Tag Archives: Cult Film

Saturday Matinee: Obex

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By Zachary Lee

Source: RogerEbert.com

Projects that primarily center on characters’ isolation and the respite they experience from hiding themselves behind a screen land differently in the post-lockdown era. Director Albert Birney’s “OBEX,” though set in 1987 (denoted as such by TV adverts for “Nightmare on Elm Street”), feels seeped with such proximate anxieties. It is sympathetic to the ways we’ll migrate to digital worlds to escape the hell of embodied living, but it sweetly and gently reminds us about the beautiful inconvenience of community. Even though we can pick our flavor of digital numbing, Birney brings his DIY mentality and a host of collaborators who are in sync with his sensibilities to craft a project that shakes us out of the tempting lull and urges us to live life as an NPC. 

The first section of “Obex” focuses on the daily rhythms of its protagonist, Conor Marsh (Birney), who lives in his Maryland house with his dog, Sandy (played by Dorothy, who gives fellow horror hound Indy from “Good Boy” a run for his money). His only communication with the outside world is with his neighbor and proto-DoorDash driver, Mary (Callie Hernandez), who kindly delivers him food but is never invited into his home. We spend much of the film watching Conor and Sandy go about their lives in an unremarkable fashion; Birney plays Conor with relatable contentment. He has his dog and three TVs … what’s there not to like? 

Mileage may vary about whether or not you enjoy getting what amounts to an extended house tour, but Birney and his crew have put in the work to make Conor’s house the type of oasis that would warrant such sedentary. The production value is rendered in such hypnotic detail that I found it a joy to simply be lost in the lo-fi, analog space. It is befitting of the theme, in that Conor has created his home to be a place of such alluring safety and comfort that it becomes nauseating to consider leaving (or any form of disruption).

Pete Ohs (who most recently directed quirky nightmares of his own with last year’s “The True Beauty of Being Bitten by a Tick” and “Erupcja”) serves as the cinematographer and co-writer, and the film thrives on his and Birney’s surreal wavelength. Even though Conor is comfortable, the film’s visual language is anything but. We often see Sandy and Conor framed from an object in Conor’s room; as we peek at their lives from the perspective of a toaster or keyboard, these grainy shots, dreamy in their ambling compositions, feel as though they’re probing for dysfunction. It feels like we’re seeing Conor’s and Sandy’s lives from the perspective of a benevolent spirit, watching and curious about how someone seemingly well-adjusted can be so lonely. It feels less like a movie we stumbled upon and shouldn’t be seeing, and more like a project that’s eerily being filmed, where we’re trying (and failing) to locate the cinematographer.

The sound design is worth saluting, as Kevin Hill, the re-recording mixer, and Matthew Giordano, the post-production sound designer, work to create a hypnotic soundscape that chillingly unites disparate elements. Josh Dibb’s score, with its spectral and techno-piercing wavelengths, is unsettling in and of itself, and it’s particularly fascinating to see them work in the context of the rest of the film’s audio. The buzzing of cicadas outside Conor’s home is a common audio fixture, but it gets remixed with the hissing of the tea kettle in Conor’s kitchen, the hum of TV static, and the downpour of a running faucet, so that these sounds become indistinguishable from one another. Try as he might, Conor’s digital life is bleeding into his physical one.

That theme comes more into the fray after the film’s inciting crisis. Conor later sees an ad for the mysterious, state-of-the-art computer game, OBEX, which allows you to scan yourself into the game, where you have to fight the demon king, Ixaroth. Conor plays the game but quickly gets bored, and later finds that Sandy has been abducted by Ixaroth. He then reenters the game to liberate Sandy from her digital captor, all the while being forced to grapple with the uncomfortable truths about his family history and how that trauma informed his tendency to self-isolate. 

The world of OBEX, while free of keyboards and printers, is just as painstakingly realized as Conor’s physical world. There, he meets Mary in real life (Hernandez, riparian in her ability to oscillate between earnest and farcical, is a delight even in her small scenes) and encounters a traveling companion with a TV for a head (Frank Mosely). There’s a humor in seeing a scruffy, ’80s equivalent of a tech bro bring his white button-up and Spirit Halloween-coded sword to battle against humanoid cicada soldiers (Ixaroth’s lackeys) and Birney mines all the earned laughs from this mash-up between high fantasy and reality. 

In many ways, “OBEX” works best when it embraces its roots as a fairy tale of sorts, even as it feels rooted in its contemporary tenderness about the human condition. This framework helps recontextualize earlier dialogue scenes in which characters can state the film’s central provocation out loud (“Someday we’ll all live in computers because life outside is too sad,” Conor says at one point), because characters in fairy tales often speak so overtly. 

To some extent, it’s impossible to fully unplug from the ways technology and virtual worlds are enmeshed with our lives. Everything from the algorithms designed to keep us hooked on certain platforms to the addictive nature of blue light makes it far easier to ignore the world around us. Pointedly, Birney never lambasts Conor or others for whom this retreat is a reflex. But his film, like all the best art, is an invocation: not merely reflecting a despondent reality and world we know, but reminding us that there’s more to life than just the screen.

Watch Obex on Kanopy here: https://www.kanopy.com/en/kcls/video/16210459

Saturday Matinee: Late Night with the Devil

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By Eddie Pasa

Source: DC Filmdon

I love horror movies. (My wife can tell you that they’re often my favorite thing to throw on when I go to sleep, often to her chagrin.) They can be fun and entertaining, and they offer you the thrill of being scared without being in danger, if that’s your thing. But it always goes the same way: You leave the theater considering the acting, the makeup effects, and how the filmmakers tried to make you jump out of your seat or make your brain go sideways. But it all wears off usually around about the time you get home, and – in my case as a reviewer – you try to hold onto the memories you want to talk about, whether positive or negative.

Not here. Hoo, boy, no. This one stays with you.

It’s been over fourteen hours since I finished watching Late Night with the Devil, and I’m still shivering at the memory of it. Not for a long time have I been completely freaked out and scared by a movie – maybe not since Fede Alvarez’s truly visceral Evil Dead remake in 2013. That was a movie that had scares, gore, and atmosphere, all set in and around a backwoods cabin – plenty of room to move about and create any kind of atmosphere you want. Alvarez did just that, using different colors, smash zooms and whip pans, and other mood-setting techniques where his limits were only his and his crew’s imaginations.

Conversely, Late Night with the Devil confines itself to a TV studio, with TV cameras and two behind-the-scenes film cameras capturing everything as it happens. There’s lighting, sure, but the usable areas are limited to the soundstage and the direct backstage area. The behind-the-scenes cameras are running black and white 35mm film, leaving the 1970s TV cameras to capture everything else in the then-limited color space. And why are we here? To watch late-night host Jack Delroy (David Dastmalchian) attempt to stave off cancellation with a desperate broadcast stunt.

We’re propelled back to the days of gas shortages, the Nixon resignation, Jimmy Carter, and the rise of news reporting that followed the “If it bleeds, it leads” adage coined by William Randolph Hearst. Also central to writers/directors Cameron and Colin Cairnes’ found footage frightfest is the ‘70s obsession with cults and the occult, both of which play into why Delroy has chosen Halloween to tackle all of it. His guests for this night, where the veil between the living and the dead is at its thinnest? A self-professed psychic; a former magician, now devoted to debunking so-called paranormal activity; and finally, a parapsychologist and her young patient, the sole survivor of a demon-worshipping cult mass suicide.

The Cairnes brothers take care not to overplay anything, leaving us hanging on the possibility that maybe we’re just seeing things owing to blips on the master tape or mere suggestions of the unnatural. We see Christou (Fayssal Bazzi) work his supposedly psychic powers to middling effect with the studio audience, which casts doubt on the screaming fit he has that causes his eyes to forcibly roll upwards and beyond a physically possible position. Even more doubt is thrown our way when Carmichael (Ian Bliss) shows us how all of Christou’s act is a bunch of hooey.

But there’s no mistaking the increasing amounts of dread piling up with each commercial break, as Delroy gets more news – both about his show and the condition of one of his hastily departing guests – that makes him push the envelope further than he should. And when he brings out Dr. June Ross-Mitchell (Laura Gordon) and cult survivor Lilly (Ingrid Torelli), the latter of whom stares intensely at the cameras instead of talking with everyone on stage normally, the Cairnes brothers masterfully build and build to a shocking climax that will horrify even the most jaded of scary movie enthusiasts.

The notion of the audience being toyed with is savored, especially where Carmichael is concerned. We almost rely on his condescending attitude to help us believe that none of this is really happening, that Delroy is doing anything and everything he can to maintain his viewership through sordid chicanery. The Cairnes brothers give us outs, but we’re unwilling to take them, having been conditioned through the media to stay tuned for bigger and better “after these words from our sponsors.” All of this is borne by the committed cast led by David Dastmalchian, who usually takes roles that skew toward the strange and unusual.

Here, Dastmalchian tones it down completely, not even venturing to make Jack Delroy the comedian he’s supposed to be. Instead, he’s the baseline for this night of terrors; while everyone around him is some sort of archetype, he’s calm, trying to stay in control of himself while others either encourage him to go further or warn him against doing so. Aside from last year’s Oppenheimer, this is the most knowingly natural I’ve ever seen him; the Cairnes brothers wisely use our expectations against us with his casting, and Dastmalchian solidly holds down his end to keep the film grounded.

Opposite him, Ingrid Torelli stands out as the frighteningly placid Lilly, who seems to have happily accepted that a demon might be residing in her body. Lilly freaks us out by just looking at the camera; she doesn’t have to say a word, leaving Torelli the room to create an ominous presence through her eyes and posture. Again, our expectations are flouted by having Lilly portrayed as this smiling teenager who seems to relish being on camera and who doesn’t mind that “Mr. Wriggles” can come and go when he wants. Torelli alternately keeps us glued to the scene and repulses us just by her mannerisms, switching deftly between her character’s intent and what’s behind her piercing, eerie visage.

I once wrote an opinion that “horror films” are different from “scary movies,” figuring that the latter was kind of everyday, Friday the 13th-type film that teens attend to have a good time and the former was where characters cannot escape horrible fates. Late Night with the Devil is a perfect combination of the two, holding enough in the scare department while watching our characters tunnel further away from the light toward their agonizing destination. Even though we wish for reason to settle the matters and that people could make the right decisions, the Cairnes brothers purposefully travel down the other path. In this film, hubris gives way to damnation, and for every second of it, we’re clinging to hope that some possible good could come of these events. Here’s the thing, though: Cameron and Colin Cairnes don’t care one solitary whit about that hope, leading us through a waking nightmare the likes of which I’ve seldom seen.

Watch Late Night with the Devil on Kanopy here: https://www.kanopy.com/en/kcls/video/15032949

Saturday Matinee: Snowy Bing Bongs Across the North Star Combat Zone

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By Nico Chapin 

Source: The Knockturnal

“Snowy Bing Bongs Across the North Star Combat Zone” is the kind of film words cannot possibly describe.

Not because it’s bad, or because there’s nothing to say, but doing so feels inadequate. It’s a film that is simultaneously overflowing with ingenuity and talent that is constantly teetering dangerously close to the maligned qualities of what we might call twee, and yet that is only half of it.

But, you should also know, none of this is a surprise. Or at least it shouldn’t be. After all, Snowy Bing Bongs was produced by duo the Daniels, whose 2016 film Swiss Army Man suffered under a similar weight. As it turns out, most people have the same reaction when faced with a film where a (possibly) deranged Paul Dano befriends the flatulent corpse of Daniel Radcliffe and proceeds to stalk Mary Elizabeth Winstead. That reaction is somewhere between visceral disgust, complete bewilderment, and utter joy, both that a film would so willingly forego what we might call “narrative coherence” and that it would so lovingly embrace the entire scope of what movies can do.

Here, directors Alex Huston Fischer and Rachel Walter, along with collaborators Cocoon Central Dance Team (Tallie Medel, Sunita Mani, and Eleanore Pienta), similarly drop the audience into a bizarre and wondrous world. Like Swiss Army Man, which opens with the Dano’s character on track to hang himself, the first scenes of Snowy Bing Bongs are marked by their sheer confidence. The three women, dressed in rugs, like some sort of Paleolithic sheep, face off against a squad of beach balls, dancing slowly. Suddenly they’re sunbathing, before farting in unison.

Fischer and Walter leap from style to style with reckless abandon, and yet the film never spirals out of control. The interludes return us to the attack of the Beach Balls and the three women’s carefully bizarre dance. In between, we see Mani attend an audition in which she spends the whole time trying to pronounce her own name. (The casting director? Keith Poulson, marking his second acting credit this summer.) Pienta is pulled into a potential romance with an old man who informs her she’s the kindest person in the world, so kind in fact that she has two hearts. Medel delivers a backstage monologue that puts anything Iñárritu did in Birdman to shame.

There’s also a stop motion sequence, a montage through an asteroid belt, and a fourth wall breaking denouement in which the lights come up and the Bing Bongs hold a Q&A with an audience, and even Spice Girls-esque dance musical performance.

Yet even if this rapid description of the films plot doesn’t make narrative or logical sense, they make an aesthetic, emotional sense onscreen. Each of the women’s vignettes feels ripped from a real experience. Like Swiss Army Man, which used its over the top style to dig into the complex emotional realities of how we deal with our inner selves and with the rest of the world, here we have a constellation of stories all of which expose Medel, Mani, and Pienta (literally and figuratively) to the audience, three actresses and improv vets whose experiences are given voice in the most absurd way possible. Snowy Bing Bongs says it’s ok to fart, and to stage interpretive dance battles against beach balls. But it also touches on the embarrassment of messing up your own name, or having a weird interaction with a neighbor, or struggling to understand why you want to be an actor. It takes the smallest moments in day to day life and blows them up into immersive tableaus, warts and all. 

So yes, Snowy Bing Bongs is “weird,” or “immature,” in quotation marks, like stumbling on a stranger’s sketchbook brought to life. Yes, many people will probably not like it, and its cuteness and kitchen sink style make easy targets for criticism. And yet.

Snowy Bing Bongs is also upsettingly funny and weirdly stirring. At the very least, it’s a bravado experiment in how two directors, with total control over tone, can set genres against each other and revel in the inevitable sparks. The result is the rare film with an unabashedly, uncynical wonder for the possibilities of cinema, something that needs to be seen to be believed.

Watch Snowy Bing Bongs Across the North Star Combat Zone on Kanopy here: https://www.kanopy.com/en/kcls/video/16712261

Saturday Matinee: The World’s End

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By Matt Zoller Seitz

Source: RogerEbert.com

You might not expect a slapstick comedy about middle-aged pubcrawlers brawling with superhuman extraterrestrial invaders to have brains, heart and wisdom, but that’s “The World’s End,” a rare film that’s as much fun as you’ve heard.

Directed by Edgar Wright from a script by him and his regular leading man, Simon Pegg, the film is refreshingly intimate, despite the chasing and stalking and beheading and exploding and gallons of blue goop spraying all over everything. The special effects are special, but they always serve the story and characters. And even when Wright is paying homage to his filmmaking heroes (John Carpenter especially) or staging some of the most cleverly choreographed fights this side of an early ’90s Jackie Chan film, you never get the sense that it’s bored with itself when the characters are sitting around talking about their shared history over a pint. In fact, they often talk about their shared histories while they’re whaling on the invaders—and then they have a pint. Sometimes they have a pint during the fight. It’s that kind of movie.

Pegg’s character, Gary King, wants people to call him The King and considers himself a prince among men, but he’s the sort of guy you’d tire of quickly. His friends had enough of him long ago. They tell themselves they’ve grown up; Gary thinks they’ve sold out and become tediously conventional. To the film’s credit, neither of these points-of-view are presented as entirely wrong.

Oliver (Martin Freeman) is a fussy killjoy of a real estate agent with a Bluetooth receiver jammed in his ear at all times. Steven (Paddy Considine), an architect who was once Gary’s rival for the affections of Oliver’s sister Sam (Rosamund Pike), is recently divorced and sleeping with a young fitness instructor; he brags about that last bit to everyone who’ll listen, which is how you know he’s miserable about the rest of his life. Peter (Eddie Marsan) who was horribly bullied as a child, was always the tagalong nerd of the old group; now he sells cars for his dad. Andrew (Nick Frost) is a lawyer who refuses to speak to—or of—Gary. Gary says it’s because he still owes Andrew six hundred pounds from long ago, but we deduce that the real reason for the split is much deeper. It is. In fact it’s a doozy.

The first part of the movie consists of Gary “getting the old band back together,” as he puts it, to re-enact their great thwarted pub odyssey from 1990, when they resolved to hit all twelve nightspots in their old hometown of Newton Haven. The quiet little town is home to bars with mythologically and otherwise suggestively loaded names: The Two-Headed Dog, The Famous Cock, The Trusty Servant, The World’s End. That the pals didn’t finish their quest has always gnawed at Gary. He’s obsessed with pinning a triumphant end on a long-unfinished story.

Running beneath the lively banter and knockabout slapstick is a sense of melancholy, at times despair, over lost youth and missed opportunities. Gary is an alcoholic and drug user and chronic screwup, the sort of guy who lures other lads into joining adventures that tend to end in humiliation or disaster. He’s first seen in a rehab facility, but judging from his appearance and behavior he hasn’t been there long. Pegg looks like he just crawled out of bed—a bed at the bottom of a mine shaft, most likely—and even his most jocular pronouncements have an undertone of manic desperation. “Why should getting older affect something as important as friendship?” he demands, a question thick with unexamined assumptions. 

If “The World’s End” were only a picture about childhood buddies on a bittersweet pub crawl, it might have still been some sort of minor classic, so sharply observed is every shot, cut, music cue, line and close-up. When the film takes a right turn into science fiction conspiracy thriller territory—invoking “Invasion of the Body Snatchers” as well as such Carpenter films as “The Fog” and “Prince of Darkness“—you might worry that it’s about to succumb to Gary’s biggest fear, and trade spiky if heedless individuality for a tiresome grab at commercial formula. (This is the third Wright film in which a dull community proves a hotbed of slowly-creeping and highly secretive horror.) No worries: the sci-fi elements—which were hinted at in trailers, but which I’ll write around in this review and maybe revisit later in a spoiler-warning-bedecked blog post—are audaciously funny and inventively designed, and they’re always tied to the film’s concerns. Nothing, no matter how extravagant or surreal, is superfluous.

Fears of assimilation and domestication and the loss of youthful fire are never far from the movie’s mind; neither is the altogether wise and reasonable sense that, while we should strive to be better, kinder, more mature people, we still are who we are, and if we cannot tolerate one another’s frailties and treat each other decently, there’s no hope for the species. The film has great fun painting modern life itself as a prolonged and largely invisible conspiracy to rob people and their world of all personality. Every old pub the boys revisit has been Starbucked, as they put it, and later we get the sense that the very same digitally connected world that lets you read this review on a tiny handheld computer-phone is a means of social control as well. Odd as it might sound, the unexpectedly laid back climax echoes “A Clockwork Orange.” It conveys a sense that, while a totally safe and placid and perfect world might be attainable, it’s not desirable, and might in fact be a greater sin than any act that any individual might commit. 

Wright is a brilliant director of turbocharged exposition, elegant but bruising action sequences, and graphically bold comedic overkill. As in “Shaun of the Dead,” “Hot Fuzz” and “Scott Pilgrim vs. The World,” even functional closeups of beer being poured or ignition keys being turned are shot as if they were events on par with the Big Bang or the release of a new Kanye West album. Wright is a pop artist who’s not inclined to relax; at times his movies play as if he’d decided to turn the first five minutes of “Trainspotting” into a career. There are times when I wished the “The World’s End” had the confidence to linger more on the characters’ conversations and nonverbal interactions. The group’s chemistry evokes the best sad-sack male bonding tales of Barry Levinson (“Diner,” “Tin Men“), and the performances are all superb, particularly Frost, who steals the film with an explosive physicality that’s John Goodmanesque.

But in an era in which mainstream movies not only lack rhythm but seem to have forgotten how to dance, this one’s briskness is inspiring. Its judgment is nearly unerring, and it has a sense of joy that’s rare. Like most genre films, “The World’s End” is working things through in an extremely broad way and having a grand time doing it, and its self-deprecating wit inoculates it against self-importance. The movie wears its themes on its sleeve and pins its symbols to its puffed-out rooster’s chest, swaggers about with a proud grin jabbing thumbs at itself, then walks into an open manhole. It’s magnificent.

Saturday Matinee: Yes

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By Matt Zoller Seitz

Source: RogerEbert.com

Nadav Lapid’s “Yes!” is about married entertainers performing for the rich and powerful in Tel Aviv while a genocide unfolds 40 miles away and feeling bad about it, but not bad enough to quit doing it. The film has been described elsewhere as a satire, but despite its trips into cuckoo comedy and some devices so cheerfully self-aware that they’d fit into a Looney Tunes or Three Stooges short, the movie is too earnest to wear the satire label comfortably. Like most of the director’s work—including “Ahed’s Knee”—it has many expressionistic and dreamlike elements, and weaves a loose, fairly simple story around wild situations that are mainly about questioning Israel’s self-image, prodding it, sometimes tearing at it. 

The main characters are a pianist-comedian known as Y (Ariel Bronz) and his dancer-choreographer wife, Yasmine (Efrat Dor). They share a small Tel Aviv apartment with their infant son, Noah, and eke out a living mainly by performing for powerful Israelis and foreigners at parties where drugs, skin, and indifference to suffering are all on display.

Then a Russian oligarch identified in the credits only as Big Billionaire (Aleksei Serebryakov) connects with Y and offers him a huge sum to write the new anthem, a jingoistic bit of self-affirmation praising the Israeli Defense Force and validating the mistreatment of Palestinians in Gaza as a necessary for self-defense. The anthem that Y ends up writing is actually a pre-existing song, 2023’s “The Song of the Victory Generation,” a jingoistic exhortation to mass murder that rewrites the lyrics to Haim Gouri and Sasha Argov’s “Hareut,” a poem set to music honoring soldiers who were killed during Israel’s founding.

Both Y and his wife are thirty-somethings who live like college students who probably won’t graduate. They stay out all night after gigs, and join in decadent scenarios (Yasmine even snorts coke lines off two pairs of buttocks), then return home wasted. They both know such a lifestyle is neither sustainable nor conducive to good parenting. They’d love to give it up for a quieter existence, one where they aren’t constantly anxious about money. So Y says yes to the anthem assignment, then impulsively dyes his hair blonde. Radically changing one’s appearance, of course, is a way for fictional and real people alike to announce to the world that they’ve changed, or give themselves permission to change at some future date.

The first half of the movie makes Y and Yasmine seem so tightly bonded and politically aligned that they could be autonomous halves of the same organism. Y’s commission introduces real tension into the relationship, shattering their connection. “Do you know what this song will do for us?” Y pleads. “Noah will grow up in a palace!” Yasmine used to smile sweetly at her husband. Now her resting face is a go-to-hell look.

The film mostly avoids charges of being a self-satisfied but empty spectacle by regularly returning to a big question: can you consider yourself a moral person while participating in immoral acts? The question has been dealt with in countless works of art. A notable difference here, particularly in the context of films about Israeli identity post-Oct. 7, is that the filmmaker doesn’t have any sympathy for complicity, no matter what the context. That point-of-view is consistent and unyielding. It’s expressed not just in the couple’s arguments but in omniscient narration that chimes in occasionally with a sardonic quip or a cutting observation, such as noting the irony that a nation founded by survivors of a genocide would perpetrate one. The scene between Y and Big Billionaire is the serpent approaching Eve in the Garden of Eden. Y sells his soul, then tries to justify the choice as necessary for the family’s survival (i.e., their comfort).

It’s not surprising to learn that this director studied philosophy at university. Lapid’s movies often choose a straightforward, didactic approach that would soon become tedious if the filmmaking weren’t kinetic and adventurous. At a time when too many filmmakers are buckling under survival pressures and adopting the Netflix technique of constantly reminding people of what’s happening in the plot, so that viewers half-watching while scrolling their phones don’t get lost, it’s refreshing to see a movie that asks viewers to concentrate and listen, formulate opinions on every choice, and accept that not everything in the movie will be to their liking.

There are also moments in where you can’t be sure what’s real and what is, for lack of a better phrase, a visual figure of speech—hyperbole or metaphor expressed through a sight gag. After a discussion of whether the public cares about specific ethical issues, two characters look directly into the camera, their playfully reproachful faces saying, “Well, you don’t! When a character describes a new skyscraper that’s to be built on seized land, we see the building erupt from the ground and rise hundreds of feet into the air.

The immersive score (by Sleeping Giants and Omer Klein) and the lively editing (by Nili Feller) would give “Yes!” a powerful musicality even if it weren’t packed with musical interludes of various sorts—so many that it’s constantly on the edge of turning into a full-on sung-through musical. It opens with a long dance sequence at a gathering of the filthy rich, with Y and Yasmine performing a semi-improvised act that takes them from a stage down into the audience and then into a swimming pool, and involves clowning with the guests, swallowing and expelling tiny plastic balls, faking a death, even fellating a dildo for laughs. It’s as if party clowns specializing in children’s birthday parties had been hired for a bacchanal.

Things grow more visually euphonious from there. The couple’s theme song is the Elvis Presley version of “Love Me Tender,” like Sailor and Lulu in David Lynch’s “Wild At Heart,” but in place of Sailor’s snakeskin jacket (just like Marlon Brando’s in “The Fugitive Kind”), Y has snakeskin boots (a reference to a reference to a reference); the song is performed as a duet, then solo. The opening ends with a glimpse of a painting by Berlin-born George Grosz, who, per Encyclopedia Britannica, “…savagely [attacked] militarism, war profiteering, the gulf between rich and poor, social decadence, and Nazism.” Grosz’s warped, grotesque portraits connect “Yes!” to Bob Fosse’s “Cabaret,” a film full of human faces made Grosz-like (or just gross) by masks, fish-eye lenses, and funhouse-mirror reflections: a story of militarized bigotry trampling creatives, progressives, and the dispossessed—and, of course, a musical.

A pivotal sequence finds Y reconnecting with a childhood friend and onetime lover named Leah (Naama Preis), whose pre-Oct. 7 job translating texts for businesspeople was derailed into a gig translating for the IDF. She’s become radicalized in the opposite direction from Y and Yasmine. Y absorbs Leah’s reactionary sentiments by spending time with her and mirroring her self-pitying, nationalistic talking points. As he and Leah drive through occupied territory remembering days gone by, Leah recounts her experience of the Hamas attacks against Israelis, racing through a list of witnessed atrocities—shootings, rapes, dismemberments, necrophilia—until she runs out of breath and breaks down in rage and despair: a spoken-word aria from hell. It’s the capper on Preis’s tour-de-force performance. And it sets up another haunting musical moment, one that links love and loyalty to patriarchy and nationalism: a montage of the duo driving past signifiers of dictatorship (fences topped with razor wire; monolithic border walls; a flatbed truck carrying a tank) while the car radio plays “Stand by Your Man.” This is all presaged with a long, brilliantly staged piano duet by Y and Leah in which their intuitive recall of how to play a beloved song (their “Love Me Tender,” perhaps) foretells Y reconnecting with the obedient boy he used to be.

“Yes” runs 150 minutes and doesn’t always fill the running time with material that feels urgently necessary. It’s rambling, disconnected, even navel-gazing at times. But it’s always exciting to watch—sometimes to a fault, with Shaï Goldman’s camera whipping from side to side and careening through rooms and hallways to accentuate the characters’ emotions or put us in their anxious, guilt-ridden minds. There’s a branch of 21st international art cinema that works within an oddly specific mode: kinetic, visceral, with the look and sound of a top-of-the-line Hollywood production, and a confrontational attitude leavened by bleak humor. “Yes!” exemplifies it. It’s worth seeing and arguing about. Even if you end up hating it, there are moments you’ll never forget.

Watch Yes on Kanopy here: https://www.kanopy.com/en/kcls/video/16330270

Saturday Matinee: Head

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By Jake Walters

Source: The Long Take

At the beginning of Head, Monkees’ drummer Micky Dolenz runs away from a legion of fans and dives off a bridge into a body of water. If this is too-obviously following in the footsteps of its prankish predecessor, A Hard Day’s Night, where the Beatles suffered a similar crowd-sourced fate, it also blows it to smithereens. Rather than canonizing the ‘60s, Head offers a comeuppance, jumps into the deep end of the next decade, dissolving into an aqueous, collective, diffuse space called the early ‘70s.

 Soon enough, the band performs the phenomenal, acid-stained rocker “Circle Sky,” a mission statement of the band’s newly serious attitude toward their music that ultimately unweaves itself in the very act of coming into being. If the song promises progress, a band achieving new heights of self-worth and self-ownership, the lyrics offer a vision of eternal return that culminates in fans rushing the stage only for the band to be crumble as mannequins, material constructs of composite parts, all image and no flesh. Rather than personal authenticity, the film explodes into gleeful mediation, a promise that ostensible freedom only masks new modes of control, that genuine originality is only one more mask. Head marked the band announcing their recovery of their own catalogue as an exercise in self-becoming, and in doing so they paradoxically destroy themselves. We’re off to the race in the opening minutes, in other words, but we’re also lost in an abyss. In the band’s go-for-broke stylistic tour-de-force, they go beyond playful monkeying around and instead monkey wrench the nuts and bolts of the machine that made them.

Writer-Director Bob Rafelson had concocted, quite literally, the band’s image, explicitly turning the “fab” in their PreFab Four image from Fabulous into Fabrication. Slotting the band members into artificial roles and shuttling them through various mostly unexplained situations, The Monkees television show was the epitome of pop post-modernism, a roguishly disobedient experiment in televisual liquidity that was also a vexing and mettlesome portrait of four lost souls struggling to maintain stable selves amidst a polymorphous and unmooring world. While the show largely took this playful casting aside of reality in stride, testing and teasing at systems of popular imagery from the relative inside, Head is a more cynical, explosive affair, a downright nasty exercise in self-deconstruction. The band look and sound tired here, being pushed and prodded in and around sets, sequences, and sketches, forced into new roles and identities all while being asked to maintain their artificially constructed image. In almost every sequence, they’re running to or from something, or being walled in by forces that seem increasingly opaque and invisible as the film continues, as though it alone simply cannot visualize what ails it, cannot conjure the totality of overlapping enigmas constraining it.  

Thus the film imagines pyrrhic victories like Dolenz futilely punching a Coca-Cola machine in a desert, an amusing parody of the Wild West saturated with corporate malfeasance. When Dolenz finds a tank, presumably arrived from one of the other sequences, a faux war film turned into a bunker football game, the film understands his demented-grin glee as a sign of his exhaustion. (It’s less surprising than it may seem that Dolenz was originally considered for the Joker in Tim Burton’s 1989 film, a role that went to Rafelson’s friend Jack Nicholson). Later, the film reveals that at least part of the film takes place in the hair of past-his-prime Western actor Victor Mature. If the band are Sea Monkeys, those mischievous little devils, they’re also head lice, itching and scratching, propagating profusely, dancing on the brain of classic Hollywood Western cinema.

In doing so, Head turns to televisual flow as termite art, eating away at cinema’s hollowed form. They at least have the good grace to take Mature along for the ride, recognizing that his name is so apt for an antagonist for the band’s acid-scrawled juvenilia that you’d forgive the band for thinking they’d conjured his whole career up whole cloth just to appear here. Head’s finale, where the band escape and escape again, dissolving themselves in a literal age of Aquarius only to find themselves in another more pernicious prison in the back of Mature’s truck, is as vicious as anything Godard or Antonioni created, perhaps because it establishes its critique of what Guy Debord called “the spectacle” from within Hollywood’s own entrails. Imagining a cinematic diarrhea, Head constantly and incessantly spews the band back into the desert, the biome that, in films, books, critical theories, and head-trips alike, so frequently serves as the unformed and deconstructive space of the mind. Here, the film joins Monte Hellman’s The Shooting in questioning whether this formlessness was simply an Ouroboros, an imaginative ego trip for minds to spew their own thoughts out and have them talk back to us. The further we spread horizontally outward, the more we end up right where we started.

Admittedly, Head’s head-scratching ambition, which involves chasing a kind of cosmic self-abnegation on the part of both the band and the film, requires an energy that doesn’t come easy for the film, nor its characters. The film’s paradoxical atmosphere of curdled zest thrives on never really progressing anywhere, and the film seems all too self-aware in naming a key, Ringo Starr-ish song “Do I Have to do this All Over Again.” Head’s endlessly frictive relationship between freedom and enclosure figures television as a prison-like black box and an implosive void that reorients and revises itself constantly, shifting tonal and textural registers. Or does it? Part of the film’s argument is its own triviality, and, daringly, the band figures the remarkable heterogeneity of its sequences and sketches as little more than a smooth paste. That’s a damned, damaged thing for any film to do. Head shoves it down our throat, cackling, and the ‘60s seem to die in the process.

Score: 10/10

Saturday Matinee: Eega

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EEGA Is The Best, Most Insane, Most Inventive Film Of The Year. Catch This Fly While You Can!

By J. Hurtado

Source: ScreenAnarchy

There is a reason that S.S. Rajamouli is considered the most innovative director in the Telugu film industry, and Eega is the perfect illustration of why he deserves to wear that crown. The film is completely insane, endlessly enjoyable, and absolutely unique. Eega is the best film about a man reincarnated as a housefly avenging his own murder that you will ever see. It isn’t easy to find, but I highly recommend looking through the list of theaters linked below for a screening near you, you’ll come out of the auditorium a changed person.

Nani, played by an actor of the same name, is a free spirit, a young man whose only goal in life is to woo the beautiful Bindhu (Samantha). Bindhu works at a non-profit organization, and as such she makes the occasional cold call looking for donations to keep her wheels moving. One day she is unfortunate enough to call on Sudeep, played by Kannada film star Kiccha Sudeep, a wealthy land developer with a skeezy look about him and a weakness for pretty young things. When Sudeep learns that Bindhu has a crush on Nani, he kills his only rival for Bindhu’s hand and attempts to make his move, but Sudeep didn’t count on the transcendent power of love. Reincarnated as a common housefly, Nani proceeds to make Sudeep’s life a living hell. With a bit of persistence and some help from his former human flame, Bindhu, a plot hatches and the pair plan their vengeance in some of the most amazing sequences I’ve ever seen.

First thing’s first, I think it is only fair to note that I saw Eega in its original Telugu language with no subtitles. While I was able to pick out a word hear and there (anyone who watches enough south Indian films learns to say “I will kill you” in a number of languages and dialects pretty quickly), the script and dialogue were completely lost on me. That being said, at no point during the film did I feel lost, the plot and story are completely understandable even without subtitles, and while literal understanding of the dialogue may have helped, I would have no problem walking right back into another unsubtitled screening of Eega and watching it all over again.

Now. Eega. Where to start. First of all, the very concept of the film is completely insane. How does one turn a non-verbal housefly into (a) a compelling protagonist, and (b) a believable threat to a human antagonist. Rajamouli’s scripting and marvelously inventive story handles both of those concerns with aplomb. In spite of the lunacy of the concept, at no point did I feel that the characters were acting in ways that didn’t fit the story or the universe that was created for them. The fly is not endowed with any superpowers, he doesn’t talk or crack jokes, he doesn’t really do anything that a fly, in sentient, couldn’t do. And I bought it; hook, line, and sinker.

There are so many ways that this film could have failed. One big worry of mine was the fact that the idea of an avenging housefly makes the filmmakers necessarily reliant on massive quantities of CG, something with which even the biggest Indian productions still have problems. However, to my delight, the CG was never distracting, not even for a moment. I suppose if I’d been bored I could have taken the time to dissect the flaws in the technical aspects, but those moments just didn’t exist in this film. It never stops moving, it’s incredibly well-paced, and at right around two and a half hours, that’s quite a feat in and of itself.

One standout performance in the film comes from Telugu film newcomer, Kiccha Sudeep as the villainous Sudeep. The requirements of the role have Sudeep acting largely opposite an imaginary fly. The fly goes into his ears, up his nose, into his eye, and gets literally and figuratively into his head very early on. His ability to convey this character’s decaying mental state in the midst of all of the chaos around his is remarkable. He is manic, he is sincerely threatening, but most of all, he’s legitimately hilarious. Sudeep has these crazy bug eyes that scream madness and say more with a glance than many actors can with three pages of monologue. In a performance that goes long stretches with no dialogue at all, Sudeep steals the show, and was my favorite human character in Eega.

However, I cannot leave this review without talking about the craziest thing of all, that goddamned fly. I suppose that everyone has had the experience of being pestered by a fly or a gnat at some point in their lives, but not like this. Nani’s perseverance is remarkable, and the continual invention on the part of Rajamouli to make him a sincere threat to Sudeep is remarkable. Only S.S. Rajamouli could show a fly causing a human to roll his car in a most spectacular fashion to end the first half of the film, and then follow it up by making that seem like mere distraction for the really good stuff.  There’s a training montage with the fly lifting weights and running on a makeshift treadmill for Christ’s sake! And it doesn’t feel out of place AT ALL.

Every time I thought I had a handle on Eega, it threw me for a loop in the best possible way. Eega is easily the most flat-out entertaining film I’ve seen this year, bar none, and I didn’t understand more than half a dozen words of dialogue in the whole thing. It’s that good. It’s often said that the best filmmakers know how to show, not tell their stories, and if that’s the criterion for master filmmakers, S.S. Rajamouli is someone you need to know about. Incredible action sequences, inventive storytelling, technical excellence, and laughs and gasps that just keep coming; Eega has it all.

I happen to know for a fact that there are forty seven screens in the USA showing Eega this weekend, and only about ten of them will have subtitles. If you are near one of those ten, I will punch you in the throat if you miss this film. If you aren’t near a theater with subs, don’t be a fucking pussy, you don’t need them to enjoy this remarkable piece of work. Eega is a winner, plain and simple.

Saturday Matinee: Sylvio

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By Bill Arceneaux

Source: Film Threat

Perhaps doomed to go unnoticed on first viewing, there are lovely and thoughtful moments strung throughout Sylvio, made up of slow gazes and floating / falling particles. Dust in the sun light, bubbles in a fish tank and snow on a street corner provide temporary reprieve from reality and unexpected bursts of clarity for lead gorilla Sylvio (played by himself) and new friend Al (co-director Kentucker Audley). These short bits of time are first used to express the doldrums of unfulfilled life – via a water cooler and kitschy toys first – but as the scenarios shift, so go these bits, matching emotion for emotion. Most impressive and done with little to no dialogue at all, we gather what we need to know and ought to feel about a stone faced gorilla and his exhausted buddy.

Movies like Sylvio are, in their own way, slapstick. Not in the traditional Three Stooges manner, mind you, but in a more subdued way. A more atmospheric and emotional way. Silently slapstick, I’d say, in the way that I consider Alex Ross Perry’s The Color Wheel a little slapstick. In that film, this goof genre is mostly rude, crude and blunt. For Sylvio, which wears its heart on its sleeve, the funny is not when our hero breaks stuff on cue, but when the absurdly silly meets the dramatically genuine. It’s an almost tragi-comedy of over exaggerated clumsy like circumstances. It reminds me of (despite the stone face reference made a paragraph ago) Harold Lloyd, the everyman involved in the impossible. Our lovable and heartfelt gorilla matches the man with the glasses by being a hopeless romantic who is sensitive and capable of anything. A double bill with Grandma’s Boy might be in the cards.

The plot is, to boil it down, UHF from the point of view of an office clerk version of Stanley Spadowski. Which is, to boil it down again, brilliant. The World’s Greatest Janitor and TV Star trophy holder isn’t as disillusioned when we first meet him in the Weird Al movie, and is certainly more flat out ridiculous than Sylvio’s Sylvio, but he’s just as childlike and fantastical. Being a gorilla, living alone and greeted after work by depressing microwavable dinners, Sylvio’s one outlet of release comes in the form of his puppet show short films, The Quiet Times with Herbert Herpels. This is no Spadowski’s Clubhouse – more “Moral Orel” and Anomalisa. His shows are hilarious on one hand, giving us an inner id that we wouldn’t expect from an everyday working animal. On the other hand, these segments provide terrifically innocent insight into Sylvio’s background, his hopes, his dreams and his worries. They’re enough to bring about teary eyes.

I was at first concerned that, given the nature of Kentucker Audley’s video essays for The Talkhouse (which are great), Sylvio may be some sort of joke or prank, poking fun at the themes within and the audience without. An Andy Kaufman routine, essentially. But, thinking on it, I came to the conclusion that this doesn’t matter. Kaufman’s comedy was outlandish and utilized trickery for sure, but also came from true places deep inside of himself. He meant no ill will. I don’t believe this movie is a play on our minds, but even if it were, it comes from a good place and would only enrich our collective experience. Yes, it’s a film based on a Vine act. Yes, an app famous gorilla can make do more than perform tricks. No, the slight of hand here is not at our expense nor is it exploiting anyone. Sylvio is hilarious and deeply kind, granting us an adaptation more depthful than expected from internet stardom.     

We could all stand to have the kind of spaced out observational moments of self reflection that Sylvio so nicely performs. Be it stars or rain drops, zoning out American Beauty style, even for a few seconds, might be enough to make one appreciate the little things. Or the bigger thing… am I spinning out of my head? Could Sylvio be such a perfectly constructed trick on critics like me, making us miss the forest for the trees? DID Andy Kaufman fake his own death? Nah. Perception is reality, and intent is usually irrelevant. No matter what, Sylvio gave me belly laughs and evocative feels. Thus far, it is my favorite film of the year. A most disturbing year, but still.

Sylvio (2017): Directors: Albert Birney and Kentucker Audley / Writers: Albert Birney, Kentucker Audley and Meghan Doherty / Stars: Sylvio Bernardi (as himself), Kentucker Audley, Tallie Medel

Watch Sylvio on Kanopy here: https://www.kanopy.com/en/kcls/watch/video/16458238