Double review: Black Christmas and The Hills Have Eyes

Remember when you saw your first horror movie? For me, that was A Nightmare on Elm Street starring Robert Englund as the nefarious Freddy Krueger, brandishing his steel claws as he haunted the dreams of teenagers. I didn't sleep for weeks after seeing Elm Street, much to the chagrin of my parents. I was a teenager, by the way.

Savvy horror fans have figured out all the tricks while horror writers have run out of methods with which to scare us. What to do? Remake a film that wasn't good to begin with!

Take, for example, The Hills Have Eyes, a remake of Wes Craven's 1977 gorefest. The film follows the Carter family, led by dad Bob (Ted Levine, better known as Buffalo Bill from Silence of the Lambs) and mom Ethel (Kathleen Quinlan). Bob and Ethel--kids, son-in-law, granddaughter, and trailer in tow--find themselves stuck in the New Mexico desert among mutants leftover from years of government nuke testing.

The film is quite violent. I'm always intrigued by the MPAA's decision to give a film like this an R rating while films with "too much" sex get the dreaded NC-17. I guess morals are such that parents shudder to imagine their kids watching naked adults frolic, but have no objection to taking their children to see a mother being shot in the head while her baby rolls on the floor and her teenage sister is raped in the background.

The mutants are pretty creepy looking and there are a few sincere moments where I jumped, although as most savvy horror film fans know, these were often dreaded "fakeout" moments involving a dog or a family member. The characters are not very interesting and the only reason we care about them is because writer/director Alexandre Aja and writing buddy Gregory Levasseur threw in young kids and a helpless baby. As is true and necessary for any horror film, the ending leaves the option open to have a sequel. Oh, wait, there is a sequel! God bless the almighty dollar.

Black Christmas is another remake of a 1974 film with the same name. That one was directed by the guy who brought you Porky's and Rhinestone. Enough said. The remake was directed by Final Destination 3 scribe Glen Morgan. The story involves a group of sorority sisters who count amongst their ranks Dana (Lacy Chabert) and den mother Ms. MacHenry (Andrea Martin). It's Christmas Eve and the girls are sitting around the fire, exchanging presents. The first present, offered like a virgin to a volcano, is for once-resident Billy Lenz (played at different ages by Robert Mann and Cainan Wiebe), the Norman Bates/Michael Meyers-esque guy who is believed to be dead but is really in a mental institution down the road, plotting his return home. Following the horror-making handbook, the girls dutifully split off, one by one, investigating strange noises where they will be killed and their eyeballs eaten. I'm not kidding.

Christmas has a slightly creepier feel, relying heavily on yellow and blue tones to enhance the ever-blinking Christmas lights. (Who knew Christmas lights could be scary?) By the end, the sole survivors escape in what has become all-too-common in horror films: the fakeout ending. The killer is dead! Or is he?

Neither film contributes anything to the genre, but if you are a fan and need a fix, I recommend Christmas. At the very least, there's a chance that when Christmas rolls around, the blinking bulbs on the tree might give you pause or, at the very least, a good laugh.

Geek links

--NPR's Fresh Air from WHYY offers a great streaming interview with Bea Arthur. (And the first season of Maude is on DVD!)

--Frank Spotnitz, writer/producer of the X-Files, says on his blog that the next X-Files movie is in the works!

--David Goyer, Batman Begins scribe, will direct the X-Men spinoff Magneto.

--Grindhouse will be released as two films in the U.K.

--Ain't it Cool News has the first lengthy review from a guy who saw the new Transformers movie.

--Here's the funny trailer for Run, Fatboy, Run starring Simon Pegg (Shaun of the Dead, Hot Fuzz). I didn't realize it was directed by David Schwimmer and written by Michael Ian Black.

--Jon Favreau and Robert Downey Jr. talked with USA Today all about Iron Man.

--Scotty's remains will be launched into space!

Film review: Smokin' Aces

Watching the first fifteen minutes of Smokin' Aces, I was reminded of the 2000 X-Men film. There, much of the celluloid was chewed up to offer a background and special powers roll call for all of the characters. In Aces, we get the same setup, although "powers" has been replaced by "killing method." This saves us the time from having to get to know them, I suspect.

The film was written and directed by Joe Carnahan whose big break came in the form of Blood Guts Bullets and Octane, a film he wrote, directed, produced, edited, and starred in. It is alleged the film was made for $8,000. I suspect the Aces fake blood budget alone was ten times that number.

A dying mob boss, Primo Spirazza (Joseph Ruskin), puts out a hit on a strung out magician, Buddy "Aces" Israel (Jeremy Piven), who has become deeply involved in the mob and has made a deal with the FBI to turn over evidence against Spirazza and his gang. Word spreads that Spirazza is offering a million for Israel and one of his internal organs. Enter a cast of many: the bondsmen Jack (Ben Affleck), "Pistol" Pete (Peter Berg), and Hollis (Martin Henderson), all hired by alcoholic attorney Rip (Jason Bateman); the femme fatales Georgia (Alicia Keys) and Sharice (Taraji P. Henson); the boisterous and violent Tremor brothers Darwin (Chris Pine), Jeeves (Kevin Durand), and Lester (Maury Sterling); and the ever-elusive Lazlo Soot (Tommy Flanagan). Racing to get to Israel before this macabre group are FBI partners Messner (Ryan Reynolds) and Carruthers (Ray Liotta), under the order of their boss Locke (Andy Garcia). See how much space it took me to introduce the characters? Imagine that in the film.

Besides the introductory exposition, we are provided a conclusionary exposition wherein, true to so many films before it, Locke offers a drawn out (and a bit convoluted) story about the real reason the FBI wanted Aces. These sections bookend a bunch of gunfire and blood.

It is clear that Carnahan likely worships at the altar of Quentin Tarantino. Like Pulp Fiction, there are moments where time shifts, although not as markedly, which is unfortunate. Perhaps Carnahan hadn't intended this. However, if he hadn't, he should pretend he had. Take, for example, the various killers and FBI agents who climb into elevators at the hotel where Israel is hiding out. The characters might as well have scaled the building with nothing more than their fingernails for the time it took them to reach the top. There is also a bit of Tarantino-esque dialogue spouted between gunfire, although it could never touch Tarantino's. Amongst the plot holes was the strange ebb and flow of the FBI agents' concern for getting to Israel before all of these killers (which they knew were on their way.) They actually stop for lunch. I'm not kidding.

The acting is sketchy. Keys and Henson, both good actors, embodied the only two characters interesting enough to hold our attention. Some were over-the-top caricatures (the Tremor brothers) and some were just silly (Reynolds). Seasoned actors Liotta and Garcia work with what they've got, which isn't much.

As a pupil of the writing arts, I learned that some of the most interesting stories start as close to the end as possible. In the case of Aces, this would have been ideal. Then we would have at least hit the ground running and maybe the flying bullets would have distracted us from the story. It would have also made this film much, much shorter.

Quick links for geeks

Here's what's keeping me away from work today:

--Scientists discover the very first "earthlike planet" outside our solar system!

--Ebert returns (to my alma mater, no less)!!

--This article could clear the bird outside my window of my allegation that he has a mental illness.

---The Transformers have arrived...or is it a shoe?

--The guys who created "The Wizard of Id" comic strip died...within 8 days of one another.

--Happy 30th Star Wars! Wired offers production shots from the original Star Wars.

--IFC offers a downloadable podcast all about summer movies.

--Did you know the guys from Mystery Science Theater 3000 are still watching bad movies?

--And finally, where not to park your horse.

Film Review: Notes on a Scandal

Notes on a Scandal is a film about loneliness. Sheba (Cate Blanchett) is married to Richard (Bill Nighy), her ex-professor and a man many years her senior. They have two children: an angsty teenage girl and a young boy with Down's syndrome. Sheba misses the passion she once shared with her husband and finds refuge in her artist's studio behind the home she married into. Barbara (Judi Dench) is a strict disciplinarian who shares a basement flat with her cat. She longs for companionship and goes about finding it in the most dubious of ways.

Sheba is starting her first day as an idealistic art teacher. The story is told through the eyes of Barbara, a self-proclaimed battle axe history teacher. Barbara, in clever narration, writes in her journal the story of meeting Sheba, writing that she can only share this story with "you." We know she's talking to us and we happily come along with our new friend as she tells us the intimate details of the stormy relationship on the horizon. The story unravels in delectable morsels of narrative diolague delivered with gusto by Dench. Much to her delight, upon helping Sheba control some rowdy students, Barbara snags an invite to Sheba's home for dinner with her family. Barbara immediately takes a disliking to the lot of them. After a meal of lasagna--which Barbara cheekily admits upsets her bowels--the family dances around the living room as Barbara watches uncomfortably, telling us, "They do things differently in bourgeois bohemia." Later, Sheba takes Barbara into her studio where she expels the contents of her entire existence upon Barbara, including her sex life: "It is a peculiar trait of the priveleged," Barbara narrates, "immediate, incautious intamacy." I could go on with these gems Barbara offers to her "journal," but we have a plot to discuss.

Soon Barbara witnesses Sheba in a compromising position with one of her students, Steven, played with a keen sense of maturity and its childish counterpart by Andrew Simpson. Barbara quickly realizes the power she now holds and promises to harbor Sheba's secret as long as she ends the affair because, after all, they're friends. Sheba, intoxicated by the newness of the familiar, is unable and that's when Dench's Barbara comes unhinged. Oh, not Fatal Attraction unhinged. We're talking Judi Dench here. Barbara is a barrel of gun powder at the end of a long and slow-burning fuse.

The performances here are top notch. The screenplay by Patrick Marber is a strong interpretation of British novelist Zoe Heller's story of the same name. The novel and film both allow us access to these lives via the skewed eyes of Barbara. We literally watch Barbara crack from the inside out. As Barbara writes in her journal, it is clear she is not only trying to make herself believe her intentions are good but she wants us to like her as well, and darnit, we do like her in our own lonely and twisted way.

Director Richard Eyre worked with Dench in the wonderful Iris. In Notes, he creates a tension where we can actually hear the crackling of the ground as it breaks beneath the characters. He understands actors and how to play to their strengths. Fortunately, he has a great bunch to work with. Besides Dench and Blanchett, Nighy plays a role we haven't seen him in of late. He's convincing as a man completely in love with his former student.

The film pulls off the colossal feat of convincing us to both detest and respect Barbara. It's tough to like an old broad hellbent on destroying lives and forcing companionship through manipulation and blackmail. But then, we've all known loneliness and its power over us. Most of us would never be brave enough to go that far, but then most of us aren't Judi Dench.

Biz notes

Clash of the Titans
The Chicago Tribune reports that James Cameron's Avatar will be budding heads with Dreamworks' Monsters vs. Aliens at the box office...in 2009. (And both films with be in 3-D.)

We are (the creation of) the world
The Guardian reports that a who's who of Hollywood's, um, elite (Luke Perry and Lou Diamond Phillips!) will gather in Chicago under the guide of entrepreneur Carl Amari. The actors are currently lending their voices to the production which, when completed, will fill some 70 CDs.

Weerasethakul talks censorship (and Grindhouse!)
Experimental Thai director Apichatpong Weerasethakul discusses his new film Syndromes and a Century over at IFC. His unique vision, Sud Pralad (Tropical Malady), is on DVD now.

Penn and Colbert fight like two, um, guys fighting
Head on over to ifilm and see the wonderful Stephen Colbert face off against Sean Penn in a little "Meta-Free-Phor-All." (To the Extreme!)

Clooney and his Smoke House
Warner Bros. picked up Our Brand is Crisis for George Clooney's production company. Crisis, Rachel Boynton's documentary, follows a 2002 Bolivian presidential candidate who used a U.S. political consultant (and the tacticts implicit with that move) to win the election.

Thomas story not going gentle into that good night
There's hope yet for the Dylan Thomas biopic. Lohan is out. Sienna Miller will join the phenomenal cast.

Bugged: The Learning Channel

Poverty! Hunger! War! Uneven skin tones! Wait...

TLC, or the "Learning" Channel, is doing its part to save the world from itself; particularly, after discovering a toxic virus known as Selfus Esteemum, producers have given American viewers the gift of vanity via two touching programs, What Not to Wear & Ten Years Younger.

Wear is hosted by two computer-generated robots, Stacy London and Clinton Kelly. The show finds a person whose friends and family dislike the way they dress . There is a private flogging, where London and Kelly are allowed a chance to make snappy zingers at the fashionably challenged victims. After a thorough ass-chewin', the victims are allowed to make up their shame by purchasing clothing that London and Kelly deem appropriate (for further research on London/Kelly fashion, see LL Bean and Sears.) London is "famous" for uttering her provocative catchphrase, "Shut up!" whenever the victims are revealed wearing their new looks, although I hear Kelly is working on a catchphrase of his own, "Jesus J. Crew!" London's phrase garnered her a television show. No word on whether Kelly's new phrase nabbed him sweaters to wear during snowball fights with WASPy friends.

Another show which promises to take the phrase "grow old gracefully" out to the pasture and beat it with a Manolo is Ten Years Younger. Ten finds victims willing to come onto a show without makeup, hair product, or clean sweatpants (stains only highlight the need for a makeover.) Put in a soundproof booth, they are vilified by the attractive , sweatpants-free public. They are then brought into the studio where a gay stereotype talks to them over soap opera music:

Stereotype: You have a problem.
Victim: I do.
Stereotype: Why do you think everyone thinks you are ugly?
Victim: Because your producers wouldn't let me put on makeup.
Stereotype: Really? I think people would find you just as hideous with makeup on. Oh, and you look really old. In fact, we polled 100 people and your average age was 235.

Victim begins sobbing. Stereotype nods head, knowingly.

Oh, and they show the victim clips of what the public said! What's the point of the soundproof booth again? Fortunately, the show's "glam squad," composed of a bitchy pixie with bad pink hair, a Diana-Ross-lookin-mother-or-something makeup man, and a forgettable lady who hands the victim dresses to try, all work together to transform the hideous freak into something that can be enjoyed by everyone from the girls of Kappa Kappa Gamma to the the silver foxes at the local country club.

I've only seen either show a couple times. I actually stopped watching Wear after I saw a girl, giving a "video diary" confession, cry and admit that she didn't realize there was anything wrong with the way she dressed until the show told her so. I guess, though, we are all too consumed with stopping war and fighting hunger to consider those who have to look at unattractive people every day. We should step into their shoes for a moment (after we take off our own tattered, ugly shoes, of course.)

By morning light

Lucy Fowler (Ashley Judd) awakens in a strange motel bed, hungover, as the sun caresses the hilltops in a small, southern town. She dresses quickly and attempts to sneak out the door, but not before the slumbering man awakens and tries to stop her. The scene simmers on the edge of erupting as we wait for something awful to happen.

My first thought upon viewing Come Early Morning, the directorial debut of Joey Lauren Adams, was, "She gets it." Hollywood has a way of knowing what it thinks small towns look and feel like but often veers way off course. Adams (of Chasing Amy fame), creates a simple, true representation of small-town living. There are no overall-wearing, toothless rednecks spitting tobacco here; instead, Adams colors in simple brush strokes a world of ordinary, working-class folks who sometimes seek ways to dull the mundane or the painful.

Lucy's method is through lots of alcohol and one-night stands. By day, she is a functional and astute assistant to Owen, played with fatherly aplomb by Stacy Keach. When working time is done, however, she is quick to find a barstool to sit on and a beer to nurse. Lucy meets Cal (Jeffrey Donovan), a strapping young man new to town. Cal attempts to woo Lucy, who isn't used to dates and dances; she's more of the love 'em and leave 'em type. There is a touching moment when the two are alone at Cal's after a night of drinking. As she passionately and clumsily kisses Cal, he stops and asks if she's ever kissed someone sober. This pivotal question begins a turn from within, where Lucy begins questioning not only her present habits but her future goals. We quickly see, though, that it will take more than a sweet cowboy to clear out the cobwebs in the dark corners of Lucy's life.

Her desperate attempts to connect with her distant father (Scott Wilson) culminate in a heartbreaking scene involving his guitar. Few words are spoken but with great performances, such as this one, we don't need words. Other story threads involve family members of varying craziness that, thanks to this new Lucy, she will attempt to face instead of running out the door when sunlight breaks.

The script, also written by Adams, is a beautiful, simple study in character. There are no collisions or aliens here. The acting is top notch, especially Judd. While a few other actors manage to soak up a brief bit of light, including Keach and Tim Blake Nelson as Uncle Tim, most are simply sounding boards for Judd's crisp performance. It is Judd who commands our attention. Her nuanced performance reminds us why films can be so much more than fast cars and box-office totals.

Purty mouths and rubber vests

While new-to-DVD films around the world keep my queueing finger busy, I often find a moment to watch an older film I haven't seen. Sometimes I'm delightfully surprised (Grey Gardens), and sometimes, well, there's Deliverance.

The story follows four men who all fall along the manly scale somewhere between "ultimate fighter" and "florist." These citified gents from Atlanta set off on a conoeing adventure down a river which will soon be flooded, along with the surrounding land which is inhabited by what I can only describe as mountain folk.

The group is led by the uber-macho Lewis Medlock (Burt Reynolds), followed by Ed Gentry (Jon Voight), Drew Ballinger (Ronny Cox), and Bobby Trippe (Ned Beatty). The latter is lovingly referred to as "fatty" by Medlock. From the beginning, it is clear Medlock is the alpha dog. The others find him a little dangerous, especially Trippe. The four set out on the journey unaware of the horror they will soon encounter.

There is a touching scene toward the beginning when, while attempting to find a local to drive their cars to a point at the end of the journey, the boys come across a young man whom we must assume is a product of inbreeding. Ballinger, who has brought his guitar along for the ride, begins picking. Before long, we hear a banjo off-screen, matching Ballinger note for note. This, of course, is the infamous "Dueling Banjos" song that will forever be associated with those aforementioned mountain folk. We quickly realize that Ballinger will play the voice of reason as he excitedly keeps up with the boy.

The tension mounts as they navigate through rocky terrain and angry rivers. The most frightening and disturbing moment is that other infamous scene in which Trippe is molested by one of two wayward mountain men that have stumbled upon he and Gentry. Medlock arrives, a little too late, killing one of the mountain men while the other runs off. It is at this point that the film gains momentum. The exciting sabbatical turns into a race to reach the end before their crime, along with the shadowy forest and what it holds, catches up with them.

As a cautionary tale, the film works. Just because these men possess an education, running cars, and running water, gives them little right to pompously tread and spit where they are likely unwelcome. I was, of course, reminded of Native Americans and the English who brought them, among other things, the cherished gifts of Christianity and disease. At one point I even expected a weeping Indian to stand amongst a pile of trash. Alas, it never materialized.

In the end, however, I simply couldn't get past Reynolds' way-over-the-top performance. Ever brooding, he would offer silly insight in quick, catchphrase blips. When his spirit was finally broken, his character arc complete, I didn't buy it. Perhaps it was the dating of the film. Maybe in 1972, this was fresh and new. Today, however, I just saw another film with tanned biceps and a tight rubber vest.

Being

As a nation, a world, and human beings, we are distracted, distraught, and heartbroken over the events that occured Monday at Virginia Tech. My blood runs cold as the tears well and then spill over my puffy eyes. I see the smiling faces of promising students and professors on the television screen. I wonder what they would have become. I imagine many of them would change the world, even if only by becoming tax-paying citizens.

I don't know anyone from Virginia, but I was connected to every one of them. We all are. We often take for granted the small details of our lives. We don't thank someone for holding a door for us as we rush into our offices. We don't notice the people who let us cut in front of them in a sea of cars on the interstate, setting their own journeys back by their mere kindness. These unnoticed saints are doing something that is likely second nature for them. I think about the students and professors killed at Virginia and wonder exactly how many less doors will be opened for complete strangers. I realize that those closest to the victims are losing much more than open doors, but it's important to understand that we all lose when something of this magnitude happens.

As I watch the details unfold on the daily news, the knots twisting in my stomach reminds me of other tragedies that have occurred in my lifetime. I think of 9/11, another tragedy that happened almost 1,000 miles away from me but, for its impact, might as well have happened next door. I think about Hurricane Katrina. I hadn't finished unpacking my boxes in my tiny New Orleans apartment when reports came in that a Category 5 storm was heading right toward us...toward me. I remember staring at the television for hours at a time in my temporary midwest home, watching not only the tragedy unfold, but seeing the support of a weeping world. In both incidents, like the recent events in Virginia, people of the world came together, gathering their collective hands in a psychic blanket of support for the victims. While my stomach knots and I feel the bile of anger and sadness snake up my throat, my heart swells until my chest can barely contain it. I am proud to be a part of this world. I am proud that, for the most part, differences are cast aside and people unite to show that while these lost souls may not be our brothers, sisters, friends, and family, they are people like us. They matter. These people who were not allowed the opportunity to have even minimal control of their destinies will not only be missed by those closest to them, they will be missed by all of us. We will never have the chance to thank them for opening that door. I promise them now that I will do everything in my power to carry on a legacy which would have undoubtedly included just being a good human being.

To everyone affected by this loss--in Virginia and around the world--I am truly sorry.