42nd Street Records
I Was a Witness
Leave a Comment
martyr: derived from the greek word “martyros” meaning “witness”
Last night I couldn’t sleep.
No…it wasn’t because I was nervous with anticipation over the release of Watchmen today (I was). It was because of a film I watched. A film that, when the final credits rolled, had left me shaken to the very core. A film called Martyrs.
I am a die hard horror fan. I think that the very existence of this blog and the films that I review on it proves that. But, for the most part, I like my horror brainless and fun; an escape on a roller coaster ride where a masked maniac stalks stupid teenagers and receives his comeuppance at the hands of a puerile ”Survivor Girl” in the end. The fact that not a whole lot of thought is put into these films is appealing because it allows me to detach myself from the violence that’s onscreen and just be thrilled by the chills and scares the movies attempt (and most time — fail) to conjure up. But last night, Martyrs taught me one thing:
Horror can be flat out terrifying.
The French film begins in the 1970’s with a young girl’s escape from an ordeal of ritual abuse. The girl grows into a gutted, battered shell of a woman who carries her abuse, as well as an undying need for retribution. Movies like Thriller (They Call Her One Eye) conclude with the satisfaction of revenge, Martyrs takes the retribution and uses it as a springboard to pitch the film into another level of darkness and depravty. To give away any more of the outcome is to take away from the potency of the goings-on, and the less one knows heading in, the better.
France has become a hotbed for gut-wrenching horror in the last six years. With films like Marina De Van’s In My Skin, Gaspar Noe’s Irreversible, and last year’s sucker punch, Inside, the French have unapologetically decided to try and push horror to the next level; a level where the films are no longer just “pieces of entertainment”, but endurance tests that leave the audience queasy and questioning their moral fiber. And while Inside set new standards in the gory extremities in French cinema, Pascal Laugier’s Martyrs has outdone the film in terms of how testing it is to the audience’s psyche. Inside reveled in it excess, almost to the point where pats of it were so ludicrous they made me giggle in a “sick fuck” sort of way. But I never giggled during Martyrs. Instead, I held my breath and nervously looked over my shoulder. And when it ended, the film sent me to bed not to sleep, but to stare at the ceiling and wonder about the moral and philosophical questions that it asked of me.
Beyond being smart, what gives Martyrs its weighty impact is the emotional honesty that Lugier infuses into the film. At no point do you question the motives behind any of the characters, even the shadowy antagonists revealed in the film’s finale. You can actually imagine that the world is filled with people who wouldn’t find their actions morally horrid. And that makes me shudder.
I didn’t write my “Movie a Week” column last week because I was struggling to come up with a film I felt passionate enough to write about. But after seeing this masterpiece, I knew exactly what film I was going to recommend (though it’s hard for me to truly use the word “recommend”). This film will break even the most jaded film fan. And, if it doesn’t, I would have to question why — what makes this person so much stronger than I?
A Movie a Week – Sweet Sixteen
1 Comment
Welcome to another edition of the A Movie a Week column here at 42nd Street Records. I’m going to try and do one of these a week (obviously) and recommend a great, little seen film that I think deserves a much wider audience. Most of these will come from the horror/cult/exploitation genres that I so know and love but I’ll also throw some in from other genres because, well, I’m not a limited motherfucker.
This week’s film: the not quite Chainsaw Texas slasher film, Sweet Sixteen.
With so much attention being paid to the remake and DVD rerelease of 1981′s My Bloody Valentine, I thought that I would drudge up this little known down south slasher. Much like My Bloody Valentine, this film relies on implementing the classic “slasher” formula into a unique locale. Only, instead of setting it in a Canadian mining town, this “slice of life” (I’m sorry, I couldn’t resist) takes place in a middle of nowhere Texas dustbowl.
Melissa (Aleisha Shirley) is the new “city girl” at school. Her father (Patrick Macnee) is an archaeologist excavating a local Indian burial ground. As usual for “city girls” who find themselves being fresh fish out of water, Melissa is having a hard time fitting in (but she does fit in the shower quite fine — with some frontal nudity in the film’s opening scene). It seems that every guy who takes an interest in her winds up getting snuffed pretty viciously (most of the film’s victims are men). While the local sheriff (Bo Hopkins, Man God) thinks he has a psycho-killer on the loose and also has to deal with racial tensions, his daughter Marci (Dana Kimmel, FRIDAY THE 13TH 3-D!) decides to play like Nancy Drew and get to the bottom of it all. The shit really hits the fan when Melissa’s mother (a slumming Susan Strasberg) invites everyone to Melissa’s Sweet Sixteen party.
Though I’m playing this up as a straight up slasher film, Sweet Sixteen unspools more like a dust riddled murder mystery. But the tried and true tropes of the Americanized giallo are there; POV shots, teen archetypes, a Scooby Doo-esque reveal of the killer, and gore, though not as much as a Friday the 13th. But what sets this film apart from other stalk and slash movies of its ilk (other than the unique locale) is the sheer weight of themes and plot threads it attempts (and sometimes fails) to tackle. There’s tension between the locals, lead by Don Stroud in redneck mode (ain’t no way Rob Zombie’s never seen this film) and the Native American population, TV movie of the week popular high school girls ostracizing the new kid, family tension, suggestions of the occult, a burial ground (though not Micmac related) and even Melissa’s set of Tarot cards (the theatrical cut begins with a more gothic horror atmosphere, which is nice, but ultimately does not fit the rest of the film). Add on top of this a wonderfully godawful 70′s throwback theme song (“Sweet Melissa, you look so far away…”) and you’ve got yourself a bonafide cult classic.
There’s a reason this film is little known. It has no iconic killer and the payoff doesn’t quite justify the set-up. But if you see it with a case of PBR and a few buddies who can appreciate its Southern Fried charm, I guaran-damn-tee you a helluva evening.
Tags: code red dvd, Exploitation Films, murder, Slasher Films, sweet sixteen, texas
A Movie a Week – Oldboy
Leave a Comment
Welcome to another edition of the A Movie a Weekcolumn here at 42nd Street Records. I’m going to try and do one of these a week (obviously) and recommend a great, little seen film that I think deserves a much wider audience. Most of these will come from the horror/cult/exploitation genres that I so know and love but I’ll also throw some in from other genres because, well, I’m not a limited motherfucker.
This week’s film: the surreal revenge fantasy, Oldboy.
“I have this rule of thumb where I don’t think any movie should be considered a classic until its been out for ten years. Some movies can be so energizing and exciting when you first see them that they can seem like instant classics, but after a couple of years and a couple of viewings the film doesn’t quite hold up.That rule of thumb is the only reason I don’t call Oldboy an instant classic.”
This is a quote by the great Internet film journalist, Devin Faraci, when he first reviewed Oldboy back in 2004. And while I agree with his hesitation to label anything this freshly released a “classic”, I think that ten years might be a little long to declare a film so stunning and emotionally complex a bonafide masterpiece (though, to be fair, he does use the term to describe it later on in his critique). But few films contain the depth and, even more importantly, entertainment value as Park Chanwook’s Count of Monte Cristo inspired tale of vengeance and madness.
While the film has been seen by many, I still feel that it only truly exists in the consciousness of die-hard film fans. Winner of the 2004 Grand Prix at the Cannes Film Festival, it garnered critical acclaim and became a must see for anyone who had an interest in world and Asian cinema. But Oldboy has something more; a characteristic that can only be described as “universal appeal”. Anyone I have ever screened this for has fell head over heels in love with it, a testament to the film’s ability to transcend its status of being simply a “cult” film.
The film follows drunken braggart Oh-Dae Su. The first image we have of him is drunk, contained to the bench of a police station and being what can only be described as “disorderly”. He is highly unlikable, as it is his young daughter’s birthday and he has obviously opted to get intoxicated and misbehave, rather than deliver the present he has recently purchased for her: a pair of angel’s wings. But this first image is key to the audience, as Oh-Dae Su undergoes a transformation that can only be described as “monstrous”.
Shortly after being bailed out, Oh-Dae Su is abducted off of a rainy street and imprisoned for fifteen years. He is given no reason for his captivity, and undergoes a surreal daily routine of watching television, categorizing his sins in a hand written diary and attempting to escape — either by killing himself or tunneling through the wall. Then, just as mysteriously as he is taken, the man is released; given a new set of clothes, a wallet full of money and a cell phone. A voice on the cell phone tells him that “who took him” is not important, but the “why he was taken” is. And thus, a journey of revenge and damnation ensues.
To say any more would do a disservice to anyone who checks this film out following my recommendation. But to only categorize Oldboy as a “revenge story” would be missing the point entirely. While the very nature of revenge and the psychological effects it has on all participants is thoroughly examined, the film dives into depths so much deeper than that. Human sadness, violence, loneliness and, alternately, the joys of connection are explored in the films barely two hour running time. And while there are scenes of thrilling action, every bit of violence that Oh Dae-Su or any character inflicts (or has inflicted upon them) is scarring, both emotionally and physically.
This scarring goes double for the audience. There are points where the film will make any viewer uncomfortable, and it will also send you out of the darkened theater dazed and questioning your own base morality. The ending of the film is almost certainly a middle finger to those to like their film conclusions neat and tidy. By the final frames, it is not clear who or what we should have been rooting for the entire running time; and the ambiguity only adds to the moral haze Park Chanwook is so content in creating.
Oldboy, for me, is a litmus test for taste. I do not understand how anyone could walk out of the film and not be compelled to dissect what they just saw and what it means to them on a personal level. But, more than that, the film is a special reminder that a film does not need to be “just one thing”. Oldboy is many – a transgressive work of genre filmmaking that can entertain and haunt you simultaneously. It’s a slickly crafted piece, and one that, upon first and then multiple viewings, only gets more complex.
Oldboy, my friends, is indeed a classic.
Tags: A Movie a Week Column, Asian Film, Cult Film, Horror, Oldboy, Park Chanwook, Revenge
A Movie a Week – Heaven Help Us
Leave a Comment
Welcome to another edition of the A Movie a Week column here at 42nd Street Records. I’m going to try and do one of these a week (obviously) and recommend a great, little seen film that I think deserves a much wider audience. Most of these will come from the horror/cult/exploitation genres that I so know and love but I’ll also throw some in from other genres because, well, I’m not a limited motherfucker.
This week’s film: the coming of age comedy, Heaven Help Us
What happened to Andrew McCarthy? Though, at times, he could be as interesting as Vanilla Pudding at a Sizzler buffet, he was still one of the better actors who made up the famed 80s “Brat Pack”. His turn as Clay in the 1987 adaptation of Bret Easton Ellis’ debut novel, Less Than Zero was fantastic (though overshadowed by Robert Downey Jr’s eerily prophetic role of as the drug addled Julian) and his work in St. Elmo’s Fire was funny and often touching. It’s sad that his career took the turn that it did. The last thing I remember seeing him in was some DTV nonsense where he played a religous archeologist looking for Jesus’ final, petrified bowel movement. But, thankfully, I will always have this forgotten piece of fried gold to remind me how promising McCarthy’s career once was.
Heaven Help Us tells the story of four teenage friends: Michael Dunn (McCarthy), the serious, responsible boy; Caeser (Malcolm Danare), a nerdish, overweight worry-wart; Rooney (the one and only Johnny Drama), a brash and none too bright party boy who seemingly loves the word “fag”; and then Williams (future gay porn star and best friend to Charlie Brewster, Stephen Geoffreys), an impish prankster who has trouble controling his most “impure impulses”. The boys spend their days at St. Basil’s, a Brooklyn catholic school run by a group of monks who are both nurturing and horiffically cruel.
Now, like most coming of age tales, plenty of the film’s run time is devoted to the exploits of the four friends as they learn valuable lessons about life and love. The film at times feels like a series of vignettes, some hysterically funny, some dark and a little frightening, and others touching and poignant. At confession, the boys do a bit of bartering with their sins, downplaying or flat out omitting the ones that will earn them the most Hail Marys and shame in the eyes of God. During a visit from the Pope that leaves their teachers in teary eyed joy, the boys opt instead to take in Elvis’ “Blue Heaven”. And when a prank goes awry, they are hunted and brutally beaten by a sadistic member of the school’s monastic order.
Now none of this is radically different from any other tale of growing up, but the authenticity enstilled by first-time director Michael Dinner (who would go on to direct the seminal Bobcat Goldthwait meets a talking horse film, Hot to Trot). The small Brooklyn community that St. Basil’s is nestled in feels small and claustrophobic, a place that these boys simultaneously take pride in and want to escape from. And the monks are developed as unique and fascinating characters. From the no-nonsense head of the school (Donald Sutherland) to the hip, caring brother (John Heard) who cruises the local diner to smoke cigarettes and listen to rock n’ roll, the men who run the school are given as much personality as the boys they oversee and mentor. The most memorable of the brothers is Brother Constance (Jay Patterson), who takes sick pleasure in punishing the boys, either with his strap or by making them balance stacks of encyclopedias with their hand for hours on end.
This is a truly great film from the eighties that, when I reccomend it to people they often respond with, “oh, I think I’ve seen that on Comedy Central before.” But very few have sat down and WATCHED the film, taking in it’s finely drawn characters and snappy, quotable dialogue. This might be due to the fact that the film remained widely unavailable on DVD until a few years ago and, even then, was only sold at online retailers or found the bottom of dollar bins alongside numerous DTV Segal and Van Damme flicks. But anyone who grew up loving films like Stand By Me should seek this gem out immediately.
A Movie a Week – Street Trash
Leave a Comment
Welcome to the inaugural edition of the A Movie a Week column here at 42nd Street Records. I’m going to try and do one of these a week (obviously) and reccomend a great, little seen film that I think deserves a much wider audience. Most of these will come from the horror/cult/exploitation genres that I so know and love so much but I’ll also throw some in from other genres (next week’s film will be a prime example) because, well, I’m not a limited motherfucker.
This week’s film: the creme de la creme of exploding bum movies, Street Trash.
“Street Trash, now befouling the Eighth Street Cinema, is the stuff that a civil-libertarian’s nightmares are made of. It claims no redeeming social value and you don’t have to be a Supreme Court nominee to question whether the founders envisioned anything like it when they wrote the First.”
This was the lead of Walter Goodman’s 1987 New York Times review of the film. And, truth be told, he is half-right. Street Trash, from its opening frames, aims to be nothing less than bugfuck insane — eschewing traditional narrative for a nihilistic, Skid Row fantasy . But to not appreciate its wildly subversive and irreverent tone shows almost a complete lack of understanding and sense of humor on Mr. Goodman’s part.
The plot (as much as there is of one) follows the exploits of a band of alcoholics, homeless kids and one badass Vietnam vet named Bronson, all of whom inhabit a New York junkyard, much to the chagrin of the proprietor, a morbidly obese pervert who likes to sexually harass his female (Asian) employee.
A short distance away, the owner of a local liquor store is selling Viper, a cheap knockoff of Mad Dog 20/20 he found under the stairs of his shop’s basement that, when consumed by the homeless population, makes them spontaneously combust.
Throw in a hard ass cop who wants to get to the bottom of the homeless deaths, a game of keep-away involving a severed penis, a rape that resembles a cut scene from Dawn of the Dead (If the Dead wanted to sex you up instead of merely feasting on your flesh) and you have your film.
Street Trash is the prime example of a film whose poster/video artwork is known to more people than have actually seen the film. Written and Produced by then film school professor, Roy Frumkes, the film is an amazing display of low budget DIY filmmaking that is not held back by its shoestring budget and cast of (primarily) non-actors. In fact, the film is often times visually stunning and displays some jaw dropping usage of the Steadicam. This comes courtesy of the film’s director, Jim Muro, a true artist behind the lense who would go on to work as Steadicam operator for the films of such greats as Oliver Stone, Michael Mann and Martin Scorsese (usually working under the name J. Michael Muro).
Muro’s flashy (at least by grindhouse standards) direction is what gives the film its seemingly endless supply of madcap energy. Add to that the goopy, multi-colored “meltdowns” that would keep any gorefiend satisfied and you have a true classic of horror cinema.
If you’re going to check this film out, do so by picking up the Synapse 2-Disc “Meltdown Edition”, which includes The Meltdown Memoirs a two-hour plus documentary/retrospective documentary directed by Roy Frumkes. The man also made Document of the Dead, the fascinating and immersive documentary that chronicled the making of George Romero’s Dawn of the Dead. This film is just as (if not more) entertaining as the film itself.
Do yourself a favor. Grab a bottle of your favoirte liquor and pop this baby in your player. Just make sure there’s no Viper on the label.
