It’s October 30th at the Alamo Drafthouse. My brother and I sitting there, talking: “I like foreign films because they make you pay attention.” Next thing I know, a few rows below us I see a man wearing the pumpkin mask from Halloween III. It was a comforting sight. [Read a piece on Halloween III].
Goodnight Mommy reminds me of The Very Things with their “Mummy You’re A Wreck” song. In addition to complimenting any Halloween playlist, there’s a striking bond between that mummy and the one in this film: they’re both in rather poor shape and frightening those that care for them.
Having returned home swathed in bandages and looking like a modern version of the classic monster, is, Mom. I don’t know mom’s name and it doesn’t matter. Mom is Mother, and Mother’s the anchor.
Mother’s had some facial surgery. Her face is unrecognizable, swollen with dark purple bruises. It’s an abject horror nearly too much for her young boys, twins Elias and Lukas, to bear. (Note too that one red eye. Angry red eye and it’s looking at a boy emerging from the dark and he’s scared and you’re watching it and . . . oohh.). And Mother’s not exactly warm to the boys’ reservations about her current condition, either. Which, for the caring, concerned mother, is rather odd. Something in the way . . . .
Mother carries the keys to the home (no male figure, no male presence) like some sullen warden, even locking the boys in their room on occasion. A rather stylized shot comes. It helps to paint Mother’s picture for the audience. Dark shot of her standing before the mirror, tan chemise swaying in front of the Dyson while she looks and looks, bandages on her face, trouble on her mind. Her boys hiding out in the cramped safety of their room, speculating about Mom’s new mien, wondering what to do about it, how to behave.
Mother is exceedingly irritable too. Has new, off-putting demands: no sunlight, no visitors to their home, and no disruption of her incredibly important rest. Viewers sense the window of affection closing in on the relationship between she, Elias and Lukas faster with each transition of scene. This doesn’t seem to be the same woman heard on a recording singing solace to her boys’ pains while she was off having her surgery. “Lullaby and Goodnight,” she sang.
Elias and Lukas are having a hard time with it all. For them, youth and the understanding that ripens in raw experience, lacks an elder’s guidance. Boys have their imagination and these boys have nature in the beautiful Austrian countryside to exhaust their burning energy. But Mother is the strongest presence of any nurturing quality, and rarely is she present as a mother or simply anything but a towering, implacable figure holing herself up, internally, externally, in the dark. No love. No closeness. What’s to become of these boys? asks the viewer.
Despite it eventually being depicted as recourse to a crushing loneliness incubated inside of their home, Elias’ and Lukas’ adventurous play in the countryside seems promising. In other stylized, beautiful sequences shot on the “glorious 35mm,” the boys are seen having the time of their lives in the arms, so to speak, of the natural world. Scenes of the them outside, laughter and roaming, roughing each other up, racing through corn stalks, swimming, are uplifting.
From a viewer’s standpoint, though, perhaps it’s a bit too pacifying. Such warm shots shown in a flush of sunlight induce a bit of drowsiness in the dark of the theatre like a cloud of henbane. The effect is short-lived, though, ending as quickly as the freedom Elias and Lukas feel in their outdoor play. The quiet voice of the countryside is no remedy for the growing horrors of doubt awaiting the boys in their home; though it spells disaster for the family, for the audience, this is where Goodnight Mommy really starts to heat up. Sick heat, sickening shots, sickening sights.
Mother says she’s Mother, but what else would a person posing as your mother say when you ask them if they’re truly your mother and they stand to lose considerably by telling you otherwise? Since she’s been home, hardly a kind word, no loving touch, just the commands. Elias and Lukas can’t understand it. Logically, they decide (aided by family photo albums, the wrong eye color and a missing mole on her face) that she’s somebody else.
“She’s so different” says Elias. And the boys’ thoughts as cruel blooms grow into their imaginations unrestricted. They don’t want to be lied to. Need love. Badly. At what price will it come?
Goodnight Mommy’s power lies in the build; in the growth of the film into the evil that replaces the love and trust between mother and son poisoned by an avalanche of pain. There’s trouble here and it’s often highlighted by the filmmakers’ use of stark images, like the mirror shot mentioned earlier; like the nature shots with the boys; like a dead cat in a fish tank on the living room table (how’s that for a symbol of disconnect?).
The attentive powers of the viewer are tested in these moments: make the connections, follow the signs. Notice the home, how grand, large, how expertly and artfully furnished. See too the roach as wide as your middle and index finger combined scurrying up the wall. The two sights, one of affluence, the other disgust, aligned, clash considerably. There are many others, mostly of disgust, but at the risk of spoiling . . . .
Losing touch and patience, needful of truth from the mouth they are desperately in need of trusting, Elias and Lukas go overboard: Mother wakes to her hands and feet bound to her bed. This time she knows, physically, how little meaning her words have in her boys’ doubting minds. Mother wakes to Elias and Lukas still and masked. “How do I get up?” she asks. “You don’t,” is her reply.
Amid agonizing screams, yet again the shot of beauty shines through. What’s heard is an awful discordance coming from the room with the boys and their mother, as in shrieks indicating the birth of inflicted pain; yet, what’s shown through the lens, what’s seen by viewers—bright green leaves suffused with sunlight, a green that glows under the radiance no matter what humans do/are doing/have done, and for whatever reason(s). This shot is harnessed for all the eternity of a torturous truth.
Over all the evil, the honey sun, still golden. There is growth and there is decay, and there’s the echo of Mother’s lullaby trapped in youth as green as the leaves.
When this album’s on, Sisyphus doesn’t care about the boulder; lets it roll down the hill, crash the crystal palaces, break up the Occident.
SOAK THE SADDLE is Keats’ verdant mind flooding out its nightingales with petrol. SOAK THE SADDLE is Artaud’s thunder and lightning lucidity between your ears. SOAK THE SADDLE is WAKE THE FUCK UP!
So begins the siren-like sound of the first song of this onslaught. Harsh machinations follow, framed by disturbing lyrics with BOOM BOOM, BOOM BOOM and crashed repeatedly by a breathtaking snare drum with cutthroat cymbal splashes saturated with white hot distortion. There’s food for ears with every menacing claw of sound and you wonder just where in the hell it’s coming from. Who the hell made this? you ask.
SOAK THE SADDLE pounds with the metallic thunder-pulse of the Industrial Revolution; with iron drums and heart attack guitars like nails on a freakin’ chalkboard. Eric Paul’s words come screeching out of his mouth like arrows shot for the safety of top 40 dilettantes in vogue. Listen as Paul’s matchless voice greases up the gears while the band beats rhythms with the repetitive power of an assembly line bent on churning out cuts to break any comfort in sound you’ve ever known. Just listen.
The well-trained ear might hear schlock, and the lovers won’t dance to it. But they and anybody else who hears it, as it happens from time to time with a great record, they’ll be whipped through and through, and like the good thinking beast does, come back for some more. SOAK THE SADDLE is one of those whippings—right now. Never mind the album closing in on its fifteenth year.
One night, I took off my Michael Myers mask and watched Halloween III: Season of the Witch (1982). It was the first time I had done that, though it wasn’t the first time I had watched the film.
Growing up watching and discussing horror movies, Halloween III was a title that inspired nearly the same barks from somebody you either watched it with or tried to speak about it to: “IT HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH MICHAEL MYERS: SUCKS!” screams somebody into your ear. The most common cry of disapproval being: “IT SHOULDN’T BE CALLED HALLOWEEN!”
If when the smoke clears from such exclamations that person or those people is/are still anywhere near you, then you might have an opportunity to have that less-had conversation: the one about what Halloween III actually does offer—an interesting and at times even humorous conglomeration of horror and science fiction just on the other side of what those harsh ejaculations about Michael Myers and the film’s title would have us believe.
Yes, Michael Myers is one hell of a frighteningly interesting character (wait, is he?) but, is he truly worth the rejection of something refreshingly new by way of the third installment in this infamous series? —“Hell yes!” was/is the resounding answer to that question for many horror fans. And that’s perfectly fine.
I don’t claim that it’s not tempting to wonder why the filmmakers attached Halloween III to the Halloween series (which had produced an incomparably successful 1-2 punch in the seedy world of horror cinema) or to disregard the fact that one could easily view it as a straight up punch in the mouth to fans of those earlier films; but, I do claim that those thoughts are boring. Like, “totally“boring, if you’ll permit the P. J. Soles line (you will). There’s more than just another Halloween movie here. Call it whatever you want.
Be that as it may, the fans of Halloween (1978) and Halloween II (1980) respectively (disrespectively too, of course) wanted what they wanted, i.e. MYERS; got disappointment instead. What a guessing game for the filmmakers, trying to please so many people you’ve never met while ensuring the hands of those in charge don’t hesitate signing the checks that make your vision reality—what must be done to ensure that!—how truly horrific!
“Fuck ‘em,” is how John Carpenter’s and director, Tommy Lee Wallace’s, treatment for Halloween III: Season of the Witch, came out. The script was originally written by Nigel Kneale, but eventually rewritten by Carpenter (uncredited), credited solely to Wallace.
There you have it, Halloween III—a new tale spawned from an idea that Halloween, quite simply, could be more than the boogeyman; that under this umbrella term, there was potential for something of a horror series, with each chapter, in its own unique way, creatively exploring the wicked and nefarious, quenching the same viewer-inspired thirst for evil just like the original and sequel did, yet in entirely different ways and completely irrespective of its link with the aforementioned creative and financial successes bearing the same imprint.
—Yes, what an idiotic idea indeed. The public proved it! TOTAL FLOP! Though, surely from the mind of John Carpenter—director of The Fog (1980) and Escape from New York (1981) before his involvement with Halloween III, and who had written, along with Debra Hill, Halloween II—an idea such as this must have presented itself as quite appealing to producers and behind-the-scenes heavyweights.
Whatever it took to keep Halloween alive, appeared what horror fans wanted most. How they wanted it, however, became quite clear once Halloween III appeared.
II. (Most Of) The Gangs All Here
Links abound connecting this new chapter with prior Halloween entries. But, mostly, they are to be found behind screen, and are more closely connected to Carpenter than with Halloween.
As they did with Halloween II, Universal Films distributed Halloween III. Moustapha Akkad, producer of the first two films, produced Halloween III, and, the incredible cinematographer, Dean Cundey, director of photography on Halloween II and the Carpenter-directed remake of, The Thing (1982), also provides his talent here on Halloween III.
So, from a production standpoint, Halloween III is rather close to its siblings. Halloween itself even shows up in this new installment by way of a television advertisement (one of quite a few television advertisements) in which it is referred to as the “immortal classic.” What fun is being had already! with or without the audience. Not to mention that Nancy Kyes, the actress who played “Nancy Loomis” in Halloween and Halloween II, fulfills a role in Halloween III as well, this time as the ex-wife, “Linda Challis,” of her cult horror film counterpart, Tom Atkins—“Nick Castle” from Carpenter’s, The Fog—playing “Daniel Challis.”
And what about the masterful and eerie synth score that frames this film so well? It was composed by none other than Carpenter and the incredibly inventive, Alan Howarth, who contributed some of his original sound to yes, you guessed it, a couple of Carpenter’s previous film efforts, Escape from New York and, The Thing.
Even MICHAEL MYERS is in this film, sans that white mask we all left our little mark on. That’s right, the incomparable stuntman, Dick Warlock—wait . . . DICK! WARLOCK! Yeah, that’s better—whose work can be seen in such mammoth films as Soylent Green (1973), Jaws (1975) and about a thousand others for which he either coordinated and/or performed stunts, is stunt coordinator and performer in Halloween III as well.
Ah, now that we’ve got the skinny on the production . . . .
III. Roll It
Halloween III begins in the night with a man clutching a mask on the run. This is Harry Grimbridge (Al Berry), and the scene is expertly scored by Carpenter and Howarth’s minimal, yet convincingly spookish sounding synthesizers. Rarely does a score set the tone of a film to such a degree that one feels as if the story might actually be told through the sound—this one does that; impending doom with every note; piercing sound through the frame.
The chase sequence eventually leads the audience to a hospital where the character of Dr. Challis (Tom Atkins) is introduced. Challis presents audiences with a unique character kind of perfect for the horror/sci fi genre. While an utmost professional, dutifully caring for and considerate of his patients, Dr. Challis is also a womanizer. Well, he’s comfortable in his place of work. Really, really comfortable. Naturally, this poses dilemmas for the professional side of his character and pokes at the audience’s willingness to trust in their leader’s intentions whenever a female enters the frame.
Challis is seen grabbing Nurse Agnes’ ass (Maidie Norman)—done in jest, to be sure; but, not really much of a joke when one considers his behavior throughout the film as a whole.
After spending the afternoon drinking up the dust and booze of a dark bar, we see Challis lying to his ex wife about attending a conference of doctors to get out of spending the weekend with their children, calling from some dingy payphone with a six-pack of High Life sweating on top of it while a woman much younger than he, Ellie Grimbridge (Stacey Nelkin), waits for him in her car.
Only a few scenes before, Challis was abusing his past relationship with a hospital worker, “Teddy” (Wendy Wessberg)—“I’m always ready for dinner with you,” he tells her to garner information he’s not, professionally, authorized to know or required to pursue.
But I’m being a bad writer, lying to you like this. I mean, a writer, lying to you like this. All you read in the previous paragraph . . . facts only; and, truly, taken out of context. Well, except for the ass-grabbing. Ass-grabbing is ass-grabbing is ass-grabbing (thank you, Virginia Woolf).
Though Challis’ lower half may inspire a bulk of his action, his reasoning goes deeper (smirk if you please). Challis may avoid his kids and lie to their mother, but it’s not just for the opportunity of laying Ellie. A man through and through, Challis and his curiosity are here to discover and understand as much as his desire is here to stand in the way.
Ellie’s father, Harry (in that opening chase scene, Harry is heard shouting: “They’re coming, they’re coming!” while only a few screens over in a movie house in 1982, Carol Anne announces, “They’re here”) is mysteriously murdered by a human-looking drone in the hospital in which Challis works.
Challis, out of a particular respect that comes to one who cares for their place of work and what happens in and to it, is hereby provided an escape route from his troublesome family life in exchange for the chance to aid someone else (this being Ellie) in their obvious time of need.
Off they go in search of answers, leaving behind them a trail of flames and a few kills at the mechanical hands of suave, businessman-looking robots (some social commentary here having those drones dressed like Wall Street? Hm?).
Of course, Challis doesn’t forget the High Life, either, which makes him more recognizable as a human (that is, calculating wants and needs above the ideal, forever and always) than merely a flat, one-dimensional character; gives him the polarities of good and not-so-good, but mostly good, that offer intrigue and the opportunity for audiences to have a reason to invest their reactive quips, scowls, questioning thoughts, or whatever they choose, into this film.
Challis and Ellie head to Santa Mira, the quaint, pastoral and fictional Californian town quite settled since all those unfortunate mishaps of those formidable Invasion of the Body Snatchers (1956) days. Of course, not really. This is a Halloween film, and so the audience’s wish for something frightening is indeed granted; Challis and Ellie, they are heading right for it, unquestionably curious.
Posing as “Mr. and Mrs. Smith,” the lovesome duo set up their makeshift base in a motel just outside the Silver Shamrock factory headed by one Conal Cochran (Dan O’Herlihy). Through Cochran, Carpenter and Wallace introduce the audience to their chief figure of evil.
Cochran is a slim, stately Irish man in his elder years who is also quite the dignified and renowned businessman. He is head of the immensely successful Silver Shamrock Company, known, this year, for its production of three “fun and frightening” Halloween masks: the witch, the skeleton and the pumpkin.
Cochran’s mien boasts the quiet condescension indicative of one of great success in the company of those ultimately out to thieve him, be it of goods, time, or even “trade secrets.” Cochran is a man who appreciates fine craftsmanship and a solid work ethic without the disobedience characteristic of unruly human beings.
With his inimitably warm tone of voice and improbable cool, Cochran chooses to meet the adversity of others with the attitude of an ingratiating father rather than a true competitor.
His words of warmth cover hostility like a heavy blanket as he pacifies a frightened Challis and Ellie upon discovering a woman (“Marge,” acted by Garn Stevens) with a horribly and unnaturally disfigured face being carted out of her motel room.
That’s right—a strange and alarming death at the same motel Challis and Ellie happen to be occupying. It does but increase the budding intrigue; and not incrementally, at that, as the audience, in but a few frames prior, witnessed a blue ray of death literally shoot from a micro-chip (attached to the trademark of one of those Silver Shamrock masks) straight to Marge’s mug, burning her face wide open to reveal a mess of a meltdown accompanied by a great many insects emerging from a mush of skin.
For fans of horror seen, as in specialeffects, this scene marks a highlight in Halloween III while simultaneously asserting its separation from the shadow-heavy and gore-less suspense of Carpenter’s initial chapter. Simply put: the makeup and special effects here are effectively gruesome. Looks like a plague burst from Marge’s face.
But anyways, back to Cochran, as he is indeed the focus of this tale as it unwinds. As Challis and Ellie observe this unparalleled and horrific discovery—Challis even tries to assert his doctor self to get a good look at Marge, but is coldly turned aside by a living stiff, one of Cochran’s drones—Cochran placates them both, announcing that Marge will be taken to . . . his factory (what? cries the viewer) for, the most “marvelous treatment.”
While the rational mind cries out against the thought of a woman so clearly in dire need of intensive medical treatment being carted off to a factory instead of being rushed to a hospital, Cochran’s tone, low, direct and but first warm and friendly, is indeed enough to hoodwink the simple souls trusting solely in what they hear from an authoritative voice delivered in a most unassuming manner. —It’s an old lesson to be learned again and again, isn’t it?
So this is Cochran: a man with pliable words behind a pleasing smile in the face of evil; a laudable business man, creatively responsible for such ultimately child-pleasing gags as sticky toilet paper and the soft chainsaw.
Yes, Cochran is the “all time genius of the practical joke”; a man who “has always paid attention to detail,” says Buddy Kupfer (Ralph Strait), a salesman who has sold more of Cochran’s Halloween masks than any other. Buddy, with his family in tow, is on his celebrated way to a private tour of the Silver Shamrock factory on behalf of Cochran as a personalized thank you for all his selling efforts.
Recognizing his motel partners, Challis and Ellie, Buddy convinces Cochran to let them along on the tour as well, thereby creating an avenue for exploration that Challis’ and Ellie’s combined curiosity simply cannot refuse. Cochran, sacrificing a wise discretion that would be eliminating any additional witnesses to his “special” operation, agrees to have them come along, though a heavy price be paid in the bargain for a first-hand look into the inner chambers of his modest empire.
Cochran’s factory and robotic henchmen may keep the town of Santa Mira guarded, ignorant and ultimately lifeless, but they cannot do so with regards to those most disloyal and perpetually disobedient creatures: yes, humans. Who else but a drunk, but a watchful drunk, at that, to strangle the mystery out of this picture with his truth-hungry hands? Throughout the ages, countless storytellers have found the mouths of the blind and drunk to house their dearest sentiments; and in this sense, Halloween III is no different. It’s . . . traditional.
Starker (Jonathan Terry), Santa Mira’s wayward truant drunk with liquor and lucid with truth, divulges much information in exchange for a nip off Challis’ bottle. Here enters some barbs on the big business tactics of Corporate America, as Starker relates: “He [Cochran] made Santa Mira what it is today—a dried up little pile of nothin’. Brought in every one of them damn factory workers from the outside. Think he’d hire me, a local boy? Turned me down flat!”
Previously in the film, when she and Challis first began investigating her father’s absence, Ellie quipped a similar line when, with a tone of gentle disappointment regarding her father’s struggle to keep up with big-business competitors, she remarked: “But business was bad. I suppose you shop at the new mall like everybody else, huh?” —Humorously enough, Ellie will be seen bringing to life a liquid staple of the mall environment, drinking a bottle of Coke at the motel, the label turned perfectly out towards the camera; Penzoil, too, will have its advertisement, the bright and shiny yellow gleaming while a man frantically enters a gas station on the run for his life. (Got to pay the bills. It’s no joke).
The information offered by Starker regarding Cochran and the dusty, rural town of Santa Mira is received by Challis in the dark, both literally and figuratively speaking. Come sundown, 6:00 pm, all inhabitants of Santa Mira are to be in their homes per the town curfew ordinance—brought to you by Silver Shamrock, of course, broadcasted over the town via Silver Shamrock sponsored wires. As the sun goes down, the sterilized voice of a woman (which is actually Jamie Lee Curtis, uncredited—Halloween fans, rejoice!), politely, and totally without feeling, admonishes the town: “Please confine your activities to your home. Have a very blessed evening.”
Movie cameras show the Silver Shamrock cameras on the wire where Leonard Cohen’s bird is nowhere to be found. Silver Shamrock’s commercials also fly in and out of eyes and ears, be it through the almighty television or the radio waves. Beyond Silver Shamrock produced noise, there’s hardly a peep in Santa Mira. All is quiet, all is obedient and all is damned, watched by the second and expertly scored by Carpenter and Howarth who are, compositionally, at their best. Look at ’em down there: Fire minds. Water hands.
So far, with its drone bots, abuse of power via tools of technology/thunderous media machinations, and kills complete with gruesome special effects, Halloween III has shown audiences some science fiction and horror motifs that would satisfy most any horror fan. Well, yeah, but then again, there’s that name, that dreaded, stupid name: Halloween. How could they call it Hall . . . .
But hey, what about the “witchcraft entering the computer age,” as one of the taglines suggests. Here’s a grand leap from the small, nowhere-nothing-Haddonfield-like story of a mysteriously evil boy; here we have a man, Cochran, who covers his face with nothing inhuman, yet contrives an unquestionably evil gag targeting children across the United States. “I do love a good joke, and this is the best joke ever: a joke on the children,” says Cochran with a tone bordering on gaiety (for him, at least). Then, to Challis, with a quick and grave tonal shift: “You don’t really know much about Halloween? You’ve thought no further than the strange custom of having your children wear masks and go out begging for candy.”
Cochran then heads off to the heart of his Silver Shamrock operation, the control room. The central control room is alive with artificial life bustling about, the drones occupied making preparations, checking, calculating. The room is full of machines, some broadcasting the infinitely annoying Silver Shamrock commercial (crafted to the tune of “London Bridges”); others displaying the futuristic, sci fi majesty that is a sea of screens with buttons, digitized numbers, wavelengths and graphics. Nonsensical flash for the casual viewer abounds!
Something else is in the room, too: “ancient technology”: a very special stone stolen by Cochran and his bots from Stonehenge, the Stonehenge, which provides the ancient and undying power that has somehow (is this the witchcraft element?) been harnessed in a computer chip which is embedded into each Silver Shamrock mask.
In this cold gray factory, viewers learn of Cochran’s wicked master plan: “the big giveaway,” in which children all across America wearing Silver Shamrock masks will tune in to their television sets at the same time (different time zones exist only in your world. not behind the screen of the imagination, so don’t even) and receive their final treat-disguised trick straight from Stonehenge’s awesome and deadly power. Yes, sit at home, watch TV, wait for a prize, get blown to death—the Americans are easy enough.
Cochran, not to be considered foolish, understands clearly how with just such a little push, droves of people, like leaves, can be moved with a touch as light as an autumnal breeze. To achieve his ends, Cochran goes where the people go: TV land. But he goes as a foreigner from a place where no television set sterilizes the living.
Cochran comes from a place where men, women and children watch from their “wattles of clay the hills red with the blood of animals and children” during the Festival of Samhain. With sight, with color, with sound, the American children are given their command through the window they’ve learned to trust (yes, the television); and they follow the order just as they are taught to do, buying up Cochran’s masks, anxiously awaiting the big night.
And so this piece comes to an end with a clip of not only what’s to come for the kids, but also what makes Halloween III worth the watch. All of the horror of what one man is capable of, the dark humor of the world and the cruel blooms of one society within it, the icy arrows of science fiction and cringe-worthy special effects, they’re all here. Take a look yourself at what makes Halloween III truly what it is, and happy freaking Halloween already!
I saw it laying still
Across the street;
That was yesterday;
Still there today.
A shovel in one hand,
Black trashbag in the other,
I quickly cross the street.
Scooped it up, one hand holding the shovel
And trying to hold that bag open with the other
But the breeze is too strong–
Blows the trashbag closed,
Blows the birthday thoughts
Right out of my brain.
I look down, see its empty eye socket, and think again: I live a dream And that cat is dead, For real.
The Stanford Prison Experiment (2015) is a film about what it means to be human, with a special emphasis on what it feels like to suffer and to know pain. Of course, it’s also about the Stanford prison experiment, which is portrayed so realistically, one wonders why a film was even made about it at all.
Those searching frames for facsimiles of what they learned in Psych class are likely to be pleased, finding that, within these artificial halls of realism, viewers are trained not to wonder, but to condemn their imaginations under director Kyle Alvarez’s strict, no-tolerance policy demanding them to do so. An appropriate tag-line for this film could’ve been, “Here it is. Again.”
There is no escape for the audience, save a solitary scene that takes place, presumably, at the home of Dr. Philip Zimbardo (Billy Crudup) and his girlfriend, Dr. Christina Maslach (Olivia Thirlby). All other scenes are shot within the Stanford University hall chosen for the experiment and recreated for this film, which is incredibly effective at creating and incubating the heavy, somber mood that simply does not leave The Stanford Prison Experiment. Nor the viewer, for that matter.
But I go too fast . . . What is this experiment?—A group of willing, college-age males are chosen by Dr. Zimbardo and his graduate staff, along with a former prison inmate/current advisor, Jesse, (Nelsan Ellis) to simulate the experience of prison life by enacting roles as guards and prisoners in a mock prison created at Stanford University during the summer of 1971. All are observed continuously by Zimbardo and his staff, who sit back and watch what unfolds from a safe distance. What is it that determines the students’ roles in the experiment? A mere coin toss.
“We’ve embellished very little,” said Alvarez during the introduction he provided for the Winchester Film Club. The Stanford prison experiment (the actual experiment) being not a muted, mysterious nor un-documented occurrence, the film aridly translates reports of the experiment via audio/video recreation—nothing is happening here but what is already known and previously documented. So why do it? Why choose to cloak something that just is in an art form when not a thing new or distinct is to be introduced to the public about it?—I don’t know either.
Which brings us to The Stanford Prison Experiment’s strength and, probably (this reviewer cannot fully decide) saving grace—the talented young cast.
Viewers experience all the dramatic capabilities of pain-addled and heavy human emotional trauma within the characters; specifically, within the dramatic interplay between the guards and prisoners, their role assignations and the consequences thereof. This relationship is the vehicle for all of the The Stanford Prison Experiment’s movement into a dense, mind-probing experience; one that leaves audience members feeling anchored to the floor when the credits appear.
Though it lacks in creativity, Alvarez’s follow-the-rules-and-make-what-happened-happen-again style is quite effective at inducing the feeling of confinement within the frame, which, for this story, is both fitting and feels . . . proper, dull as it is. As viewers, our sight is limited to what occurs within the artificial prison; we are fully immersed. After Day One, the mind is even ready to dispel the term, artificial, as rules are broken that not only jeopardize the experiment, but also the safety of all participants as well, ushering in a minute thrill in the form of a question: Just how far is this going to go? Or, just how far is Zimbardo going to allow this to go?
Crudup, as the experiment’s progenitor and future figurehead, Dr. Zimbardo, strikingly resembles his character, Russell Hammond, from Almost Famous (2000). Add about ten years after Stillwater’s farewell you’ve got Russell finally getting his shit together. There are even intrinsic similarities between the two characters. Like Russell, Zimbardo’s getting off on the feelings of others, searching for the “real.” Though now, as a psychologist, it’s more socially and, technically speaking, ethically, acceptable for him to do so. However, Dr. Russell Z., the professor, is also dating one of his students, which, along with the goatee he wears (less a symbol of good than evil in film), is likely to impress upon modern-day viewers the likes of an absent-minded and untrustworthy figure of authority. Ethically speaking, of course.
But before you go humming “Fever Dog,” remember, this film is about the experiment; what happened and how it affected those it happened to. The talents of Ezra Miller (Prisoner 8612) and Tye Sheridan (Prisoner 819) in particular, as prisoners experiencing true pangs induced by the erasure of their identities, confront viewers with the pain of one suffering at the unmerciful and demeaning hands of another simply because one has been designated to rule, the other to be ruled. “You have no right to fuck with my head!” screams Prisoner 8612 with a terror-stricken animal’s fury.
There are no surprises when considering the facts. Any human being aware of roles played and playing won’t find much worth the adjective, thrilling, in this film. Power conferred by authority from a distance is carried to the utmost degree of severity, which pushes the audience around much like the guards physically and emotionally push the prisoners. Humiliation ensues, via convincing roles of terror from actors, Michael Angarano, Nicholas Braun and James Frecheville, who, as prison guards, expertly show how quickly and with just such a little push, man becomes beast-like, reason or no.
Though I’ve failed to come up with a reason to justify The Stanford Prison Experiment’s translation into film, I won’t deny being moved by the film’s emotional depth; carrying that out of the theatre and into my life for the evening. There might’ve been some pretty good reasons why this project was “around town for a really long time,” as Alavarez remarked in his introduction—perhaps because the idea is but an empty cell? Nevertheless, it’s here now, and for what it lacks in originality, in creativity, The Stanford Prison Experiment surely makes up for in intensity of feeling.
Under Karyn Kusama’s direction, The Invitation (2015) is a sharp thrill; tightly knit, well suspended. Tension builds exceedingly, exuding like molasses from frame to frame. The mind exclaims (and some audience members actually did exclaim) behind the eyes following the trail of scenes—point being, engagement with this film hardly appears a choice, until it’s over and you’ve had the time to think your participation through. A most powerful and captivating movie, The Invitation.
Starring Michiel Huisman, Logan Marshall-Green and John Carroll Lynch, The Invitation, outwardly, is a story of friendship, of reunion, of bonds, of human links and the desire for those links to transcend the pain that can be one life feeling alone under the weight of the world. Inwardly, we have here a tale artfully constructed that prompts viewers to ask just how far the human mind is willing to go to fire its person to action with the goal of transcending/escaping/avoiding feelings dark, burdensome and consummately destructive.
The Invitation begins with an introduction to the films strongest character, Will (Marshall-Green). Much about Will points to suffering. As viewers watch him driving in the opening sequence, Will appears to be staring well beyond his point of sight, instead looking backwards in his mind, sinking in a somber reflection.
And why wouldn’t he be, when considering where he’s heading? Will and his girlfriend, Kira (Emayatzy Corinealdi), are driving to his ex-wife, Eden’s (Tammy Blanchard) dinner party being held at the same house they once attempted to raise a family in—a failure the severity of which, in terms of pain and suffering, seems to have brought nearly all but death to the two young adults.
Kusama, in her effective way of storytelling, directs the audience to follow Will closely; consequently, viewers become attendees at the dinner party, arriving with Will and Kira to participate in the evenings carefully arranged events. Through Will, viewers catch a glimpse of he and Eden’s previous life together, which is critical in framing this night in its true context. This is evinced in flashback scenes, horrific rifts in consciousness in which an emotionally fractured Will suffers from visions past, undoubtedly fueled by the sense-connection with objects within the arena of his great pain. In these flashbacks, viewers hardly recognize Will—hair short, clean-shaven; absolutely not a single trace of the Jesus-like visage that brands him now.
Will’s languid, stultified movement, disheveled appearance and mostly detached demeanor suggest that his pain harbored in the past holds much of his person there as well. Will appears on the fringe, already carrying too much, and the film has just begun. This is a man in the throes of something awful, which is a brilliant stroke on behalf of his character, as audiences cannot fully trust in his guidance, as Will is clearly intoxicated with grief.
Let the party begin! Enter the guests, but mostly confusion.
It’s been two years since Will or any of his friends, Tommy (Mike Doyle), Choi (Karl Yune), Gina (Michelle Krusiec), Claire (Marieh Delfino) or Miguel (Jordi Vilasuso) have seen/heard from Eden. When we arrive with Will, all appears well under the circumstances, convoluted as they are—again, a man (Will) and woman (Eden), formerly married, reunite in the home they once shared and lost a son in, surrounded by their former friends and things, joined by the woman’s new husband, David (Huisman). Yes, all appears honky dory, for what it’s worth.
Not too long, though, before Will’s vision, a sharp split between horrid past dreams and a painful, present reality, begins to discern signs presaging disaster.
There’s a couple of guests none of the friends recognize. One, introduced to the party by David as “Sadie” (Lindsay Burdge), is but a thyrsus short of donning the garb of a manic Bacchae. Sadie, in her own unique way, somewhat similar to Will, appears quite distracted. Once she professes her love for an entire group of people she just met, the picture of one who went to Burning Man and never quite came back, a black widow in the barn netting the unwary with pleasure-promises, emerges as an increasingly volatile addition to this increasingly odd get-together. Sadie is presented to all as a sort of “house pet” in David and Eden’s new home—something not one guest is comfortable with, but nevertheless reserves their true feelings in a cult of silence binding the old friends in more ways than one.
Added to the guest list is yet another stranger, Pruitt (John Carroll Lynch). Pruitt is Lynch’s bulking death sentence of a character from Zodiac (2007). Just try and tell the difference between the two. Soft as he may appear talking high on forgiveness, Pruitt proves about as merciful as a shrike, cozy as Lou Reed’s Metal Machine Music (1975).
Who are these fucking people?! Why are they here? What’s wrong with Eden? seems to emanate from the minds of the guests, expressed through the eyes showing bafflement and disclosed somewhat discreetly through all the half-drunken blathering and largely artificial cheer; yet it finds expression only through Will’s voice, synonymous with the voice of the audience. Will dares to break through the cult of silence; does it alone, with results varying considerably. “Can we (the audience) trust him?” is a question that drives The Invitation along at a slow, but powerful pace. Impossible to look away.
All of the wonderful epicurean delights (the extravagant, last supper-like banquet, outrageously expensive red wine and red velvet cake) of the evening and bright reunion cheerfulness serve as a smokescreen when considering some of the special precautions that have been taken. Safety measures, David concludes. Windows within the home are barred. David locks doors; keeps the keys on his person. Cell phones won’t work. And, added to these startling facts, the group gets a surprise screening of the “look at our cult and special happiness video.”—Wait, WHAT!?
Yes, the hardest pill to swallow for the evening is the revelation of what Eden’s really been up to the past two years. Sure, she was in Mexico. But this was no leisure trip, not a vacation. Strange has grown stranger . . . .
We have here a group of individuals, each united by a traumatic past event, broken thoroughly and yearning for a kind of forgiveness that will allow their lives renewal in meaning and the strength to fight down what nearly took them entirely.
As members of this group, David, Eden, Sadie and Pruitt say what you might expect them to about achieving happiness in a tone indicative of the mindset of one who feels, truly, that they’ve somehow evolved, somehow transcended age-old manacles of pain and anguish; and what’s more, can freely dispel the truth, with pinpoint accuracy, that points to how everyone else has not done so, yet most certainly could if they’d only receive the truth secured within the confines of the group—there is no life but group life; no love but group love. Riff raff, in short.
I’m wholly engaged watching this film unfold. As a member of this dinner party, I feel Will’s frustration when finally, pressed yet again by the indomitable will behind the groups “special” members, Will lashes out at David, excitedly stating: “You don’t know me. You can’t.” attempting to ward off the condescending “Come on, dear brother, why so suspicious of us?” talk flopping out of David’s mouth. I hear Bukowski reading from “The Genius Of The Crowd”: “and those who preach peace do not have peace / those who preach love do not have love / . . . beware the knowers.”
Promises both idealistic and empty as balloons, disguised as truth, fall their frail forms into nothingness, wilting words from oh-so-seriously loving mouths promising escape from what generations of men and women have lived and died in. “Pain is optional,” says a sure-mouthed Eden, her eyes sinking behind the glaze of a chemically induced intoxication. “Come and play with us, Danny. Forever… and ever… and ever.”
A shield comes over Will as he fights with his weapon of sense through other voices claiming they’re off “to a better world, to peace,” in this enrapturing film exploring a modern-day representation of an increasingly interesting human experience.
Bolstering The Invitation’s action is the film’s skeletal score, a haunting, prickly set of sparsely spread out notes effective in their ability to incite one’s awareness of malaise like a fast hand of nimble fingertips racing up the spine.
100 minutes and not a second wasted, this is The Invitation. Sacrifice this much of your life for a thriller you won’t soon be forgetting.
I saw Fright Night (1985) as an adolescent. The rental copy chosen was well preserved in the coffin that has become the VHS tape. Seeing this movie again, I’m reminded how Fright Night, with reference to genre, makes for a delightful mash-up. Of what? you ask. Okay, fine. Comedy, mostly. Of horror, too, of course. Of vampire horror, in particular. Anything else? Yes, of course. But really, let’s not overdo it. This isn’t a “think piece,” Mr. Fong-Torres.
At the end of the trailer, a man tells you: “If you love being scared, this might be the night of your life.” Brilliant. A coin toss. Fright deferred from the responsibility of the filmmakers to that of chance entirely. Sounds something like, “Horror fans, if you don’t like it, we didn’t make any promises.” At least Hollands is courageous.
Fright Night opens up to a sleepy suburban town bathed in the blue light of an exceptionally bright moon. As fits suburbia, it is but the sound of a television only that stirs the heavy stillness of the supernal night. The camera creeping to an open window parallels the eerily effective killer-behind-the-camera view mastered in such landmarks as Halloween (1978) and Friday the 13th (1980). And let us not forget just how close in years those films are to Fright Night. Yes, Holland’s showing us something familiar, isn’t he?
“Where’s this trail leading us?” asks not a few viewers, especially after the bloodthirsty invocation wrapped in the words, “Come, sit here beside me on the veranda,” come seductively delivered from an unseen mouth; presumably, one we’re about to encounter, fang-first. What suspense!
And . . .
Shit. Our presumptions—what happened?! Not what we anticipated. It’s . . . funny?! There’s no vampire; there’s no blood. It’s just a movie playing within a movie. A movie as background noise, used by characters Charley Brewster (William Ragsdale) and Amy Peterson (Amanda Bearse) in Charley’s bedroom to snuff out the music of their teenage love under the old, lecherous moon. There you have it: Funny, and, realistic.
From the get-go, we’ve gleaned a message from Mr. Holland: No, what you’re about to see isn’t everything else in horror released in the past ten years or so. Forget it. We can have some fun.
Gazing into reels with eyes wide and wild with the sights, viewers see unfolding before them the tale of a vampire moved-in next door to the boy next door dating the girl next door in a nondescript nowhere-nothing town.
If you grew up during this time (late 80’s, early 90’s), in such a small town, then nostalgia is likely to bite down harder than the maw of some indefatigable beast of a deathless burden while watching this film. Like those charismatic creatures of the night, nostalgia can leave one hell of a wicked mark, feelings festering for years on end.
Disgust-worthy special effects, as well as elementary lines of dialogue delivered poorly, yet humorously—“So far, everything has been like it was in the movies. We just have to keep hoping.” —push the film along with a force of past awareness of horror successes and the comedic courage to do away with them in lieu of creating something slightly different.
The otherworldly, exotic element characteristically portrayed through the vampire role, is acted by the West Virginian born Chris Sarandon, whose character name, “Jerry Dandrige,” fits the country roads star not at all. Which, consequently, bolsters Sarandon’s man-of-the-world demeanor when, as a centuries-old vampire, Dandrige is damningly placed alongside Tom, Dick and Harry in a faceless village of reality-whipped yokels.
Oh sweet, bloody wine of Christ! It’s hard enough to be a teen, let alone one facing Mark Ruffalo’s father of a vampire next door! But it’s not like Charlie’s entirely alone in his plight.
Charlie’s got a wonderfully understanding mother; flighty, to be sure, yet caringly attentive. One whose own cavernous vacancies of love instill in her a quiet desire for her son to find his own happiness, instead of burying his love-hope within her own loneliness, as she so intimates with the words, “Thank you for helping Charlie with his homework” to Amy.
And Amy, what an innocent sweetheart. Sure, she’s into herself, mostly—teenager—but she also loves deeply, as when in reference to the outright insane notion of a real-life vampire living next door, Charlie reluctantly asks: “Amy, you don’t believe me, do you?” to which Amy replies: “I love you, Charlie.” She loves him enough to sacrifice her own believe of what constitutes truth; and that’s saying something substantial about her character.
Charlie’s also got a Mustang. Sure, those splotchy white circles that look like blown up white blood cells mar the cherry red paint considerably but, IT’S A MUSTANG. Within the context of this film and youth culture, surely that’s got to be some kind of big deal. Right?
Despite all that, things are just plain hard. Nobody believes Charlie about this vampire foolishness. And who do you turn to when nobody believes you?—Somebody you can trust is crazier than you are. Charlie implores Evil (Stephen Geoffreys) and legendary horror actor turned television host, Peter Vincent (Roddy McDowell), to open their black fountains of arcane knowledge and save his silly life.
If you haven’t seen Fright Night, undoubtedly you’re missing out on many laughs and, summarily, just a plain, old-fashioned creepy good time in the 80’s, adventuring alongside Charlie and his pals as they war through the fiery agony of a bullying beast unable to rest; one irascible, fanged lothario as vindictive as hell. What could be more entertaining than watching youth make the attempt to drive a stake through centuries of evil?
“We are so trivial by nature that only amusements can keep us from dying for real.”
—Louis-Ferdinand Celine
Forty years ago, Steven Spielberg’s JAWS (1975) launched the “summer blockbuster.” Hungry eyes packed theatres en masse to watch people just like them gobbled up on-screen by a white shark that just wouldn’t quit. Consequently, the summer theatre experience had evolved.
Since that summer of ’75, little has evolved in the realm of the summer blockbuster. Many even argue it has devolved a considerable degree; that it’s merely a corporate arena offering cheap thrills for two hours worth of schlock and utter nonsense; that what little feeling might be captured otherwise is intentionally nullified by an overdose of technologically induced fireworks designed to wow audiences out of their wallets again and again.
(Not so) oddly enough, many arguing said points are also standing in line at the box office, tweeting invective and sucking each others lemon heads while waiting for tickets. Which is only to say that, as awful as summer blockbuster’s can be, we, that is, the audience, we’re still holding out for something; still intrigued and curious enough to push out the front door and return to the movies. #masochists
Yes, our modern-day visual effects are sickle sharp, sure; we can show like never before. But what of the gifted storytellers? Those able to visually construct a tale that so deeply stirs a group of strangers, they feel imbued with that ebullient magic only the theatre can call its own?
Surely Hollywood’s not the kind of town to offer what isn’t desired, agreed? So are we just a bad audience, plain and simple; a bad audience getting a bad movie; getting exactly what we asked for? —I don’t know, but I get ideas, and think accepting responsibility isn’t such a bad one. But I’m growing older. #dusk
Nevertheless, with Universal, Marvel and other cash cows of the imagination disseminating their turgid creations across screens nationwide, summer after summer, audiences at least have a larger number of summer blockbusters to choose from . . . . #icantevendreamupasummerblockbusterdefenseletaloneargueoneeffectively
Looks like we’ve seen too much . . . . The thrill is blasé. Need a bigger dose. Or so it seems, here in the darkness where Jurassic World (2015) director, Colin Trevorrow, has given modern-day audiences exactly what they’ve been asking for. #ohshit
As I reclined on plush as soft as an out of reach cloud, I wondered: How in the hell could this happen? After Jurassic Park (1993) and subsequent chapters, The Lost World: Jurassic Park (1997) and Jurassic Park III (2001), how could anyone craft yet another semi (yes, I’m stretching it) plausible tale for these once extinct creatures to coexist with human beings?—I know. Foolish, right? An answer-less voice of slop house sense, it speaks: “It’s just business, baby.” Then it asked me if I wanted a Coke. Shame on me, I did.
Here I am, caffeinated, butter-fingered, down the cost of a family meal, and I’m already mentally pissing in the wind, wondering about this big picture.
Jurassic World opens with a brief and awkward goodbye sequence where brothers, Zach (Nick Robinson) and Gray (Ty Simpkins), depart hastily to the “great” and “awesome” and “epic” journey awaiting them. That’s right, off the children go, parents’ blessing and all, to an island inhabited by dinosaurs. Let the tension begin.
Though it may not be exactly the same deathtrap of a park from those uber-experimental 90’s, surely from watching the trailer above it’s quite obvious that this world has all the violent promise of reality and restoration of natural balance one might expect to see when considering what man has done within the context of this story, i. e. make dinosaurs.
This may be JurassicWorld; however, Jurassic Park is but a bone’s throw away. One sees John Hammond’s (Richard Attenborough) portentous words, “I don’t blame people for their mistakes, but I do ask that they pay for them,” carried on the wings of Pteranodons, anticipating the inevitably burdensome price to be paid for humans who look to dinosaurs somewhat as we, here on Earth, look to cats and dogs.
There’s a crass brand of banality impressed upon a number of these dinos, especially the docile plant eaters; they’re effectively portrayed as safe and boring “park-pets” during interaction sequences in the first half of the film. Quite the uncanny relationship they have with mankind, particularly with children.
Children ride herbivores like a jackass at the petting zoo while I chomp popcorn and sip sugar fizz. I even snicker before my mind examines its thought under a reasonable light. —Something naturally sickening and way off kilter, here. Again, the tension, it’s building, and that’s one feat Jurassic World undoubtedly achieves with staggering consistency.
I’m still itchy within the frame, though. Still just can’t accept it. How!? How again!? Flashbacks, on-screen memories of horror—I see it all now in rapid succession: terrified kids trapped in a kitchen with Veloci(Utah)raptors; Sam Jackson’s chain-smoking over endless park malfunctions (Jurassic Park); the love that drove Dr. Ian Malcolm (Jeff Goldblum) back to the island/his worst nightmare and . . . A FUCKING T-REX STOMPING FREELY THROUGH SAN DIEGO! (The Lost World: Jurassic Park). These on-screen memories slam my mind like the rock-hungry breakers that buffet the island coast. —Losing my bearings, asking: How again?
Back to the movie . . . . The plane arrives, the boys are on the move, and what a world it is! Posh hotels, chain restaurants, upscale shopping, the hubbub of men, women and children—that is, families—all here, a veritable microcosm of life on this picturesque, sylvan landscape with its great mountainous peaks, dense brush, green slopes and verdure as far as the cycloptic camera eye will allow us to see. Sure it’s been tied down with corporate chains, pockmarked by the finite touch of billionaires and fools, but that only serves to help modernity see it most clearly. Dinosaurs screened on a mirror reflecting the sweaty desire of piggish thoughts for parrot minds. #harsh
Not just a couple of kids, some scientists and a lawyer on the island this time, no, but John Hammond’s dream, the public! Yes, the public, the people in droves, they’re all in and Jurassic World is booming as an exotic, thrill-seeking paradise, the T-Rex of family vacations, if you’ll permit such nonsense.
Zach and Gray settle in, meet up with their superficially warm and friendly, Aunt Claire (Bryce Dallas Howard) who, for most of the film, strikes hardest as a career-minded automaton controlling a sliver of woman to which she’s inextricably attached. Claire is more a business ideal than a human being, a monster not wholly unlike those engendered by geneticists on the island, differing only in that this one was not created in the lab.
Claire’s piercing words delineate little beyond dollars and cents when it comes to her primary concern, the “assets” (her term for the dinosaurs), except when she’s disappointingly removing herself from the emotional ties of family, faltering with frail words that show an embarrassingly infantile jab at truly meaningful communication—but that’s messy, and, also far too resembles an actually relatable story, so we’d simply better not. It’s summer and we’re moving on!
Yes, dinosaurs are big business. And as the boys prepare for their now aunt-less adventure, Claire readies her mind by writing off familial duty as an unnecessary expense. Corporate sponsors are coming, and they’ve an appetite as big as an anything one might encounter from the Jurassic era—“Men are the thing to be afraid of, always, men and nothing else” (also Celine).
The appetites of the corporate guests have been whetted by the promise of a scary new big one, the Idominus Rex (it found you at the top of the page). Idominus Rex, an amalgam engineered entirely to wow and horrify park attendants (from a safe distance, of course) is comprised of several different creatures, a veritable hodgepodge of dinosaur, amphibian, fish and who knows what the hell else. Point is, it’s a monster, engineered with the sole purpose of stupefying youngsters who are bored by Tyrannosaurs, Raptors and other stale scales. #nomercy
My stupid brain just won’t quit: Is Trevorrow expertly mocking the modern taste for excess? Is he doing this intentionally? Is Jurassic World artfully effective because it’s literally showing what the desire to see such audaciousness could actually look like, all the while stuffing the audience’s face with it, their quiet participation screaming satisfaction in spades?
I don’t know, but there are some genuinely horrifying moments within the frames bordering Ido & other incredibly irked carnivores; to that degree, something has been achieved / shown for all its worth.
But here in Jurassic World, we’ve little time for deliberation. Simply fatten up on this visual feast or go home. What’s more, with so little action occurring thus far, the thrill seekers are getting antsy. Time to satiate the old appetite. And here we have a true stroke of brilliance.
Comes hanging tensely on a cable suspended hundreds of feet in the air is, Spielberg’s white shark by its little tail. It’s about to be fed in front of / to a new generation with an even bigger appetite demanding an even BIGGER form to match. Even further, not nature, but man, made this monster. Puke or chomp, the time is come.
The symbolic Great White, previously a symbol of terror to audiences, is now but a fish of bait, and it’s dangling over an aquatic tank the size of Washington, D. C. before something almost as big as anthropomorphism lunges from the depths after its meal. The audience, both within and behind screen, gets a gargantuan dose of monstrous, violent glory bridging the gap all the way from ‘75 to ‘15 in but a few definitive frames. —An homage? —Who cares! That scene is over and there’s no time to think it through. The Idominus Rex is on the loose!
—And that, is your story, without extraneous analysis, of course: a cat and mouse chase after an extremely volatile, abominable laboratory creation, on the lam.
Idominus Rex is an adept hunter, and no foolish creature according to what is said and shown of it on-screen. Equipped with the gift of camouflage and the intelligence to employ its ability with cunning ease, Idominus Rex fools the creatures of reason with very little energy expended. Ido escapes its carefully designed cage like ordering the medium soda for its security of a free refill: so fast, and with so very little thought. #bladderbomb
Joining the hunt to salvage the investment, the asset, the spectacular, Idominus Rex, is Owen (Chris Pratt), a rugged outdoors-man type with a set of morals as hard as his bicep, and an ooh-rah, can-do country attitude to boot. Owen’s conscientious remarks regarding common sense, which might be paraphrased as such: “Don’t build dinos. That’s stupid and wrong. But I need the money,” are expressed coolly with curt phrases and expertly crafted squints. Audiences will root for him, because he means well, and he’s portrayed as . . . cool.
A man of action, Owen accepts his station, whatever that may be, and acts accordingly. Consequently, this character trait proves to be the saving grace of a not a few park employees. Hell, dinosaurs even trust him. Well, as far as any human being can discern, at least. Within a group of highly intelligent and communicative raptors, Owen plays a key role in leadership as their alpha. Contemplate that between your sips of fizz. Better yet, go and get your refill. Live it up. It’s summer.As exaggerated and foolhardy as Owen may seem (especially in the “James Dean & Sons” and “Cool It, Boys” shots above), he is the strongest character tie to the genuinely edifying elements of human nature within Jurassic World.
Not once does Owen wholly accept his relationship with raptors as hierarchical, even when his obvious gift of human-dinosaur connection is (speciously) validated by the macho Hoskins (Vincent D’Onofrio) for the sinister purpose of seducing Owen and his raptor gang into some dinosaur-soldier sub-plot nonsense. Which shows Owen’s not easily tempted, nor stirred by the dubious intentions of his fellow-man, even if he’s working for him.
Yes, a man of character in this outlandish world of brutality and egregious disrespect for the natural order of life and surrounding environs. Holy unholy shit. Who knew?
As in life, situations of a tragic quality bond those physically and emotionally invested in them. So it is here in Jurassic World. Not until the looming threat of disaster that has been amassing in the minds of the audience finds its expression in the characters, do we see the less than formidable aspects of humanity begin to show itself tenfold. Courage, honor, altruism, baited by disaster, here they come.
Claire returns to life with a fascinating rebirth; accepts and wholeheartedly encompasses new roles as Aunt, warrior and lover, with an emotionally charged verve. The robot, once bearing her name, is now convincingly defunct.
Zach and Gray glean a stronger bond along their quest as well, terrorized as they are just on the other side of video-game indifference and the safety of a casually sarcastic removal from life as it truly is: wild, unpredictable.
Just over two hours later, with a full stomach of popped kernels and a bottomless bubble-flood of fizz, and here you are, arrived finally at the summer blockbuster’s end. A trifle bloated, happy to stand, yet wary of moving too quickly, you might wonder why you chose this experience. That’s only natural. #givethanks
All the same, for sights, for action, for some genuine moments of out-and-out terror, Jurassic World proves to be a rather fitting occasion to simply relax with a fat ass blockbuster and cut loose some hungry thoughts, if only for a couple of hours.
If ever an album came to be marked by a season, that album was/is Pure X’s Angel (2014); the season? SUMMER. Slow and steady as July sunshine, Angel melts away course and frigid elements of indie rock with its sultry, slippery, sun-filled dive into soft, melodic tunes akin to seventies soft-rock, yet bolstered by the sparkling production indicative of technological modernity. It’s a bit of a clash of times; but mostly, Angel is heavy on mood, on feeling.
There’s an occasional edge lurking in the background of the sound (“Livin’ the Dream”; “Make You Want Me”; “Rain”), though it’s either super-soft or bombs out quickly, waved over by sweet sounding vocal melodies with enough reverb to count one plucked note as two.
Released by Fat Possum Records, Angel is Pure X’s third full-length release. A beauty with soothing vibes, Angel is a transport to reverie; a feast of aurally inspired visions of harmony in a lush environment of tranquil sound. Soft as Aphrodite and stellar as the moonlight illuminating her bed—whatever visions you have while listening to this, when they fade and break, this intoxicating record remains a physical vehicle to places of sheer loveliness. How’s that for comfort and stability?
Cool down that thinking brain struggling for meaningful expression and chill out in the shady coulee of “Valley of Tears,” where feeling provides all the truth required for the trip. “The whole world is an illusion,” sings Someone; and, “When my heart is alive, girl, it is so alive / And there is nothing, there is nothing, that can keep me down.” The words fly in over a soft beat and an in-and-out, lean-in melodic guitar, quietly slipping under a chord crunch until the bright notes branch out like ivy, wrapping these confessional lines: “There is one thing I can do / Open my heart to you”; and little melodic blooms open up gently, as they do all throughout Angel’s sound.
“Fly Away With Me Woman,” another love-cut escape dream, with its spread eagle guitar chords and multitude of piquant background sound, takes to great heights the “truth-in-feeling” good-time vibe that marks much of the lyrical material on Angel, escalating listeners to the plateau that is “Heaven,” described as “a feeling / One I can believe in.” What beauty in guitar just over the minute mark, as “Heaven” rolls onward, time draining it out of the sky of your ears. [Generation-X, your parents are dancing].
Angel’s highest point of melodic beauty comes with the slow climb to the peak that is “Every Tomorrow.” What hands of impassioned delicacy! The instrumental togetherness on this track is so utterly POWERFUL with its simplistic percussion, soft-cut strings and desirous guitar lines as the singer’s conscientious words, “hangs on a string,” (in reference to days and lifetimes) finds welcome repetition deep within the ears, cored in the feeling brain. A quite Beatle-esque sentiment follows: “Every tomorrow ain’t worth a thing / If you don’t have love to keep you going”; and the power of melody, sparked to life, carries this one off.
Grounding the album somewhat is a lack of variety as Angel rolls on into its second half. Not hard to tell that Pure X is quite comfortable with their sound. Guitar tones, vocal melodies and pace seem to suffer from a lack of freshness in tracks like “Angel” and “Make You Want Me,” when compared with previously heard compositions on the record.
That’s no major flaw, though, as the monotony likens itself to a summer rainstorm. While it’s pretty, it’s also pretty monotonous, yet it’s a lull that’s truly, simply, hard to resist. And, sitting by a window, passing the time, this soft, soothing repetition comes welcome. It’s a sign of contentment, wanting for nothing; it’s also the sound of Angel, which sounds pretty damn good on this quiet July evening.
Ten years have come and melted away since the splash and drip of this album. Hearing it today?—not a dry spot the whole way through.
Just to view the cover puts a mind at ease. In tone, The World & Everything In It (2005) elicits a beachy Western SoCal vibe, even if it was made in Baltimore, MD—where The Oranges Band was born (in 2000) and still plays…occasionally.
With a strong, cool edge begins “Believe”—an excellent introduction to the band’s playing style (which is to say jaunty and loose, yet somehow crisp and precise all the same); not to mention Roman Kuebler’s exceptionally smooth voice; a voice that, if it could be seen, would look like the cover at sunset.
The album builds momentum quickly and one hears the group locked in, yet fluid in its playing. It all sounds so natural and nascent, even if it was spawned from a practiced discipline within a studio instead of under the white sun spreading hot honey sunshine on some beautiful beach.
That you’re listening to a recording instead of hosting the group in your room might be in need of conviction, the album sounding so full, so free and alive, rollicking through speakers with energetic tracks like “The Mountain,” “I’ll Never Be Alone,” and the surging “Ride the Nuclear Wave.”
No pink hands pushing audio dross here. On The World & Everything In It, The Oranges Band simply lay it out. And they do it loud! Sounds similar to how Link Wray & his Ray Men once did (note the ode to Wray’s classic, “Rumble,” in the intro to “The Mountain”): Like. It. Or. Not. Here. It. Is. —The World & Everything In It has that kind of nonchalant force about it. The song is craft, but played with a force channeling energy on high; amps up; arms loose; hands precise.
The sunny splash of Dan Black’s fuzzy guitar matched with the precision of drummer Dave Voyales’ knowing hands on “Ride the Wild Wave,” is stunning. Like the gifted Scott Asheton (of Iggy And The Stooges), one can hear in Voyales’ playing the ability to envelop the song rather than simply beat it to death.
“I figured we would ride the wild wave all around the world,” sings Kuebler with a voice reflecting on when being seventeen in the summertime meant tasting the brief and balmy freedom that is “all of the time in the world to be alone, all alone.” Following “Ride the Wild Wave” is “Open Air,” another lyrically reflective piece on peachy youth made all the more memorable for the listener by The Oranges Band’s ability to create and play meaningfully a strong and simple song about experience and growth—and that’s all over this one.
Since The World & Everything In It, The Oranges Band have released one album, the humorously (portentously?) titled, Are Invisible (2009), and have played but a handful of shows.
Perhaps the ten-year anniversary of this work coupled with enough social media nagging will inspire yet another creative venture. If not, and what’s left is truly all that’s left, it’s no bummer. The World & Everything In It is more than enough.
For the entire album on Grooveshark, CLICK HERE, or, have a go at “Believe” below.
It’s October 30th at the Alamo Drafthouse. My brother and I sitting there, talking: “I like foreign films because they make you pay attention.” Next thing I know, a few rows below us I see a man wearing the pumpkin mask from Halloween III. It was a comforting sight. [Read a piece on Halloween III].
As they did with Halloween II, Universal Films distributed Halloween III. Moustapha Akkad, producer of the first two films, produced Halloween III, and, the incredible cinematographer, Dean Cundey, director of photography on Halloween II and the Carpenter-directed remake of, The Thing (1982), also provides his talent here on Halloween III.
Halloween III begins in the night with a man clutching a mask on the run. This is Harry Grimbridge (Al Berry), and the scene is expertly scored by Carpenter and Howarth’s minimal, yet convincingly spookish sounding synthesizers. Rarely does a score set the tone of a film to such a degree that one feels as if the story might actually be told through the sound—this one does that; impending doom with every note; piercing sound through the frame.
West Publishing 
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