15th January 2009

“High Spirits”: Making its belated debut on DVD, this is a surprisingly light and airy romance-cum-knockabout comedy from 1988 directed by the normally brooding and poetic Irish filmmaker Neil Jordan.

There are few genres to which this sincere and non-partisan filmmaker has not applied himself and horror (or at least the supernatural) has enticed him on perhaps more occasions than any other: “A Company Of Wolves”, “Interview With The Vampire”, “In Dreams” and “The Butcher Boy” all deal with the seductive and hypnotic allure of evil, even in the face of immense peril such evil represents. It’s a theme that runs through much of Jordan’s work across genres.

Here, though, he presents at a far more literal seduction, that of UK panto star Steve Guttenburg by ghostly beauty Darryl Hannah, essaying yet another of the sensual siren roles that paid her mortgage so amply in the 80s, from “Splash” to “Roxanne”. It’s hard to remember a time when Guttenberg was a wiry-headed but dependable comic leading man and not a curious relic of the 80s; the scene in “Police Academy 4” in which he ascended in his hot air balloon leaving behind Hooks, Hightower and his (citizens on) patrol proved prophetic in more ways than he would realise at the time. But here Guttenberg is, indeed, dependably hapless and ever-genial putty in the hands of not only the ethereal Hannah but also the effortlessly charming Peter O’Toole.

It’s interesting to note that O’Toole was, at the time, mostly inhabiting a pre-“Venus”/post-midlife haze of supporting roles that, with the exception of the masterful “Last Emperor”, relied on an ebullient caricature of the hell-raising persona which actors like O’Toole, Richard Harris and Oliver Reed were perpetuating with abandon throughout the decade which taste, and a few legendary careers, momentarily forgot. It was a far cry from the flawed heroics and tragic gravitas of T.E Lawrence, though just as charming as the redoubtable actor ever was (even in “King Ralph”!).

“High Spirits” is as ephemeral as Gene Wilder’s similarly conceived 80s concept-comedy “Haunted Honeymoon” and it remains a light, mainstream picture, albeit with a hint of the accompaniment to a theme park ride about it. It lies somewhere between “Blithe Spirit” – much of Jordan’s picture is no doubt an allusion to Noel Coward and David Lean’s deft comedy of supernatural romantic meddling -- and the Eddie Murphy vehicle “Haunted Mansion”, though the ample charm of the former more than the crass commercialism the latter is exhibited.

Slight, but very amiable froth, then, from a filmmaker normally unafraid of the bold and confrontational. Indeed, if it weren’t for Jay Davidson’s penis, this kind of frothy studio crowd-pleaser may have been all for which he was known, except by a dedicated and appreciative but limited independent audience receptive to his earlier dark dramas that, fortunately, found a more mainstream appeal post-”Crying Game”.

“The Devil’s Chair”: despite finding Adam Mason’s “Dust” quite one of the most uncomfortable, excruciating and unappetising pictures I’ve had the displeasure of sitting through (for all the wrong reasons), I was an great admirer of both his stark and effective short “Prey” and of “Broken”, his micro-budget descent into a raw, almost poetic, union of the t*****e p**n genre and the survivalist genre or the 1970s.

Having got the experimental/psychedelic bug somewhat out of his system, Mason is perpetuating his resolutely nihilistic sensibilities into more commercial (for the horror genre at least) stories of late, with the eerie-looking “Blood River” incoming for 2009, which seems an intense “Dust Devil”-esque domestic drama/horror lacking none of the genuinely uncomfortable punishment, both physical and mental, Mason seems unerringly capable of inflicting on the withered psyches of his characters.

With this week’s release of “The Devil’s Chair”, Mason and co. have seemingly amalgamated body horror and “Hellraiser”-style demonology into a frantic, kinetic and very stylish British genre outing that, for an additional allure to fans of things cult, features everyone’s favourite laconic surgeon-cum-spunky-lothario Dr Lucien Sanchez a.k.a Signor Matt Berry.

“Kamikaze Girls” & “Memories Of Matsuko”: From pioneering DVD label Third Window Films come two defiantly idiosyncratic, wholly original visions of modern Asian cinema. For those who thought all Asian cinema had to offer in the 21st century was Miike-inspired wrongness, black-haired ghostly children or languorous, beautifully photographed meditations on ennui, then these two pictures should put paid to such misapprehension.

“Kamikazi Girls” is a bubblegum fantasy, part Greg Araki, part Sophia Coppola’s “Marie Antoinette”…or something. It’s a curious tale about which 'scrobble' from the boards has posted an effective mini write-up in the Film We Just Saw thread.

“Memories Of Matsuko” is harder edged, but no less whimsical affair, all musical segue ways and fantastical cinematic technique. In slamming a half dozen wildly imaginative styles together, director Nakashima brings to life the rather affecting tale of a young, problem-plagued man and the treasure-trove of eccentricity and a life often shockingly lived of a recently deceased Aunt, the titular Matsuko, that is revealed when he is forced to declutter her apartment.

Third Window is, like Shameless Screen Entertainment, a label which should be embraced by the UK’s genre fans for its smart, passionate and distinctive voice in a market awash with similarly commercially-minded product. Beyond the guns of Woo, the swordplay of Yip and Yen and the controversy of Miike lies the phantasmagoria of the wild and weird filmmaker’s you have yet to delight in discovering. Thank Cthulhu there are labels there to guide you on that invigorating journey.

“Resident Evil; Degeneration”: Paul W. S. Anderson’s cacophonous video game adaptations incur the wrath of many an internet message board, often with good, passionately argued reason. Though undeniably successful, they’re also loud, boisterous, often incomprehensible and lacking in a certain spatial logic that more deft action pictures are wise to smarten up on, the better to gloriously incinerate both man, beast and machine with balletic grace and cinematic poise.

Where Anderson’s debatable shortcoming are widely…er, debated amongst much of the internet (where the obviously canny filmmaker/businessman lets it remain to fester, preferring to move on to the next lucrative studio gig, exhibiting the journeyman smarts that a over ten years in the Hollywood trenches has obviously instilled in him) the success of this particular franchise has done something interesting. Much like “The Transporter” and “xXx” franchise, the acknowledgement of its own inherent lunacy has paved the way for any number of spectacularly lunk-headed but nevertheless riotously, if most guiltily, enjoyable exploitation/trash follow-ups.

Like the Seagals and Van Dammes in decades previous, Milla Jovovitch has become a single minded/dimensional action hero, albeit an unlikely and viciously entertaining one, in a franchise that is little more than an arch set up for grand stunt-laden mayhem and pyrotechnic abandon. After ace Second Unit Director Alexander Witt’s preposterous laying to waste of windows, mutant dogs and the laws of physics in “Resident Evil: Apocalypse”, wild man of the promo-inspired thrill, Russell Mulcahy, took the helm of an undead rumble into the detritus-ridden deserts of Las Vegas, Nevada in “Resident Evil: Extinction”.

Now, taking a cue from the “Final Fantasy” series, perhaps, and freed from the constraints of physical production, this pixel-rendered continuation of the series brings the series back to its country of origin (for the computer game anyway) and let’s loose some of Japan’s most assured creative talents (the “Gamera” series, “Casshern”, “Ghost In the Shell: Stand Alone Complex”) on the expected zombie carnage. Looks nifty.

TOP WHAT?

Perhaps to provoke some discussion but more often than not to fling my own cinematic profligacy in your general direction with merciless abandon, this is the first of what will be a weekly Top 5: ghosts, kills, cameo appearances…read on. This week:

“Top 5 Jaw-Dropping Kills of the 1980s” (BEWARE -- herein lie spoilers):

1) ‘Street Trash’: There are many things J. Michael Muro and Roy Frumkes’ 16mm NYC grindhouse marvel is, but “laced with subtlety” isn’t one of them. This delightful paean to Akira Kurosawa’s “Dodesukaden” (seriously), is steeped in a fetid, freewheeling atmosphere which throws up more than a few shocking moments: severed-phallus five-a-side, necrophiliac prostitution, exploding tramps by the shed-load. Perhaps the most audacious and cacophonously crowd pleasing moment of the picture, though, is the dispatch of lead junkyard villain, psychopathic Vietnam veteran Bronson.

Locked in a furious battle of wits throughout the picture with ‘Bill The Cop’, Bronson runs a mean series of highly questionable operations at the local scrap heap. This climaxes in a rough mano-a-mano as Bill and Bronson slug it out amongst the filth and debris of a thousand neglected and abused lives in this decrepit pit.

Gaining the upper hand, Bronson is about to dispatch Bill with nary a thought for the (probably negligible) repercussions of icing a cop in this part of the city when Bill sees his chance: a bulky gas cylinder. In one brief move, Bill knocks the valve from the cylinder which careens across the yard, spectacularly knocking Bronson’s head and most of his neck and shoulders into the hazy smog where it lies, bleeding profusely over the filthy ground.

As much kudos should go to f/x technician Jennifer Aspinall as to Muro and Frumkes’s twisted imagination.

2) ;The Fury’: To the strains of John Williams’ baroque, orgiastic waltz in the Herrmann-style, John Cassavetes’ nefarious government agent, a reptile of a man who has been kidnapping gifted youngsters with special powers to harness in the name of Cold War era national security, has become trapped in a room his surviving star guinea pig, Amy Irving. As she drills Scanner-like (although De Palma’s masterful piece of paranoid pulp and John Farris’ source novel predate Cronenberg’s grim shocker by a good couple years) into Cassavetes’s consciousness, he first bends, then breaks in such spectacular fashion that De Palma sees fit to cover the action from what seems like a dozen different angles. As Cassavettes ruined head spins gracefully to the ground for the 12th time, you’ll be so very glad that he did.

3) ‘The Fly II’: while what-was-once-Eric-Stoltz is parading round the mammoth Bartok medical research complex spewing great globs of Chris Walas’s feverishly imagined insect vomit over an unscrupulous bit player’s pasty face, another poor schmuck is busy doing acting in the main warehouse set next door. While hunting the mutant Stoltz-creature, this dutiful rube soon becomes “lift-trapped security guard guy” as the Fly leaps from his hiding place and slings the helpless extra into the path of a very slow moving, very heavy elevator. As the broken-legged man cowers beneath the descending metal cage, the film rapidly cuts between everyone else in the room to superb effect as it ensures all eyes are glued to the impending union of skull and steel. Steel wins in a rather triumphant shade of red.

Fun Fact: Lee Richardson, who plays the doomed industrialist, Bartok, in ‘The Fly II’ has a role as an elderly priest in “Exorcist III”; when asked what his favourite film is, he replies with lip-smacking dryness: “The Fly”.

4) ‘Wild At Heart’: Willem Dafoe’s grotty grope-merchant/moustachioed bandit, Bobby Peru, attempts an audaciously violent bank robbery during which an elderly security guard loses a hand to a stray dog. Stumbling from the bank with a few dollars and a shit-eating grin, Peru trips in the dirt, falling neck-first onto his fully loaded sawn-off shotgun. His head, presumably followed by a hail of red hot shotgun pellets, sails through the hazy Mexican air, landing against the bank’s exterior wall with a reassuringly moist splat. It’s a delicious slice of Lynchian brutality.

5) “Society”: Freshman buck Billy Warlock is fresh from discovering his entire existence has been engineered for him to sire similarly privileged young upstarts in affluent Beverly Hills with which to indulge in bizarre, psychosexual, heavily dismorphic and spasmodic, flesh rending sex. With his own parents and sister. Understandably disturbed at encountering one such polygamous/polymorphus orgy and being preyed upon by a particularly vicious queen of a jock who has hounded him since childhood, Warlock reaches inside the man’s rectum, pushes his arm up through his torso and with one flick of the wrist, turns him completely inside out.

God bless Brian Yuzna’s congregation with Screaming Mad George.

Confer, if you will…

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