, unsurprisingly, the one who is now doing very nicely thank you very much… pretty, large breasted Danielle Lloyd. After her fifteen minutes of infamy, she was soon back standing in her knickers for Zoo and Nuts, and has recently been promoting domestic abuse and doing stuff for Comic Relief (interesting, since most people who participate in Comic Relief are, you know, Comics).

The race-row was never about race. Had Shetty been a white actress, the outcome would have been exactly the same. Goody always had a problem with her because she thought Shetty was a lazy, stuck up cow, who was far to used to having flunkies catering to her every whim and couldn’t deal with ‘normal’ people (ie working class). Guess what? I thought exactly the same thing. Oh shit, I’m a racist too!

Shetty was portrayed as a victim, and yes, there was an element of ganging-up going on here. But there’s a common mantra that comes out every time BB is on: if they can’t handle it they shouldn’t go in there in the first place… no one forced them. Fair point.

The media liked to portray Shetty as the Queen of Bollywood. She was their Julia Roberts. We’re constantly told that Bollywood is more successful than Hollywood, so surely getting the Indian Julia Roberts into the house was a major deal. Hey, maybe they could get Julia herself next time. FAT FUCKING CHANCE!

It was spin… far from being the Indian Julia Roberts, Shetty was more like the Indian Sharon Stone. If Shetty was so big and successful, what the hell was she doing appearing in a TV show with an 80s TV star, a long forgotten 70’s pop singer, and the brother of a very famous pop singer? She was just as desperate to save her career as everyone else in there… including Jade.

But, i’ve gone off the rails a bit here.

The next week, I guarantee someone will say to you that “thank christ that’s all over, I never liked her anyway”. And whilst I’m sure once the funeral is out of the way, the spin will turn back against her. The broadsheets and columnists will be respectful for about a week, before the claws come out again and we get lots of “Why are we mourning this woman who was famous for nothing?” type affairs.

What these people forget is that for a HUGE amount of the population, Jade gave them someone they could root for, someone to believe in, because she was just like them. If she can do it, why can’t I?

And yes, you can argue that this has led to our ‘fame hungry’ culture we have now. But, guess what, the media are complicit in that too. If they weren’t they wouldn’t, seemingly, devote half their airtime and column inches to talking about Strictly Come Dancing and X Factor.

Because if anyone’s going to miss Jade, apart from her poor family, it’s the media.

Categories: Rant
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 It’s tough following a big Oscar win. Cuba Gooding Jr decided that the best way was to appear in a succession of appalling ‘comedies’; Halle Bery and Nicolas Cage went down the ‘awful action movie’ route; and most directors normally disappear up their own arse making impenetrable, pretentious drivel, in an attempt to replicate the success of their ‘personal’ movie.

The Cohen Brothers, on the other hand, just carried on doing what they do best. That is, making whatever the fuck they want, normally side-stepping any possible expectations that the critics and audience could possibly have about what they’ll do next. As a result, many people were somehwat perturbed by Burn After Reading, a film that has so divided critical and public tastes that it just HAS to be watched.

This isn’t new for the Cohens. After the huge success of Fargo, they followed it with The Big Lebowski, to the utter bemusement of the paying public. Critics dismissed it as silly and self-indulgent, and the public stayed away, the film only finally finding its (now huge) cult audience on video.

I feel the same will happen to Burn After Reading, which critics dismissed as silly and self-indulgent, and the public stayed away… oh… deja vu…

The thing is, there is no way to describe what a Cohen Brothers film is. So for critics to say this isn’t worthy of them is a little ridiculous, because NOTHING is not worthy of them. They’ve done just about everything except sci-fi.

John Malkovich (in shouty crackers mode) is a CIA analyst who is unceremaoniously sacked for his alcoholism. This sets in motion a truly bizarre series events involving married serial-womaniser George Clooney, Malkovich’s wife, Tilda Swinton, and a pair of none-too-bright gym workers, played to perfection by Frances McDormand and Brad Pitt (complete with Johnny Suede style hair).

The first 20 minutes or so are almost impenetrable, and could result in the casual viewer giving up before the fun starts, but once the Macguffin of a computer disk, supposedly containing “CIA shit” is introduced, things start motoring at a terrific pace, and everything begins to fall into place.

One thing most of the film’s detractors commented on is the ‘gang-show’ mentality of the whole thing. Just about every cast member has previous with the Cohen’s, and those that haven’t (specifically Malkovich and Pitt) had their parts written specifically for them. Swinton was brought in at Clooney’s request, after appearing with her in Michael Clayton.

I don’t understand the criticism though. Many people cite the Ocean’s films as another example of people seeming to have more fun than the audience. I think this is preposterous. How many times do crtics chastise a film because the leads have no chemistry? Surely a film where everyone is comfortable acting with each is a bonus, not a hinderance?

Well, that’s certainly the case here. While McDormand and Swinton are operating pretty much on effortless auto-pilot (but are excellent), and Clooney does his kooky jerk turn, Pitt and Malkovich are simply awesome. Pitt has honed and refined his Twelve Monkeys quirkyness into a genuinely stupid character. The scene where he tries to blackmail Malkovich and gets a bloody nose for his trouble is one of the funniest things I’ve seen in the past year.

Another Cohen regular, composer Carter Burwell, delivers a superb thriller score which is often at odds with the on-screen action, creating a terrificly disorientating mood at times. The look of the film is superb as well, with a wonderfully grey, cold look (all concrete and chrome) which also produces unease. The look of Russian Embassy, reminded me of both Eraserhead and Brazil.

What finally caps the film as a winner, for me, is a glorious final scene which not only explains, but possibly negates everything we’ve watched. It could also be the final reason why so many people DIDN’T like the film. To say anymore would be cruel, but I firmly believe that the chances of you enjoying Burn After Reading are strongly linked to how much you like the final scene.

It’s not an easy film to love. The difficult introduction will test many people’s patience, but those who stick with it should find themselves swept away on an increasingly ridiculous, but hilarious, ride that never goes the way you think it will.

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Doctor Wynn: … For God’s sake. He can’t even drive a car!

Doctor Loomis: Well he was doing very well LAST NIGHT!

With that exchange of dialogue, John Carpenter probably best explains his motives with the superlative Halloween. Logic is so far out the window that it’s on the next train to Glasgow. It doesn’t matter how Michael Myers, locked up in an institution for 15 years, knows how to drive a car; it doesn’t matter why he’s killing people; it doesn’t matter why he fixates upon young Laurie Strode.  It’s almost as if the attitude is “If you’re asking too many questions, you probably shouldn’t be watching these kind of movies”.

Unfortunately these brazen tactics are completely ignored by Rob Zombie’s remake (from hereonin my reviews will ONLY refer to films like these as ‘remakes’… terms such as reboot, re-imagining, revision, and herefore banned).

In my remakes rant post last week I, rather foolishly suggested that Halloween 2007 had some redeeming features without actually having seen it. This is not a mistake I shall repeat, as what follows is going to make me look a little foolish.

Now, I love Halloween. Ever since I saw it as an impressionable 11 year old, right through film-studies-wank adolesence, right up to genre-hugging adulthood, it has always retained it’s place in my affections as the Citizen Kane of horror films. It’s just so well constructed and executed (pun intended) that the only thing that fades its gloss slightly is the fact that it led, indirectly, to a slew of sewage for which it is always blamed.

With this in mind, I did try (REALLY try) to be objective about Halloween 2007, and, to be fair, it’s not a complete and utter abortion of a movie. Just mostly.

I like Rob Zombie. I was a passing fan of his music for a while, and whilst his films leave me cold, I can appreciate his craft. He’s an extremely hands-on director which means everything in his films meet his desired vision. All his films so far have this wonderfully scuzzy 70s look to them, not seen since the days of Last House on the Left (remake on the way… joy!)and I Spit on Your Grave. I think it would have been great to have let him loose on Grindhouse with more than just a spoof trailer (Death Proof would certainly have been more entertaining with him behind the camera).

Having said that though, I find his films an ordeal. Exploitation horror, no matter how grim, should still be watchable, and I find that isn’t the case with his films, especially the Devil’s Rejects, which assaults the viewer with one uncomfortable scenario after another. Maybe that’s the point and I’m missing it. But it’s not my cup of tea.

So, it’s a strange combination to have a sleek, professional machine like Halloween turned over to a man who prefers his movies dipped in mud, bleached in the sun, and run through a combine harvester before they hit a screen near you.

It’s taken me 18 months to get round to watching Halloween 2007. Two of my objections were thusly: we get a Michael Myers backstory, and it’s revealed Laurie is Michael’s sister. Both are bad ideas for different reasons.

Firstly, Michael doesn’t NEED a backstory, let alone one that takes up half the running time of a film about a man killing people on Halloween. Michael is just evil. Isn’t that enough? And then having taken this route they then decide NOT to tell us why he stops talking to people. he’s quite a chatty young man when he first murders his family (save mum and baby sister) and a school bully. After a year in an asylum he just shuts up and no-one can get a word from him.

He then kills a nurse for no reason. Then nothing for fifteen years.

I really struggled to work out what was going on here. If you go to all the trouble of inventing an entirely new backstory for a character, why then introduce such random events seemingly only to tie him into the futrue incarnation of said character that the public is familiar with? It’s a bit like writing the Star Wars prequels with Ben Kenobi as a dwarf and Yoda as a giant, then half way through Revenge of the Sith they suddenly revert to their familiar appearance.

After this seemingly endless first act, Michael finally arrives home and we’re into more traditional remake territory: dialogue is lifted word-for-word, scenes are replicated shot-for-shot, and, perhaps most annoying of all, characters are cast (and dressed) to look exactly like their 1978 counterparts (namely Tommy Doyle, and the ill-fated Bob). This appears to be done simply to throw the audience off course for some cheap scares, which is a dirty and nasty trick played so often when the last one occurs you wish Michael would turn around and start hunting the man behind the camera rather than those in front of it.

So some scenes are retained, others are re-jigged, and other new ones are introduced. If you’ve never seen Halloween (shame on you) the scenes repeated from the original are the ones with no blood whatsoever. If there’s blood (and there’s plenty of it) it’s a new scene.

So what’s Michael up to? Well, he’s looking for his baby sister he hasn’t seen since she was in nappies. “What, what, what? That wasn’t in Halloween!” I hear you cry before the fanboy’s jump on me and tell me that “It was introduced in the sequel and is therefore valid”. Well, guess what? It’s fucking not, cos John Carpenter says so!

Yes, Carpenter wrote the script for H2, where it was revealed that Laurie had been adopted by another family after her (and Michael’s) parents died. But Carpenter also regretted doing it. So there.

This ‘twist’ results in a very tiresome climax that goes on for about fifteen minutes longer than it needs to, and an ending closer in spirit to Texas Chainsaw than Halloween. In fact watching this I couldn’t help but think how much better TCM 2003 would have been if Zombie had directed it.

I said it’s not all bad. The opening half is actually very engaging, mainly because it’s not aping anything we know. It’s mostly all new. Forget the film is called Halloween and the opening half hour (up until the first murders, yes, it takes that long) is very good. Another advantage for freaks like me, is almost every supporting character is played by someone who’s made their name in horror films. We’re not talking horror legends, more exploitation legends like Sybil Danning, Ken Foree and Mickey Dolenz (!) .

The stunt casting goes a little too far, casting 29 year old Danielle Harris and one of Laurie’s pals. Harris played Michael’s neice in the original cycle’s parts 4 and 5.

Malcolm McDowell is, however, excellent, as as fine a replacement for Donald Pleasance as we could have hoped for, mainly because, for once, he plays down.

It was always going to take something special to top Carpenter’s original vision of ‘movie as a ghost train’, simply designed to go”Boo!”.

Zombie’s movie only says “Boo!” once, and it’s one of the best moments. It prefers to stand in the open shaking a knife at you and asking “Well, are you scared? Come on, I haven’t got all day!”

I’m all for Zombie making his own vision, that’s fine, but it’s so completely incompatible with Carpenter’s it’s like a child trying to build a dolls house using a combination of Lego and Sticklebricks: they just don’t fit together. I would have been willing to accept Zombie’s vision if that’s what we’d been given. Instead we’re handed two movies welded together, with far too much post-modern sprinkles to sweeten it up for the fanboys.

Well, this fanboy found the whole thing a little nauseating. And as with most of the current rash of remakes (in fact those stretching back over the past decade) it just makes me want to go back and watch the original. In fact, I’d rather watch any of the sequels over this. OK, apart from Ressurection. And Curse (Pleasance’s last film, fact fans!). No, actually this is worse than Curse …

 Oh, and what do you know… H2 is heading our way this year. For fuck sake!

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Hooray! It’s Friday the 13th and that can only mean one thing. Yes, it’s the most pointless horror remake since… er… the last one, as Friday the 13th Redux hits screens to a chorus of shrugs from anyone over the age of 15.

This particular remake has irked me more than I thought it would. Whilst Rob Zombie’s ‘re-imagining’ of Halloween was completely futile, at least he cast Malcolm McDowell as Loomis (as fine a stand-in for Donald Pleasance as you could wish for), and at least Zombie knows his horror movies, even if I don’t particularly like what he does.

Friday the 13th Redux, by comparison, is pure studio money-grabbing bullshit. We know this because Paramount Pictures are having a piece of the pie. For those who don’t know, the studio giant sold most of its interest in Jason Vorhees following the less-than-stellar box office for F13 Part 8: Jason Takes Vancouver… sorry, Manhattan.

But when a ‘re-envisioning’ (where do they get these fucked up phrases from?) was mooted, suddenly Paramount want back in. And history shows us the studios only touch this kind of kind if they think there’s a fast buck in it.

Saying you hate remakes it a dangerous business. Some smartarse will always point out several brilliant films that you like that are remakes. I have fallen into this trap many times as John Carpenter’s The Thing is one of my all-time faves. Factor in Cronenberg’s The Fly, Hitchcock’s The Man Who Knew Too Much (or for that matter North By NorthWest) and the list starts to look quite formidable. Christ, even the Bogart version of The Maltese Falcon was a remake.

So I think the issue isn’t remakes, per se, more the motives behind them. If a craftsman like Carpenter or Hitchcock takes on a project, they are doing it because they love the project and want to do justice to it (we’ll here ignore the Cohen Brothers’ Ladykillers, or Neil LaBute’s Wicker Man… please god, let me ignore that).

But what’s happening now is, seemingly, every horror film of the 70s and early 80s is being dredged up and handed over to anyone who’s directed a music video.

Did the world really need a new version of Prom Night? They completly re-wrote the plot, so why call it Prom Night? (The same observation could be made of The Italian Job, a fairly entertaining film in its own right, so why saddle it with a title garaunteed to make any right thinking Brit want to kick Paramount Pictures in the teeth?)

Black Christmas was particularly irksome. Barely known outside horror circles, this 1974 classic was probably as important in the conception of the slasher film as Texas Chainsaw Massacre and Halloween. The remake rewrote the story… but kept, almost shot-for-shot, the trademark murder scenes!

What most of the recent remakes seem to get wrong is in understanding what made these films popular in the first place. Texas Chainsaw Massacre was not popular because of it’s gore (because their wasn’t any), it was popular because of it’s mood. The remake, whilst as grim, had none of the icky feeling of the original. It substituted atmosphere for severed limbs… a bit like the ill-fated original sequel (if that makes sense…!).

And that’s another thing. We’re now at the stage where we have competeing franchises of the same thing! Night of the Living Dead was always George Romero’s baby. Now his own sequels have to compete with sequels of the remake, which was released a decade before the current invasion of orror remakes. We had the confusing, for the average movie-goer, situation a few years back where within the space of a couple of weeks there was Land of the Dead (Romero’s official fourth ‘Dead’ film), the Dawn of the Dead remake and the wonderful Shaun of the Dead, which many Americans before its release, dismissed as a cheap knock off spoof of the Dawn of the Dead remake. A spoof of a remake… what fresh lunacy is this? Well, that’s happening too thanks to those ‘hilarious’ “Movie” movies (Epic Movie, Superhero Movie etc which I’m not even going to link to as I don’t want to give them anymore oxygen than they have already).

And so to Friday the 13th Redux, at last.

I’m going to assume if you’ve got this far that you’ve seen at least one F13 film (and if you only see one, make it part 2 or 4, and save yourself a lot of hassle), so I’ll probably be in full spoiler mode.

Friday the 13th Redux features Jason as the killer, he has a hockey mask, and he’s a grown man. None of these things happen in F13. The writers claim to have condensed the stories of the first three films (they have stories?) into a new re-imagining of the series. They haven’t. They’ve written a fucking sequel, that changes the origin story.

What’s wrong with making a sequel? Why not make this F13 part 12? Probably because that would sound ridiculous.

Well, guess what? Remaking F13 and changing the story is even more fucking ridiculous!

Think this is bad enough.

Rumours abound about The Evil Dead (which could lead to competing franchises again), The Thing, Driller Killer, Suspiria (please god no) and even Cannibal Holocaust(!).

All of these will be dreadful and worse than the original (except possibly Driller Killer which is extremely dull).

Categories: Movies, Rant
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