It all started with
Children of the Corn at work last night.
With my weekend off from Work, I will spend every waking moment, when not prepping or waiting for an interview, frying my brain with a marathon of horrors. Like the good old days when I was a carefree, disturbed middle schooler. Why write these reviews? I like to procrastinate, maybe I'm avoiding inevitable work (like dyeing my hair again, God, I hate doing that). I think, more likely, with my brain always going in a million different directions, none of which bypassing this blog, I'd like to leave some traces of these thoughts on here. Most likely of all, I suppose, is to let you know a little more about me as an interviewer/writer.
In my "SlasHERS" interviews, I'd like to remain unbiased. But with all of my interviewees having been so obliging in sharing their own likes, dislikes, opinions and fears, I recognize that they're entrusting me with a lot. Without knowing much about me and my own leanings, in return. Granted, part of why I'm conducting all these interviews is because of my indecision; hell, at this point, I can hardly make up my mind on all the particulars that I'm researching. Hopefully over time, with snippets of film reviews and self-imposed questionnaires, more incoming interviews, and research, the answers will start to present themselves.
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Midnight Movie was... a delightful surprise. I laughed. I cried. I... didn't cry, but I certainly laughed. And jumped. And verbed all over the place! It was just as a horror movie experience should be. A bit on the light side, but still plenty scary. Easing off my giddy high, Midnight followed your typical cast of the maternal, level-headed (if not a little damaged) lead girl, her devoted-down-to-a-T boyfriend, her slutty friend, said friend's asshole boyfriend, and in the tradition of Scream, that guy who no one quite likes, but still knows and loves more about horror than you, the viewer. Mix in equal parts biker boy and babe, lead girl's expendable coworkers at a failing movie theater, her little brother, and a killer who doesn't know to just stay in the movie. Watching Midnight, I got the sense that when news came out a few years back that a film would incorporate slasher icons Freddy and Jason, Midnight writers Mark Garbett and Jack Messitt misinterpreted the plot; then when Freddy vs. Jason failed to please, they said in unison, "Well fuck that," and wrote about a killer with the rubber reality advantage of Freddy (skipping between our Reality and, in this case, the movie screen in front of us) with the unstoppable killer complex of Jason. Though please don't mistaken my comparison as a literal read of this killer: he was his own man. Though I can't recall any particular scenes that traumatized me with fear, that wasn't the point of Midnight Movie. If anything, it was a reminder that slashers can be fun. And with the majority of generic, slick productions we're force-fed nowadays, isn't that a pleasant and surprising reminder?
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Now, this was not my first time seeing Deathproof, though it was my apprehensive boyfriend's--and golly, was it pleasant seeing his crush on Zoe Bell festering before my eyes, just as mine had. To the Grindhouse Double-Feature's credit, I did see both movies. I'll also admit that the premise of Planet Terror was a little more my speed; I can count on just one hand how many zombie movies I didn't dig, and those were extreme cases. Zombies, for the most part, are a-ok in my book. This said, I had a much easier time enjoying Deathproof than Planet Terror. In Grindhouse tradition, any lady with the guts to star in the camp-fest is essentially signing her body up for display; in Planet, Rose McGowan's entire body was at the director's disposal, with an endless strip-tease lasting the length of the credits, and so on. And if anyone in that movie was going to dance, I'd rather see McGowan on stage than Bruce Willis. Or worse yet, Quentin. From this point forth, we follow our characters as they battle through a zombified apocalypse; hell, this movie even made Fergie shine. But it was Deathproof, with Quentin's signature love of feet and ramble-y speeches from our dozens of protagonists, that seemed much more comfortable with happy, strong female leads. Replacing a stripper's amputated leg with a machine gun: that's pretty nifty. But Zoe Bell, on the hood of her dream car, kicking Stuntman Mike's machine of death, cursing in that adorable accent of hers, and then all three final girls having their way with the psychopathic stuntman... that's downright epic. And where McGowan always seemed a little too cynical and one-dimensional to have the time of her life (with a fucking GUN as her LEG!), I think what I saw was true bliss, when Bell popped out of the grass after being tossed from the hood of a speeding car and chirping, "I'm okay!" Because casting Bell was perhaps the most genius aspect of the movie. Beating beautiful women to a pulp is exactly what Grindhouse movies do. In that aspect, both movies passed with flying colors. But what makes a good Grindhouse movie tolerable is when the girls are victorious, and through all the grit, we can still see them grinning. Because being a badass is fun.
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To balance out the grrrl fuckin power that happy little flick emanated, next stop was the French "torture porn" response to Hostel and Saw: Frontier(s). If someone had asked if I wanted to subject myself to a non-stop gross-out ride where the French vernacular consisted of little more than "twat," "whore," "slut," or "bitch"... I may have rethought this decision. To the movie's credit, it made me so uncomfortable I thought I would die. From the moment the credits roll to the time they role once more, I was nauseous. The social climate was taut with violence and misery no matter where pregnant Yasmine ended up. Once the movie came to a close, it was only then that I could breathe--and only then that I actually began to enjoy myself. Whilst watching our, by no other name, Final Girl duke it out with various members to the cultish family she was being brutalized by, I couldn't help wondering whether or not she WANTED to die. I know I did. I do understand the concept of these movies: they want you to feel uncomfortable, even dirty while watching them. Now if you're wondering whether this is my idea of fun... no, not quite. I can watch them sure, and part of me feels this impulse to do so. The train-wreck that is Saw will never cease to attract my morbid curiosity; I may not shell out the $12 to see it the moment it hits theaters, but with my job at a video store, I don't mind picking up a copy... for free. Hostel, as well, intrigued me. A copy of the movie sat on my desk for days before I could muster the nerve to watch. To avoid a showdown of that sort, I enlisted the aid of my boyfriend to help view Frontier(s). He fell asleep part way through, so he may not have been the best choice; the point is, however, I did get through it, and having someone in the room with me made the viewing experience wholly different. I could complain to relieve the building anxiety in my chest and throat without feeling crazy! The special effects were perfect. The camera work could have been improved on in scenes of tension; because honestly, there was enough sick stuff in the film to counteract any moments of "slowness." In an early scene, my boyfriend remarked that the cameraman must've been instructed to follow every bullet in the shoot-out. And the dizzying effect this produced was not a favorable one; at times, with detailed, drawn out sequences where Achilles tendons were being snipped out, or Yasmine was being bludgeoned in the head (even though she DID have a weapon with her!) in the midst of 1,000-shot-per-second chase sequences, the movie seemed a little confused with where it wanted us to be. The movie never, believe it or not, seemed far-fetched. There were true psychotics in the film, but the crazies didn't just live out in hostels/compounds in the middle of nowhere--they were in the rioting cities as well. In hospitals. In the streets. Wherever our lead characters turned, there was insanity. Even they, themselves, were no innocents. And by the end of the film, any trace of innocence I had was conveniently stripped away.
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Malevolence, Malevolence, Malevolence. Oh, how I underestimated thee. There really was so much going on in the story, and in retrospect, I'm seeing even more! Little plot twists pop up all over the place in this modern throwback to classic slashers (my boyfriend got a little high from the soundtrack alone). And really, this is one smart movie. As one character gets what was coming to him/her (I shall not give anything away!) the camerawork gives homage to the shower scene in Psycho, while giving a nod to similar all-stab, no-skin cutaway shots from early slashers. While a video box with no synopsis may deter many viewers, many a horror fan will get a kick out of this fun little film. My boyfriend holds tight to his theory that this was a realistic flick. Me, I just loved seeing a little girl kick ass with a softball bat. Really, how often do we get to see that?
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For such a dark film, Inside was really all about light. The Christmas lights, the red and blue police lights, the strobe-like camera flash, or the lack of light altogether--the silhouette of that creepy lady. If Hostel, Saw, or Frontier(s) had any willpower, they might be able to be Inside. The gore is comparable to those better known horrors, but Inside definitely holds out more with tension. And you've gotta love that. (Well, my boyfriend doesn't, but I certainly do.) I'm losing the ability to wax poetic on horrors at this point. It's been hours, and my brain sorta aches. I know I'm not supposed to have any nerve endings up there, but fuck that. My brain hurts!
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Looking back over my adventures from the past day, I've come to the conclusion: do NOT fuck with women: whether they are pregnant, they were once pregnant, they'd rather show off their scars than their newest shade of lipstick, or they suck at softball. In the end it's all the same: they're gonna kick your ass, and look good doing it!
