The House of the Devil - (film review)

            Certain horror films play on fast paced action to offset the vast lacuna of substantial dialogue and creative editing, and for the most part this tried and tested horror filmmaking tactic seems to work.  Occasionally, there are films that opt instead to hold on camera angles that are shot a few steps back, stay focused on the reaction of a character who is being threatened, or concentrate less on the intention to scare and more on the desire to convey an emotion.  Such is how The House of the Devil plays.

            When I first discovered this film it was from an iPod Touch application that sporadically mistakes new releases for older films—for the duration of the release of Halloween II this app believed it was made in 1981 and starred Jamie Lee Curtis and Donald Pleasance.  I was intrigued enough to watch the trailer of The House of the Devil, and upon ingesting it I was fervid to watch this remarkably enticing film.  I actually believed it was a film from the 80s and thus accessible enough to either download (no, I don’t do that!), or available to rent at my local specialty video rental store—hell, I was even willing to buy a copy because in these days if you are willing to shell out close to $25 for you and a partner to watch a film in the theaters, it almost seems justifiable to spend an extra $5 to purchase and own it on DVD.  Upon researching the film I realized that it is a film made in 2008 and currently showing at the Tribeca Film Festival.

            I finally had an opportunity to view the film tonight, and unfortunately for those living in Canada, it won’t be until February that you’ll be able to properly (read: legally) watch it.  The pace of the film borders a slow burn, however in light of the subject matter the pace is perfect, any faster and the unintentional ‘silly’ factor would have set in.  Also, its intended to be a film of the early 80s, not an homage to films in the 80s.  I can’t remember films from that era that were this taught, well-paced, aptly directed, and exceptionally executed, which may be its unintended flaw—as realistic as it aims to be, it is ultimately better than a majority of films from that period.

            There is very little in the way of current social significance in the content of the film, instead what we see are the horror tropes that festered in the early 80s/late 70s which have inscribed in audiences the typicality of horror films from there on in—the exploitation of teenage girls at the hands of creepy elderly individuals whose malicious intent it is to violate them.  These tropes have been established early on, prior to the 80s, and have managed to become staples of horror fare.  They have been analyzed by a plethora of film theorists who explain the ‘last girl’ phenomenon as a psychosomatic visualization of internalized sexual desires.  The girl(s) is violated through satanic rituals as a metaphorical representation of her internal psychosexual desires—she fights against her captors in the same way that she fights against her sexual urges.  All of this holds true for The House of the Devil, however, where those films may exploit the internal psychosexual desires of the girls by having them threatened while being nude, or stripped during their attack, this film maintains a more classy respectable representation of its female heroine.

            In addition to the successful stylistic and narrative devices used to great effect in The House of the Devil, its most successful feat is the omniscient sense of dread that looms with every shot and in every corner.  In a review by Michael Gingold of Fangoria, he states that “even the introductory scenes on campus carry an eerie sense of isolation” (Gingold 2009).  This isolation, astutely acknowledged by Gingold, exudes a subtle, practically unnoticeable degree of omniscient oppression upon the viewer—there’s a clarity that something monumentally profound and irreversible is about to happen (this may be obvious given the film’s title, however the severity of what is to come is nevertheless offset by its revelations).  There is never a doubt that the film will end badly, but given the likeableness of the film’s two unsuspecting lead characters, one hopes for some exit, some kind of potential escape, even if it is apparent that there will be none.

            Despite the slow burn execution, there are a few moments of unexpected shock and horror, occurring so quickly that the slow pace shortly afterwards is welcomed to ease the audience back into a film that just scared the crap out of them.  However, I would be remiss to label the occurrences in the film ‘horror’, but rather unrelenting and lingering disturbance, which drives the viewer to internalize his/her dread, lingering long after the scene or movie has completed—much in the same way that Paranormal Activity does.

            In addition to the film’s merit within the horror genre, it is overall, a superbly executed film, warranting an analysis beyond the paradigmatic lens that hinders most reviews of horror movies.  The dread is real, the isolation exquisite, and the malignant malevolence of the heroine’s attackers and their intentions with her, are horrific.  The satanic-worshipping subgenre of horror has had an iffy track-record, however given this brilliant inclusion I wouldn’t be surprised if more Devil-infested films were on the roster in the near future.
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Grade: 88% (A)

Saw VI - (film review)

           I have to admit that I like sequels.  I also like remakes, but that’s for another discussion.  The greater the amount of sequels a film has, the more intrigued I am to watch them—unless of course all the sequels are direct to DVD, and then I don’t seem to be as interested.  It almost seems as though direct-to-video sequels are not really real, as though they were produced for sheer entertainment value and really hold no bearing over the essence of the original film(s)—for instance, I’m sure if the filmmakers of The Grudge decided to release a theatrical sequel The Grudge 3 would be obsolete.  I particularly enjoy when sequels actually include the number of the installment in the title: (eg. Friday the 13^th part VII: The New Blood, A Nightmare on Elm Street 4: The Dream Master, Halloween 5: The Revenge of Michael Myers).  To release a high numbered sequel is quite audacious—a gamble to determine who will risk embarrassment by walking up to the ticket counter and ask: “One for Saw 6, please.”

The further along the franchise gets, the more intriguing it is to uncover how the storylines from each subsequent sequel are intertwined, unless of course the franchise decides to reboot itself, or ignore the ending of the previous film (ie. Halloween H20, Jason Goes to Hell, etc.).  In instances like these it feels as though the filmmakers and producers cheated the audience and fanbase who remained loyal.  This is definitely not how the interminable sequels of the Saw franchise operate.  Instead, the writers are determined to continuously link all the films as intricately as the possibly can—convoluting the dramatic tension in ways that confuse the audience enough to believe the film is in fact intelligent and clever.

As per my review of the Saw (series), the same holds true for this film.  It is the unmitigated will and intellect of Jigsaw’s master plans that reigns supreme.  However, in this 6^th installment, the ‘Jigsaw-as-morality-god’ is expanded to such a degree that the filmmakers attempt to manipulate the audience to side with Jigsaw who is ultimately pitted against the evil mongering monster President of the Umbrella Health Insurance company.  Of course I do not advocate sympathy for these corporate shells who spew policy in their Brooks Brothers suits, disaffected by those who require the most help.  (The injection of social conscience in the way of health care policy in the United States may seem aptly timed here, however I couldn’t help but continue to think: “Just move to Canada!”  But this is not the central point of the film, so moving on…).

The filmmakers continue to characterize Jigsaw as a rebellious champion making real decisions and affecting real change.  If people are faced with their own mortality, they will value their life more and not crave the drugs, cigarettes, and various other decidedly evil vices that they are addicted to.  Jigsaw claims to have a cure for complacent and destructive addiction—after all those who are addicted to physically harming substances are slowly killing themselves anyway, might as well just speed up the process.  Also, Jigsaw claims in many instances throughout the film that he despises murderers, and that he has never killed anyone, simply placed them in situations that required a varying degree of physical sacrifice to remain alive.  But is this true?  Even if in every instance there was a chance of escape, the sheer placement of the victim in such a situation is juridically and morally defined as murder or attempted murder.  Someone who breaks into your house and attacks you with a knife, cannot repeal his intentions by arguing that he is not a murderer simply because you may have bested him.  The intention is clear, regardless of how self-delusional you may be in rationalizing your actions as justifiable. 

Still, the responsibility of effective horror monsters is not to find plot holes in their own logic, however the writers could insert the odd character or two who manages to resist Jigsaw’s superbly pedantic and uninspired ideologies.  Even Jigsaw’s ex-wife, a social worker who has dedicated her life to help homeless drug addicts, is persuaded by his unfounded logic when he turns up with a completely rehabilitated Amanda—someone she had previously deemed as a ‘lost soul.’  He explains to his ex-wife that their addiction is not simple—but apparently their cure is.  He neglects to take into consideration the monumental social factors (race, sex, gender, institutionalized racism, systemic discrimination that leads to socioeconomic instability and inequity thus furthering potentials for sever mental health issues) that contribute to a person’s life.  The writers are hoping the audience is daft enough to believe a sentiment like ‘addiction is not simple’ by lazily brushing by this monumental claim without providing substantial theoretical evidence to support it.  Maybe they are hoping that Jigsaw’s self-determined conviction will be persuasive enough for people to believe him, or maybe they’re hoping the audience will ‘fill-in-the-blank.’

            Despite these catastrophic flaws the film is actually one of the better entries, with it’s attempt at dealing with social issues most films steer completely clear of—however pedantic the attempt is.  Ultimately, the most enjoyable aspect of the film (for me at least) is the fact that it’s the 6^th one, and it states so in the title.

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Grade: 70% (B-)

Orphan - (film review)

            There’s something wrong with Esther.  It is a very simple aphorism that deceptively screens the underlying psychosexuality of the film.  There’s something wrong with Esther.  In this, we may be able to also say that there is something wrong with John, Esther’s adopted father and husband to Kate.  However, before delving into the imbricating and intricate layers of this film, it is necessary to warn the reader that I will be discussing all aspects of Orphan, including the reveal of what precisely is wrong with Esther—so be forewarned if you would rather retain this mystery.

            This film is not an exercise in reality representation in film—art imitating life, etc.  The most obvious evidence of this surrealism is the simple fact that no one would earnestly make a film about the evils of adoption, or even foreign adoption.  So clearly there is something more intricate at work here.  This is reflected in the atmospheric thematic elements (including the above mentioned apothegm) that suggest to the audience something deeper, embedded within the superficial first layer of the film.  The opening title credit and the way in which it shifts from a monochromatic title to a disturbingly black-lit multi-coloured title is an indication of the profoundly entrenched dark substance the film exudes.

            Before Esther is even introduced, we meet Kate and John, an average couple entering the hospital so Kate may deliver her third child—this quickly turns sour as blood begins to pour out from her and it is reveled that her child is stillborn.  What is revealing in this scene is the placement of John, who fills the role of the doctor and father, and his detachment and lack of empathy towards Kate’s obvious distraught—this suggests an underlying dissonance between the couple, implying Kate’s distrust of John and John’s inability to relate to Kate.  Each character in this film is intertwined in such a way as to add another layer of intricacy not seen in any film, let alone a horror genre film.  Each relation be it Kate and John, Esther and John, Kate and Esther, Kate and Max, Esther and Max (I could literally go on), adds to the psychosexual tensions the film portrays.

            When Esther is introduced it is no coincidence that John is the first person to spot her and talk to her—for it is their eerily disturbing relationship that provides the film with its disquieting appeal.  We soon begin to understand that beneath Esther’s prim and proper exterior lies something darker, however it is not only Esther’s behaviour that is questionable.  Prior to Esther’s entry in the film, we get a glimpse at the sexually starved husband who is let down by his unwilling wife.  On the very first night Esther is there, Kate initiates oral stimulation which sparks Esther’s desires inciting her to interrupt the act with her little sister Max.  When they enter the parents’ bedroom, Esther insists: “I want to sleep next to Daddy”, causing John to shift position so as not to make any inappropriate gestures of fatherly love.  The second instance of sexual incitement comes days later when John begins to stimulate Kate in the kitchen—moments later, Esther catches them in their mutually consenting act.  It is at this precise moment that an audience member must ask: “Is this explicit display of sexuality appropriate in a child-centered horror film?”  Perhaps it is this confluent sexual undertone paralleling the central storyline that drives the underlying substance of the film?  It cannot be a coincidence that the budding sexual desire is not directly related to Esther’s presence in the house—the question is: why is this sexual desire resurging?

            Freud is infamous for the psychosexual development of little boys—labeling this process the Oedipus complex.  In direct contrast, little girls develop in a similar but more pathological manner.  Little girls’ psychosexual development is coined the Electra complex by Carl Jung and the Feminine Oedipus attitude by Freud.  Ultimately it implies a sexual attraction to the father and a direct practically murderous competition with the mother—this complicated and highly problematic psychological process is investigated largely by Nancy J. Chodorow in her book Femininities, Masculinities, Sexualities: Freud and Beyond.  This largely discredited, but somehow socially withholding psychological theory is the underpinning essence of the film—another example as to why the film cannot be taken as a literal interpretation of actual events, but rather a highly fictionalized narrative of the feminine Oedipus attitude brought to life.  The daughter, according to Freud, adorns her penis envy by desiring one in her—and her first interaction or knowledge of a penis is through her interaction with her father.  Another example of the underlying developmental sexuality occurs during the scene where Esther threatens Danny (the son) with cutting off his penis before he even knows what to do with it—these explicit references to sexuality and sexual impulses are not an accident.

            As Kate begins to distrust Esther, which happens very early on in the film, another confluent subplot and subtheme arises: the dismissive patriarchal attitude towards the indelibly labeled ‘hysteria’ of femininity.  No one believes Kate as she begins to relay her understanding of Esther and the deeply rooted disturbance of her newly adopted child.  In other, less effective films, I would argue that this is a lazy narrative device that attempts to insert drama where drama is not necessary or relevant.  In the case of Orphan, the disbelief of Kate and subsequent lack of trust that both John and her psychiatrist have of her is indicative of the historically pathologized sexual female (Chodorow 1994).  It would almost detract from the film’s aim if her husband and psychiatrist did believe her.

            An alternative motivation for John to disbelieve Kate is his subconscious compliance to be seduced by Esther.  The suggestive scenes of father-daughter affection border inappropriateness (the scene where John chooses Esther over Kate to share in his conjugal bed comes to mind), and there must be something that underlies John’s complete disinclination to side with Kate in her accusation of Esther’s sinister attitude.  Something is there, and Orphan is careful to hint at it without complete explicitness (so as not to offend the masses in the way that Birth did).  It is not until Esther makes her intentions clear to John that John (just barely) refuses—for what else could he do in that instance?

            The rest of the film is a careful interactive struggle between mother and daughter as it relates to the Electra complex, with one glaring difference—Kate refuses to be victimized by the absurdity of historical psychiatric pathologization of femininity as ostensibly hysteria, and with every turn struggles against her confinement.  Near the end of the film she decides to give up on an aspirations of saving her marriage, considering that even after it is clear Esther started the fire, which almost cost Danny his life, John still refuses to admit her involvement.  Instead Kate declares her desire to protect her children and her willingness to do whatever it takes to ensure her continued mothering of them.

            Every plot device and thematic element is a deliberate, well-planned intricate layer in this film.  Nothing is accidental, and each interactive character relation is directly implicated to the overarching psychosexual narrative of the film.  The blood-related children work in tandem to prove Esther’s malevolence—they can’t go to their parents just yet, because of considerable threat from Esther herself and the obviousness that their father is too involved and enveloped by Esther to believe them.  Going to their mother may only further their parents’ separation, so they must prove Esther’s sinister action before divulging what she has done.  The film is also careful to offer a counter perspective to some of the more potentially offensive aspects: namely the foreign dark-haired child that ultimately proves to be evil.  Esther is definitely the ‘other’ in this film, however so is Max—the adorable biological daughter who is deaf.  Their relationship reflects their individual othered status, and the inclusion of a deaf biological child is a clear attempt to offset the foreign otherness of Esther—however thin this device may be, it definitely does not detract from the film but rather enhances its allure.

The film is not a direct Evil-Child subgenre horror film, because Esther is not an evil child.  The usage of typical horror movie devices and their subsequent retraction is how the film plays with its audience, further suggesting something more involved than immediate appearances.  The horror here is not from shocking reveals, but rather through the slow unraveling of disturbance of psychosexuality.  Esther is actually 33 years old (experiencing a hormonal disorder which simulates proportional dwarfism), and when this final revelation occurs it may seem automatically ludicrous—I know I felt a little let down when it happened.  However, upon subsequent viewings it becomes clear to me that there could be no other possible reasoning for Esther’s disquieting behaviour.  In this last plot point, every aspect that are previously hinted at are made explicit in such a visceral manner to suggest precisely how Esther became the way she is.  

With intricate overlapping layers of substance, and boasting some of the best performances this side of the horror genre, Orphan is a well-calculated venture into the world of psychosexuality and the often ignored sexual development of children—and the potentials for this going awry.  There may be something wrong with Esther, but there is very little wrong with this film.

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Grade: 93% (A+)

Saw - (series review, parts 1 - 5)

            The major myth that continues to predicate subsequent reviews of the endless sequels in the Saw franchise is the notion that the original was quite a clever shocker that played with typical audience expectations.  Probably because no one EVER likes sequels (for some reason it is believed that original movies are sacred beings not deserving of the bastardization of sequel-izing), the bombardment of negative reviews plaguing the Saw franchise continue to obsess over how gosh darn clever the original film was.  This is definitely not the case, but before I discuss the issues plaguing the first two entries, I think it is necessary to outline certain caveats for proper engagement with this series.

            The films, beginning with the third entry, are structured more as a television series than as sequels in a franchise.  It’s interesting to think that if the Saw films were in fact a television series, they would be highly revered and successfully rated.  Instead, the medium of film and the protective relationship that critics seem to have with this format of storytelling does not lend itself as favourable towards the series.  Despite this unfortunate choice of medium, it is necessary to understand that the illogical pragmatism involving the construction of the highly convoluted traps is not what flags the most significant follies of the films.  It is the pedantic moral indignation attempting to pass itself off as this all-knowing righteousness that is the most unbelievable and aggravatingly annoying aspect of the film(s).

            Upon re-watching some of these films, I attempted to reconcile my contempt for this particular fault.  Perhaps the films are actually clever ways of restructuring typical slasher methods in horror films—Freddy and Jason (although not intentionally, but through joyful reclamation of the films and their self-worth) thrive on supposedly corrupt teenagers fornicating or indulging in drug use.  Maybe Jigsaw is a modern slasher who instead of relying on typical and trite horror movie monster methods, has discovered a new way to pit victim against victim disguised as lessons in morality and the value of life?  Maybe the audience is supposed to be enraged by Jigsaw’s methods and black and white modes of moral analyses.  If this were the case, and the filmmakers intend to pit the audience against Jigsaw, instead of sympathizing and understanding his moral indignation for his specifically chosen and incredibly accessible subjects, I believe the films would be far better received.  Is the intention that we view these films and find ourselves feeling incredulous towards the sadism perpetrated upon people who struggle with day to day problems and obsessions—people who understand the long complicated process of dealing with their problems instead of forcing some quick ‘Dr. Phil’-esque solution.

            I don’t believe this is the intention of the films, either directly or indirectly.  If it were, perhaps we would be graced with likeable characters, or even one (just one) moral adversary who recognizes the monumental flaws in Jigsaw’s logic rendering him fallible and human.  Freddy, Michael Myers, and Jason use their brute force to assert their dominance over the victims of each subsequent film, whereas Jigsaw uses his ‘superior’ intellect to trap people and force them to ‘reconcile’ (or rather further traumatize) salient life situations.  He entraps his subjects, enticing them to ‘play a game’, whereby they must face particular issues they may have chosen to ignore, issues that either harm themselves or others in their lives, and once they begin the sadistic play they find themselves befuddled and betwixt by Jigsaw’s wit at placing them in indescribable puzzles.  The lack of suspension of my disbelief does not come at the physical improbability and lack of engineering talent to construct such elaborate and convoluted traps—especially given the questionable sanity of those involved in constructing them—but rather at the inability to find someone(!) to outwit Jigsaw, or at least call him on his self-righteous judgments.

            All the characters in each film are amazed and tongue-tied when dealing with Jigsaw’s trite simplification of so many complicated life processes, that one begins to wonder if Jigsaw is right.  But he isn’t!  The reason I know this is because with each scenario I imagine some high school classroom discussion around the problems of society and the procrastination of action in today’s complex world.  Those discussions are important first steps at understanding the variety of imbricating layers imbedded in each social complication, however the discussion and/or solution (if one exists) does not end with the supposed answers that may derive from such uneducated and inexperienced musings on life.  Jigsaw believes it does, and this is the main problem that drags a rather interesting series down to the level of sub-par mediocrity. 

            The first film is the most accountable for this convoluted pedantic judgmental righteousness, if not for the sheer underestimation of a mother’s instinctive nature to exert control over a traumatic situation that is severely affecting her child.  The scene in which Monica Potter’s character stands idly by, inevitably waiting for something (anything) to distract her and grant access of the murder weapon back into the hands of her captor (a captor who has been torturing her and her child repeatedly), is the most blatant and anti-feminist disrespect of character narrative and plot plausibility I have ever witnessed in a film.  I may be a little dramatic here, but friends of mine will attest that whenever the subject of the first Saw film is mentioned, I emphatically express my disgust for how Monica Potter’s character was written to behave.

            The second film was just boring, and felt hugely out of place in the franchise’s themes—probably because it was intended to be a separate film, and was later reworked to serve as a sequel to the original.  It isn’t until the third film that the series gains some leverage (as little as that may be) in managing to carry the weight of a significant horror franchise that works beyond its initial intentions as a simple cash grab.  In the third film we are introduced to the first, and possibly the only likeable and semi-intelligent character in all of the films many sequels—Lynn.  It is also the only film that isn’t plagued with the ludicrous and typical ‘cop’ character, that (I’m sorry) has no right being in a serious horror genre film.  The inclusion of a detective only serves to denigrate a horror film down to thriller/suspense status—and any detective inevitably lessens the degree of connection the audience may have to the protagonist.  The films that follow beyond the third continue the trend that that sequel sets up, thankfully.  However, despite its best efforts, Saw and its successors, only manage to reach the complexity and significance of a Catholic high school debate team.

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Saw - grade: 53% (D-)
Saw II - grade: 50% (D-)
Saw III - grade: 75% (B)
Saw IV - grade: 70% (B-)
Saw V - grade: 68% (C+)

Paranormal Activity - (film review)

            I don’t believe it is a necessary requirement for a horror film to actually be scary to be effective.  As in any genre film, there is no specific end goal other than to relay a particular narrative through a specific style.  Only horror films are charged with this cross to bear—critical reviews of horror films always harp on whether the film succeeds in scaring its audience.  This ‘scare’ factor, like most critics themselves, is highly susceptible and intensely personal and subjective.  For a film to truly scare someone is differentiated from one person to the next, hence the birth of this blog—to discuss horror films without getting stuck in the all too common criticism of whether it is scary or not.  The actuality of a film being scary is a side-effect of the atmospheric direction and/or the narrative itself, not the purpose (despite the intentions of the filmmakers).

            If a film succeeds in scaring its audience, which is getting more and more difficult as more and more audiences are becoming immune and desensitized to horror film narratives, it can come at a rather high cost.  Inevitably, in most cases, the initial scare factor of a film quickly dwindles upon subsequent viewings, and one can easily determine clichéd devices used to acquire such scares—such is the case with films like The Blair Witch Project, Halloween, The Ring, and Friday the 13th.  Fortunately for some of those films, the narrative, direction and action is strong enough to entice interest on a level beyond the initial scare tactic.  Ultimately, a film requires a few more viewings to determine whether the film is truly a good movie in addition to being frightening. 

            This is the case with Paranormal Activity, a film I found to be disturbingly frightening, whereupon the remainder of the day seemed to have this omniscient presence of gloom and depression.  A number of times I have turned to my fiancée to exclaim: “That movie really disturbed me.”  He continued to recall the events in his previous condominium, explaining how he had felt a presence enter his house, close the front door, walk up the steps and make an indented impression on his bed.  The film manages to relish on that undeniable fear that there is something beyond what we see, something potentially harmful, rare, and excruciatingly terrifying—that fear that as we find our way around our houses in the dark, if we dare look up we’ll see it, the shadowy figure we’ve been trying to convince ourselves doesn’t exist.

            The technological devices used to drive the film’s narrative forward is a key factor to the success of the film itself.  Had this been a traditionally cinematic venture, I doubt the usage of bangs, bumps and door slams would have resonated in the way they actually do here.  In fact, what becomes so effective in the way that this film unfolds is the hand-held home-movie feel.  Because the audience is only privy to the information filmed, we are restricted to Micah and Katie’s house, never venturing outside it, never being able to temporarily quell our fears.  We become engrossed by the couple’s interactions with each other and discover, as they do, the happenings of the possession.  Fortunately, the dialogue and acting here is miles better than The Blair Witch Project, which is the significant folly of that film.

            What is the most salient aspect of this film is how personal it becomes.  The distance between audience member(s) and character/plot that is common amongst more traditional narrative films is quite apparent, one can always reassure oneself that ‘it is only a movie’, and that ‘these things don’t happen in real life.’  This film attempts to demolish that boundary between audience reality and the going-ons portrayed on the screen.  It really feels like you are watching actual footage of preternatural occurrences, and that those involved are psychologically damaged from their experiences with it.  This connection to the audience is real and formidable, it is what manages to hold the audience in its grasp and effectively trigger those psychological subconscious fears of sensations one suspects may be paranormal.  Even as I right this I can’t help but consider the possibility that those creaky noises I hear from my basement are the beginnings of someone or something making its way up to hover over me as I sleep.
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Grade: 84% (A-)

The Stepfather (1987) - (film review); The Stepfather (2009) - (film review)

            When David Harris’ stepson’s girlfriend repeatedly refers to him as Mr. Harris, he insists: “Call me David.”  But, he doesn’t mean it.  The most salient aspect of both the original and remake of The Stepfather is the degree through which patriarchal rule and desire for control is represented and manifested in the central character.  Both Terry O’Quinn and Dylan Walsh’s performances of David Harris/Jerry Blake (respectively) insist on friendly bonding, coinciding with the moral and ethical family values and the hierarchy of such.  So, when Mr. Harris insists, “call me David,” he doesn’t really mean it.  This invitation of familiarity is made out of social obligation, but ultimately comes across as insincere.  It is this insincerity that drives the title character to action.  Everything he does or attempts to accomplish is predicated on exterior illusion and the ability of this illusion to translate to internal reality for David/Jerry.
             I was a minor fan of the original The Stepfather, having thought the film was rather campy, at times silly, and ultimately dated in typical 80s fashion.  This time stamp however is not necessarily a bad thing, for there are many 80s horror films that are more effective simply using the 80s colloquial techniques.  Upon re-watching this film, in anticipation of viewing the quite intriguing looking remake, it dawned on me the exact angle and social fortitude the film attempted to grapple with—and quite effectively at that.  It is the dying breed of neoconservative patriarchy influenced by religion and its familial values of the nuclear family.  Jerry is the incarnate manifestation of these principles forever seeking the ‘perfect’ family—normalized and heterosexualized by indoctrinating socializing family roles and functions.  Unfortunately for Jerry (and most unfortunately for any family he preys upon), he never manages to find this ‘perfect’ family—mainly because this ‘perfect’ (read: average) family doesn’t exist, except in the ideologies of traditional Judeo-Christian republican extremists.
              Stephanie, the stepdaughter in the original film, is this new budding feminist who strives to connect with her mother and ‘platonic’ female companion.  Stephanie’s heterosexuality is questionable in the film, especially if one chooses to interpret the film through a queer theoretical paradigmatic lens.  Stephanie is never heterosexualized, except in the final few moments of the film where audience’s gaze is directed to her nubile 16-year-old naked body.  This scene is in stark contrast to Jerry’s nude scene right at the beginning of the film.  Here we see the opposing forces in the gendered nudity and all of the social implications that are read onto these bodies.  Jerry’s male penetrating body fresh from killing his entire family, to Stephanie’s virginal teenage femininity, ready to be penetrated.  What happens instead is a struggle between the omniscience of patriarchy and the resistance of femininity and matriarchy.  Throughout the film, both mother and daughter put up with the hokey, occasionally silly speeches Jerry ‘performs’ on family and its significance.  This significance is never flushed out, it is never critically examined.  No one questions why family is so important, and what precisely family offers other than the reification of ruling patriarchal/heterosexual gender roles.  The original film is an all-out struggle of ideologies facing off.  Stephanie rises up against her patriarchal figure and his empty promises of familial bliss to redefine her own sense of gender and sexuality.  The unfortunate thing for Stephanie is that this is never entirely possible, so the slaughtering of Jerry (a misstep to place the mother-figure as responsible for this action than the clear heroine, Stephanie), is ultimately done in vain.  Perhaps the singularity of Jerry’s ideals is demolished, but his social influence lives on in many neoconservative extremists.
           In the 2009 version of The Stepfather, the homage is displaced and misses the central saliency of the original—this is not to say that it is without its own merits, just not as strong as the original.  In reading reviews of both the original and remake of The Stepfather on Fangoria and Bloody Disgusting, it becomes clear that many viewers focus on the psychoses of the title character and not the social ideologies he represents, thus inverting the film from a taught social commentary into a personal account of one man’s inner psychotic turmoil.  In doing this the reviewers strip the film from what drives the action.  The initial intention may have inadvertently intended to scare the audience with the creepiness of the central character, however the film(s) has amassed to something more grand than this simple personal account of one man’s struggle to aspire to the American Dream.  Unfortunately (for us), the remake is predicated on this pedantic interpretation.  The film’s intention is to expand upon the personal psychosis of the central character.  This is why Stephanie is turned into Michael, a troubled teen (who is incredibly well-behaved except for a few minor outbursts of personal opinion at the dinner table) who must learn to step in line and fly right. 
           Converting the direct conflicting character to the stepfather from a daughter to a son has some massive social implications, all of which lose the pertinence of feminist thought.  There are many underlying aspects driving this gender change—the need to appeal to young teen girls, and if the emphasis is placed on the central character’s psychosis, then it does not matter the gender or age of the conflicting character.  Instead of being treated to a cathartic uprising of feminist ideals against patriarchal rule, we are subjected to traditional patriarchy’s temporary crumble to new, more ideologically (and dare I say liberal) patriarchy—a patriarchy none the less.  It is more a struggle between men, each fighting to lay control over the household.  I am less drawn to this theme as the nucleus of the film.  However, having said that, I do believe this new remake masters more of the overarching reach of the patriarchal hand and its ability to silence and convince those that do not adhere to its principle values.  The performance of Walsh as the central character is more effective and subtle than the overt campiness of O’Quinn’s memorable 80s portrayal—both men do fine jobs for very different reasons and to very different effect.  What I am drawn to with the remake is the taught and suspenseful direction that the story deserves.  The narrative structure of both films calls for a more psychotic frenetic touch that is more evident in the 2009 version than the 1987 one.  Both films are flawed and both films are quite poignant, both for extremely different reasons—if only a keen director and screenwriter could more astutely adapt the most arrestive aspects of each, we would be left with a social canon.  Instead we have two films lacking in particular areas requiring viewers to draw from sections of each—more so from the 1987 version than 2009.

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The Stepfather (1987) - grade: 83% (A-)

The Stepfather (2009) - grade: 78% (B+)

Drag Me to Hell - (film review)

            I first saw Drag Me to Hell in theatres, but I purposefully waited to re-watch it on DVD before committing to write this review.  I was never a major fan of Sam Raimi’s Evil Dead Trilogy—for me the films felt a little too silly and annoying to be properly enjoyed, but upon reading initial reviews of Drag Me to Hell I became well aware of the kind of relentless, borderline frenetic film I was in store for.  Fortunately, unlike the Evil Dead films, which seem to me to be more of a fun practically nonsensical romp through preternatural realms, Drag Me to Hell is littered with socioeconomic and political significance, especially given these times of capitalist complacency.

            The most significant aspect of this film is that we follow the happenings of the antagonist in the film, Christine Brown, as she struggles against the curse she has been inflicted with due to her callous decision to refuse a third mortgage extension to the aptly disguised ‘hero’ Sylvia.  The film relies on Occidental commonplace stereotypes concerning foreign ‘othered’ relations.  It feeds on how ‘we’ come to see Romani (ie. Gypsy) ‘others’ and the imagined threat they impose on ‘our’ way of living.  The film’s paradigmatic view is the most accessible to its audience—the white, doe-eyed, likeable heterosexual female, who comes from modest rural origins, and (like all of us) yearns to prove herself and get ahead in her job.  It strategically positions Sylvia Ganush as the characteristic foreign threat that imposes herself on our likeable ‘heroine’ audaciously begging for an expansion to her late mortgage payments.

            What the film deftly provides us with is a look into the agential subject position within the overarching bureaucratic, and consequently Capitalist, economic structure, and how this agency relates to the severity of poverty and joblessness.   Up until the last three minutes of the film, the audience is led to believe that there is no other option for Christine but to refuse a third mortgage extension to Ms. Ganush—not unless she wants to upstage that creepy Stuart who is her direct competition for the new promotion.  Her boss, taking advantage of female workplace anxiety around confidence and the inability to keep up with their male counterparts, makes it very clear that Stuart has the ability to make the ‘tough decisions’, implying that she is not.  Christine becomes enraptured by the mass-market fed ‘dream’ of economic expansion to return to Ms. Ganush and refuse her another extension—an extension she so desperately needs to keep her residence of 30 years.

            Drag Me to Hell exposes the individuation of the bureaucratic system and the personal agency of those subjects who comprise it.  The rules of bureaucracy are determined and enforced by people who have every ability to make exceptions and special circumstantial decisions.  Instead, the invisible and omnipresent watchful eye of economic growth lingers over each individual within the bureaucratic system, causing them to self-internalize their own governance—disallowing room for exception or ethical decisions that may slightly inconvenience one for massive benefits to others.  These theories of self-governance are all too familiar to Focault and his work on sexual regulation and economic power.

            Christine in this instance has let herself get swept up in personal perseverance within the Capitalist system (in which we all reside) in such a way as to overlook the immediate needs of someone else—it’s a “dog-eat-dog” world out there and if you don’t look after yourself, no one will.  We all side with her because she’s right…right?  Her rich boyfriend’s parents disapprove of her rural farm upbringing and her menial bank position, deeming her unworthy of their son’s love and affection; her slimy co-worker is actively attempting to weasel his way into her well-deserved promotion; her boss is constantly on alert of her unworthiness to fill the assistant manager position she so desperately wants.  What else was she to do?  The old-woman’s living situation and potential homelessness would not immediately (if at all) affect her, so there is no danger in refusing a third mortgage extension, so why grant her one and risk further economic stasis?  This reasoning becomes incredibly logical to Christine (as I’m sure it does to much of the audience of this film) that she begins to lie to herself throughout the film—“my boss made me do it”, a line which very much echoes “the devil made me do it.”

            The only character in this film who is suspect of Christine’s innocence is Sylvia Ganush’s granddaughter, who calls Christine out on her attempted lies.  The audience is, once again, directed to dislike the granddaughter, because she speaks with a foreign Romani accent, is shadowed upon reveal, and is not kind to our troubled doe-eyed ‘heroine’.

            As the film continues, Christine struggles to undo what Ms. Ganush has done, upon her instigation—séance, exorcism, animal sacrifice (from a vegetarian no-less).  The animal sacrifice is of some saliency here, for Christine attempts to prove her niceness and innocence throughout the course of the film, explaining that she’s a vegetarian and volunteers at the puppy shelter (for Christ’s sake!).  However, these ethical principles become obsolete once she is faced with the responsibility of her actions.  Responsibility she so desperately wishes to be free.
            Ms. Ganush becomes our struggle against callous inhuman bureaucracies that would rather kick us out of our homes then inconvenience themselves.  She is the struggling ‘other’ who audaciously fights against spineless administrative pawns and their complacency to work within the system so long as they benefit from it.  In the last three minutes of the film the audience becomes aware of Christine’s decision and the personal agency involved in sending Sylvia from her home.  She apologizes for her actions spurring her boyfriend to call attention to her big heart—but is this the case?  Her apology only comes once the reality of threat is extricated—extricated into the soul of the harbinger of such devilish mayhem.  Prior to this extrication, she actively sought to fight against her own agency and responsibility in the decision she made.  She wanted forgiveness early on in the film, but not forgiveness for her selfishness—she was not willing to divulge that just yet.  Instead, she fought, only relenting to accept her responsibility for the actions that have taken place once she believed that she had won.  It is in this instance where Christine gets precisely what she deserves—in the metaphorical and cathartic dialectic world of horror.

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Grade: 89% (A)

Pandorum - (film review)

            The cross-genre Horror/Sci-Fi is met with varying degrees of success.  Films such as Alien, Aliens, and Sunshine have all managed to successfully transfer the most potent elements of each separate genre creating an aggregate of superior filmmaking.  Pandorum however, cannot be added to this list.

            I wanted to enjoy this film.  The foreboding omniscient overtones in the atmosphere of the space ship made for a wonderfully interesting backdrop through which the themes of repopulation and the survival of life could play out.  The actualization of capitalist struggles to eliminate nature in favour of metallic man-made technology seen at its most extreme is quite the powerful statement.  However, Pandorum has its safety net in Tanis, the equally life-sustaining planet to which the ship’s mission is to find.  The most interesting themes this film raises are quickly snowballed into utter clichéd oblivion once the archetypal (read: racist stereotypes) characters are introduced, one by one: a) the white lieutenant/leader; b) the female mother, who’s natural instincts are to actively protect the last shreds of nature that are being exported from Earth; c) the aboriginal warrior, who does not speak a word of English, thus relegating the substance of his character to a few inaudible words and many grunts and shrieks; d) the black (southern-style) fry-cook, who also turns out to be ‘in-it-for-himself’, thus justifying (supposedly) his criminal behvaiours; e) the heterosexual couple who’s purpose it is to re-populate Tanis and preserve the human race.  It seems in space, and consequently in the future, people are still racist/sexist/heterosexist.

            Unfortunately, the handling of such delicate socio-environmental issues as they are integrated into the plotline are continuously collapsing under the thinness of the overt and convoluted dialogue and action sequences.  I am a big fan of both science fiction and horror films and I believe that the most wonderous of these genre pieces can effectively illuminate some interesting social potentials not always fully considered in the discourse of socio-environmental issues.  So, in experiencing Pandorum I kept trying to suspend my disconcert for such blatant offences as I have listed above.  Perhaps if the raw material in which the director had to work was better written, all would be forgiven?  Alas, I found myself uninterested more than three-quarters of the way in, watching a film that attempted to superficially adopt film tropes from other successful genre films in hopes to capture some of the effectiveness here.

            It seems to me like Christian Alvart and Travis Milloy are the kind of filmmakers that suppose substance can be read into or onto their pretty scenes of beautiful leads, disconcerting supporting stars, and eerily-lit settings.  Unfortunately for them, the success of films such as Alien and The Descent (of which this film is a blatant cross between) is not reliant on these shallow Hollywood-esque predictions on what makes a substantial well-made film.  In other words, Pandorum is fluff disguised as a significant allegorical cautionary tale of environmental and social catastrophe.
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Grade: 69% (C+)

The Children - (film review); Grace - (film review)

            When I was a wee lad I got spanked for misbehaving—never hard enough to really hurt, but enough to sting, and never more than three times at once.  My acts of misbehaving ranged anywhere from throwing a fit in public or in front of company, to talking back and disrespecting my elders.  In recent years this form of child discipline has been greatly frowned upon and slowly pushed out of practice—anyone now who practices spanking is shamed into believing that they are committing a form of child abuse.  In many cases, this spanking as child abuse may be true.  However, I have grown to maintain a constant love for my parents, while learning to respect and consider the rights of those around me.

            Not being a parent myself, but an uncle of four nephews and one niece (and counting) and an avid observer of family dynamics, I’ve noticed a rather disturbing trend in the approach of child rearing and their lack of discipline (not to say this is entirely the case with my niece and nephews).  I regard this as the ‘my-child-is-the-most-important-thing-in-my-world-and-yours’ syndrome.  It implies rather obviously that parents excuse child behaviours as being acceptable at all times, in all contexts, no matter what the repercussions or ramifications.  Children are granted free range of everything, and everyone else is expected to adjust their actions to accommodate the standards parents have set (“Won’t someone please think of the children?”). 

The protection of ‘innocent’ and easily impressionable child minds is the justification for right wing (and many liberalist) organizations to argue against the exposure or representation of queers in media, educational institutions, and families, or the backbone of the censorship movement.

            These themes are all too prevalent in both films The Children and Grace.  Years ago I watched Isaac Webb’s First Born (starring Elizabeth Shue), a zealous film that turned the dissonance and disconnect of a mother and her child (which is expected to occur from the moment of conception) into a taught terror film.  Although the movie had it’s problems I was fascinated at how it represented the diverse relationship of parent and child in a manner that works against the social gender roles that have been indoctrinated by patriarchal regulations.  This belief that there is a natural connection to nurture their child in women is a socially constructed fallacy.  This connection generally only exists if there is proper social support to help nourish this fabrication.  As good as I think First Born is, I admit that both Tom Shankland’s The Children and Paul Solet’s Grace are far superior (the former more so than the latter).

            In Grace, a mother/child relationship sees the desire to provide the child with absolutely everything it needs for nourishment and sustenance, at the cost of devouring the very life-blood of the mother.  Madeline insists on carrying her stillborn child to term and shortly thereafter manages to resuscitate it back to life through feeding it her blood.  It takes some time for Madeline to realize precisely what is happening here, but once it is clear, she becomes eerily disturbed at what she is required to do to provide her child with the means to live.  This disturbance however does not stop Madeline from actually following through with murder in order to obtain blood for her child to feed on.  The symbolic strength of the need for blood is a potent device that Solet uses to startling effect here.  Grace not only requires her mother to provide her own life for hers, but at times necessitates the need for others to offer their lives.  Grace is the monster in this film and an interesting monster at that.  Instead of tormenting her victims and killing them by force, she remains perfectly still and by the sheer fact of being a child and the social implications that surround how a child is to be loved and cared for, manages to reek havoc and mayhem through the actions of those who love her most.  Grace is easily defeatable, however the socially ingrained desire to conceive of and raise children in order to obtain the picture-perfect family dynamic is so potent and strong that Grace becomes the most dangerous and effective monster to date.  Everyone around her dies in effort to vie for who will take care of her most (even at the expense of their lives), while she remains perfectly still.

            Shankland’s The Children, is similar in ways, but imagines a scenario where a newborn like Grace is three or four years older and is capable of her/his own violence.  The perceived happiness that comes along with raising a family is the main focus of the first act of this film, until young Pauly becomes weirdly unsettled.  Needless to say, this plot device is hinted at but never expressly explained—it is some type of viral disease that affects the children in disturbing ways.  Subsequent reviews of this film hinge on the surface of its core.  Brad Miska (http://www.bloody-disgusting.com/film/2197/review) of Bloody Disgusting, and Michael Gingold (http://fangoria.com/reviews/2-film/3412-fantasia-09-the-children-film-review.html) of Fangoria, both discuss the difficulty of the parents’ decision to harm their children for their own perseverance.  For Miska and Gingold, the most complicated aspect of the film is how those who are the life and joy of these parents soon becomes their worst nightmares.  What is lacking in this (albeit correct, but ultimately pedantic) interpretation is the actions of the parents once the hardcore violence becomes evident.  The children are sensed to be nearby the violent acts but cerebrally intuited to have no part in the macabre at hand.  The parents know who is responsible for these acts and yet they refuse to believe it, instead prefer to point fingers at the less ‘innocent’ teenager, or suspect adult—for there could be no possibility of the involvement of the children in these violent actions, could there?  This denial becomes so strong that a husband prefers to believe the accusation that his wife (with help from her teenaged daughter) maliciously intended to kill their own four-year-old son without any prior precedence to lend plausibility to this scenario—even though they both appear visibly hurt (the daughter with blood dripping down her face, and the mother with her knee protruding from her leg).  Why would his wife kill her own child without some kind of provocation?  Would he really believe that she harmed Pauly for some fleeting reason, unless it was absolutely necessary?  Does he think so little of her? Ironically, it is the husband who would be suspected of harming his child as he is seen moments earlier spanking him—of course this is met with communal disapproval, spurring one parent to superiorly utter: “We don’t hit kids here.”

            They sure don’t hit kids—even if they’ve become menacing terrors bent on manipulative terror and torture.  It seems to me that Shankland decided to pen a scenario whereby the “my-child-is-the-most-important-thing-in-my-world-and-yours” syndrome is tested and exploited.  The only character willing to believe the violent manipulation and severity of the children’s behaviours is the teenage daughter.  She does not have children of her own and she has matured enough to comprehend the internalizing manipulation of children in ways that objectively discerns proper bratty behaviour—and so, she becomes the film’s heroine.  Although it may be difficult for the mother Elaine, to harm a child and give them much needed discipline (as Miska argues in his review), she later manages to decipher the difference between ill-intended violent childlike behaviour over the life and consideration of her teenage daughter, Casey (who may not be as socially ‘innocent’ but still deserving of respect).  She drives over her younger daughter to save Casey—so ultimately Elaine has learned to step outside of the socially accepted role of ‘child-comes-first’ to manage the situation properly, giving every party involved consideration and respect.

            These two films, The Children more so than Grace, manage to forcefully address common social misconceptions over the rearing and care for children in ways that require us to examine our own implications in this disturbing, albeit well-intentioned, trend.  I’m not trying to argue that nurturing or caring for children is an innately wrong thing to desire, only the need to place this care above and beyond the consideration and respect for others and yourself.  I argue that these films are less about the difficulty in raising children, and more about commenting on the social trends of over-protected and overly privileged child rearing.  These ideas are even more interesting if you consider that Tom Shankland, Paul Solet, and Isaac Webb, are all men.
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The Children grade: 86% (A)
Grace grade: 80% (A-)

Trick 'r Treat - (film review)

            Tonight I finally got to experience the film Trick ‘r Treat.  In 2005 (or 2006, I can’t remember), the trailer piqued my interest as I watched it flash by my television screen.  For years afterwards I anticipated this film in the back of my mind, every so often remembering that it was out there…lurking…waiting.  Keeping in spirit with this blog I will attempt to tackle this film in a way that may be a retreading of reviews past, but hopefully address some thoughts and arguments that are not.

Before I hash into the details of the film I enjoyed, I will say that the film is less a horror film, and more of a Halloween film.  Think of it in terms of the difference between a Christmas film, as opposed to a family feel-good movie.  The aptly named Trick ‘r Treat becomes an exercise in recapturing a childhood holiday essence.  It is not entirely scary as a viewing experience, but what I did notice was that the ominous feeling of dread, which lingers long after I removed the blu-ray from my hardware device, was more powerful than the horror depicted onscreen.

Which brings me to the central angle I approach this film with: atmosphere and the psychological underpinnings of the experience of Halloween, specifically.  There is a difference between the suspense of being alone at night (with strange noises coming from outside and inside your house) at any given time of the year, and the emotions that are conjured, like demons, that forebode your inevitable mortality on Halloween night.  In this case, this film manages to surpass genre classics such as the Halloween series.  Halloween, in those films, is a prop, a backdrop through which a serial killer’s massacre is set against.  In Trick ‘r Treat Halloween is the essence through which the films plotlines and actions derive.

When I was a kid, Halloween would be the only time of the year when everything felt a little scarier, when the promise of death was just a little bit closer, and the fear that Hell lurked beyond your passing was just a little more evident.  The rest of the year, you could tell yourself that you are a good person, and that the tiny indiscretions that plague your seemingly well-intentioned Christian conscience will not lead you to an afterlife of torment and macabre.  Of course, this would only really apply to those who had grown up Christian.  Those from a variety of other religions have equally disturbing omniscience that they must deal with, I’m sure.

So after the film had finished, I was drawn back less by the imbricated storylines and dialogue that helped accent the film, and more by the atmospheric presence it holds.  The continuous presence of jack-o-lanterns, twilight yellows (from either candles or from the eerily disturbing Halloween sun), delight in costuming, and the wonderful entity of Sam (the childlike figure who plagues each story, wearing a custom fitted burlap sack over his suspiciously enlarged head).  What writer/director Michael Dougherty managed to pull off with the character of Sam, is a pre-iconic figure that encapsulates the childlike fear and attraction to evil and dread that comes with the fascination of Halloween.  The film is littered with this sensation, much like how a Christmas film incorporates all the seemingly traditional Euro-North American associations with that particular holiday.

            This is why the film is scary.  It’s not because something terrifying happens in the film (of which some do, but nothing to overwhelm the senses of fear).  It is because long after the film is done, you begin to remember when you were a child and could not pragmatically reason your way out of a fear spiral that you begin to recall that sensation.  How you felt trying to relish in the fun of Halloween: getting and consuming candy, dressing up as your favourite (anti-)hero, and watching scary movies.  Always knowing that in the back of your mind, there was something more dark and sinister about what is happening, what Halloween is really about, and the fear that on this day, you should not tempt the fate of your mortality.
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Grade: 87% (A)