Annihilation - Alex Garland
Cresting a wave of high-concept, hard sci-fi entertainment at a fruitful time for the genre, Annihilation distinguishes itself from Arrival, Westworld, Ex Machina, Black Mirror, Amazing Stories, Blade Runner 2049, and others by 1) not being based on a Philip K. Dick story, and 2) by actually being based on a recent work of literature by Jeff VanderMeer: the eponymous novel is the first installment in VanderMeer’s Southern Reach Trilogy, an post-modernist sci-fi eco-horror that’s easier to class as Weird fiction, with a capital W, or New Weird, differentiating modern authors in the style from H.P. Lovecraft and authors like him.
Helming the movie is Alex Garland, who has quickly developed a reputation for intelligent, interesting sci-fi. His directorial debut Ex Machina is an objectively great first feature, but his writing credits stretch as far back as Dredd, 28 Days Later, and the underrated Sunshine, too; he’s been honing the skills he deploys in Annihilation for some time, and the truth of the matter is that no one in Hollywood was better equipped to take on the challenge the source material presents.
Alex and I watched the movie on opening night through different prisms. I had read the book prior (I’m wrapping up its sequel at the time of this writing), and Alex had not. Although we both agreed that Annihilation is a great movie, our perspectives differed, and we found those differences interesting enough to warrant two reviews: one for readers and one for viewers; one containing no major spoilers, and one with many.
Natalie Portman stars as Lena, a cellular biology professor, still reeling from the disappearance of her husband (Oscar Isaac), who vanished on a top secret mission with the military. After twelve long months, he returns with little to no memory of the mission or how he got back. He falls suddenly ill, but en route to the hospital, the military descend on the ambulance and take both the biologist and her husband to a mysterious facility known as Area X. Demanding answers, Lena learns her husband crossed an inexplicable boundary called The Shimmer and into a zone that many research team enter, but none leave. Lena gets a spot on a new team setting out into the Shimmer in hopes of understanding what is happening.
There's an immediate feeling that you can’t seem to shake, and it's a sense of unnerving anxiety that surrounds the mystery of The Shimmer. Everything is presented straightforward cinematically, but all the information you are given breaks down the further you get into the film. This instability can be communicated by something as simple as a jump cut. We see, firsthand, how the characters cross into this enigmatic zone and then suddenly “wake up’ only to realize they have lost four days. These sensory gaps become even more intriguing when we consider that the entire story is told from the perspective of the only surviving member of the expedition. How do know we can trust what she says? It's reminiscent of Arrival in that sole testimony, how characters seem to use select words wrong at times, and the actions of a certain individual during the finale. Their actions challenge the notion of the phenomenon that makes one question even further the preceding events.
On a technical level, I’m a bit torn. Little effort is present during downtime sequences, but the scenes that matter have just the right amount of concrete fundamentals as well as flair. Specific scenes that come to mind are a few animal attacks - for instance, there is a scene where a genetically altered bear slowly enters a room where our protagonists are in the midst of an escalating confrontation. Everyone has their back to the door and are afraid any movement will set it off. We can see the bear enter, but it's out of focus because no one has seen it clearly, and it's only when the it sticks its face between the crew that we catch a few focused glimpses of the creature. On the other hand, these creatures in action are one hundred percent CG and it wouldn’t bother me if some of them didn’t look like assets from a Playstation 2 game in 2004. In other scenes, there are great displays of prosthetics that are examined closely and you have a chance to take in the breathtaking work. The dichotomy between these effects took me out of the film momentarily, but only when they were on screen, and it's a testament to the intrigue around The Shimmer.
It's hard not to give Garland a hand for transferring a complex story into an accessible studio film. For the most part, it's seamless, but there are problems in the very last twenty minutes. Garland clearly respects his audience as well as the people who wander their way into the theater, unsure of what they're in for. The rules of the world are explicit and concise without getting too technical or too vague, which is understandable since the crew is made up exclusively of scientists. This level of broad tactfulness is honestly astonishing. Ex Machina was a quiet, exploratory, off-putting experience for many viewers, but seeing that he can handle a more conventional blockbuster-style movie has me excited for Garland’s future with bigger budgets and more creative freedom.
Brian's Review & Analysis
Annihilation is a little different on the page, so what follows is the summary transcribed directly from the back cover of Jeff VanderMeer’s novel. Note that in discussing both the movie and the novel, my references will swing freely between the two, and that although I will do my best to make it clear when I am talking about one or the other, I will almost inevitably slip.
The summary reads:
Area X has been cut off from the rest of the world for decades. Nature has reclaimed the last vestiges of human civilization. The first expedition returned with reports of a pristine, Edenic landscape; the second expedition ended in mass suicide, the third in a hail of gunfire as its members turned on one another. The members of the eleventh expedition returned as shadows of their former selves, and within weeks, all had died of cancer. In Annihilation, the first volume of Jeff VanderMeer’s Southern Reach Trilogy, we join the twelfth expedition.
The group is made up of four women: an anthropologist; a surveyor; a psychologist, the de facto leader; and our narrator, a biologist. Their mission is to map the terrain, record all observations of their surroundings and of one another, and, above all, avoid being contaminated by Area X itself.
They arrive expecting the unexpected, and Area X delivers--but it’s the surprises the came across the border with them and the secrets the expedition members are keeping from one another that change everything.
At bottom, Annihilation is a deconstruction of the relationships between language, communication, and meaning masked as a straightforward account of an expedition gone wrong--a stray thought the biologist has early on, that we do not generate ideas but are colonized by them, doubles as the novel’s thesis. Garland’s film ignores it, choosing to preserve the aspect of an expedition and step up the ecological horror that makes up the novel’s periphery, altering enough details along the way as to fashion a completely different story. His Annihilation is like Solaris in the way it frames the sci-fi around an emotional journey, deploying instances of freakishness to pry into the psyches of its characters. Had the movie hewn closer to the novel, the result may have been like a nightmare version of Arrival, deriving its horror from the limitations of communication and the changeability of meaning. For example: one of the first things the biologist and her team encounter once inside Area X (in the novel, this is the name of the zone inside “The Shimmer,” rather than the facility from which the team deploys) is a manmade structure. We are explicitly told by the biologist that the structure is a tunnel. Rationally, she understands that it is a tunnel, and all of her senses agree, but she cannot bring herself to believe it is anything but a tower. Although we are explicitly told that this structure is a tunnel, the biologist can only thereafter describe it as if it was a tower, and soon, we forget the tunnel. We are colonized by the idea.
You will find more of this decidedly Weird content the deeper you go in the novel, and virtually none of the movie’s sympathetic portrayal of a woman in search of answers to the mystery that robbed her of her husband. The novel is a linear, first-person account intended as a scientist’s defense of her sanity, and her sometimes desperate need to be rational, factual, and clearly understood in response to phenomena that are not any of those things lends the novel a unique tension that would have been cumbersome to realize on screen. The additions of scenes between Lena and her husband, and the fact that he not dead before the movie even begins; that we are allowed to observe Lena’s fractured psyche in the wake of his disappearance, and how it leads her to infidelity, confusion, and emotional isolation; the ramped-up action, including a “bear attack,” and the greater focus on the scientific anomalies within Area X/The Shimmer: these things belong to the movie and are necessary to a more cinematic adaptation of Annihilation. We can applaud their execution and how they make the story more digestible. It’s a very, very good movie. At the same time, we can recognize how these things are clutter.
Toward the end of VanderMeer’s novel, the biologist discovers a mouldering heap of notebooks that appear to have been left behind by previous expeditions. It’s clear by the sheer volume of material that there were far more than eleven previous expeditions. She begins to comb through them in search of information. She singles out one notebook in particular, although it ostensibly contains no information--instead, it seems to be filled with nothing but repetitive, exhaustively-detailed descriptions of a type of thistle that grows within Area X. She reads it, but puts it down, unnerved, when she begins to understand that its singular focus seems to be less the product of mundane obsession than of terror--as if the author was trying to avoid something more horrifying, something he or she could not bring themselves to discuss. To some degree, this seems like a reflexive commentary on Annihilation itself, if not the very philosophy by which it was written. As a first-person account of an event of which only she was witness, we are subject to the limits of her imagination, the limits of her vocabulary, and the limits of her discretion--we have only her testimony, and there is plenty of reason to doubt that she is telling us everything, even when she swears she is, whether by choice or by pure limitation. What is she hiding? What doesn’t she realize she’s hiding?
This unreliability is translated into the movie’s classic flashback structure. Lena verbally recounts the events of the expedition to interrogators in hazmat suits, as well as an audience of Area X personnel lined up outside the glass walls of the interrogation room. It is also addressed in a scene exclusive to the film, when a member of the expedition ties up the others and accuses them all of a conspiracy, singling Lena out as its mastermind when she discovers that her husband was a part of the previous expedition. Setting aside the fact that her relationship to a previous expedition member is no secret in the novel (also, that the biologist does not harangue her way onto the team; she volunteers, and the other members are fully aware of her emotional investment in the expedition, and in fact train together for many weeks prior to entering Area X), this scene could be interpreted as a manipulative fabrication by Lena, a sort of built-in “proof” of the veracity of her story. Her truthfulness seems to have been tested by this confrontation while inside The Shimmer, but how do we know the confrontation, or any of her story, actually happened? She seems to have vindicated herself of doubt, but what proof do we have but her word?
The most glaring omission from the film is the expedition team’s voluntary hypnosis at the hand of the psychologist (Jennifer Jason Leigh’s character in the movie; also, the director of the Southern Reach, a fact key to Annihilation’s follow-up, Authority). Early in her account, the biologist mentions that she has become resistant to the psychologist’s hypnotic suggestions, which she attributes to exposure to some of Area X’s plantlife. After a while, she is able to identify the commands in the psychologist’s speech by the emphasis the psychologist places on certain phrases, and the further the hypnosis erodes, the more she seems to understand about Area X. Again, there is doubt toward this assumption--she was, after all, contaminated by something which she refers to as a “brightness,” only as an approximation--but the larger importance of hypnosis in the novel, and its exclusion from the movie, is multilevel. In the novel, this language-activated hypnosis is a useful metaphor for the experience of reading; we are comfortable with certain writing and narrative tropes, without our native languages, and when they are subverted or eliminated as they frequently are in Weird fiction, we find ourselves lost in a wilderness of words without definitive meaning. Removing this element was the right choice for the film; it would only complicate the already dense analogies between Lena’s emotional arc and the escalating danger within The Shimmer. This hypnosis is also important to Authority, which means that to some degree, it is tool of foreshadowing that would have been useless to the film. Once again, it was necessary to cut.
However you choose to interpret the role of hypnosis in the novel, it radically shapes the reading. Taken literally, it shields the expedition from the more ungraspable anomalies within Area X, preserves their objective, and protects their sanity. Taken metaphorically, it draws attention to the formal elements of the writing--to the diction, grammar, syntax, and perspective--and opens the novel up to myriad interpretations in concert and in conflict with one another, creating an overlapping swarm of ideas that, not unlike those first flowers Lena observes in the film, are “stuck in a constant mutation.” In place of the hypnosis, I think Garland’s Annihilation does a very smart thing: it gives its role to the Shimmer, which, as Josie (Tessa Thompson) describes in what I still can’t decide is necessarily clunky or just clunky exposition, is a prism; a force that refracts the basic composition of everything it affects into ever-more kaleidoscopic configurations--leading to shark-toothed crocodiles, parroting bears, human-shaped plants--just as the emotional strain of separation, absence, and loneliness changes Lena over time; just like the movie’s flashbacks to the months since her husband’s disappearance radically alter the viewing and our understanding of Lena. Perhaps the movie is the Shimmer, delicately reconstructing VanderMeer’s story from the inside out; perhaps it’s the light-creature that’s taken up residence in the lighthouse (via projectile, as we see in the very first seconds of the movie), whose intention is neither to harm or to help, but simply to make something new.
The third act of Annihilation has attracted discussion, and with good reason--it’s weird as hell. The novel’s climax is, if anything, even more ambiguous and outlandish: the entity the biologist eventually encounters is described through a cascade of confusing imagery that makes it more unknowably alien than a shape-shifting, psychedelic orb of smoke and light could possibly be. With that caveat out of the way, it’s hard to argue that what happens in the lighthouse isn’t one of the most fascinatingly strange sequences in a movie of this budget and caliber we’ve seen yet, off-putting and enticing in equal measure, and in all the right ways. The sudden, sustained eruption of the score, absent for most of the movie, is glorious; in a well-equipped theater, when that ethereal snatch of melody present in the trailer slides in over a gut-rattling bass hum, it will feel as if you are floating out of your seat and into the screen like Lena’s blood drawn into the light.
The climax of the novel is a peek into greater mysteries, maybe more than the Southern Reach Trilogy can answer, lodging the chill of cosmic horror deep in the bones; in the movie, it’s a moment of mingled horror and catharsis as Lena confronts both the truth of what happened to her husband and what will happen to her, capped with the claustrophobia of the entity, assuming humanoid form, nearly crushing Lena against the lighthouse wall. It’s at once a terrifying facsimile of a hug, a rapist pose, and a futile effort at closeness, made more disturbing by the fact that it may not have even been aware she was there, as Lena later reports. And then, of course, the final Invasion of the Body Snatchers twist. There is precedent in the novel--the shine in her eyes when she embraces her husband’s replacement seems to represent the “brightness” the biologist feels inside of her, not quite a consciousness, not quite a light, but somewhere in between--and, in fact, it makes perfect sense according to the movie’s emotional logic. Lena is not who she was; Garland’s movie literalizes that.
Annihilation is a great movie and a bad adaptation. It can be both. It takes much of what’s superficial about Jeff VanderMeer’s novel and crafts a compelling movie out of it with a completely different agenda in mind, which is hardly a bad thing: Annihilation impresses on its own terms, with great performances and consistent internal logic. There are numerous little differences and deviations from the source material than can be bothersome, but ultimately cannot impede or detract from the movie’s ability to captivate. Garland’s Annihilation not a good representation of Jeff VanderMeer’s, but in a way analogous to the relationship between Stephen King’s The Shining and Stanley Kubrick’s film adaptation--and that, I think, is the highest praise I could possibly give it.
- Brian L.
Paco Plaza - Veronica
Streaming on Netflix
Holy shit. That’s all I have to say to start this review. If the name of the director doesn’t look all too familiar to you, you might recognize the franchise he has helmed in the past: REC. Plaza is no stranger to horror and proves yet again that he is a master of getting in your head and scaring the living shit out of you. Between his intricate script and Pablo Rosso’s beautiful cinematography, you are in for what could be one of the best paranormal horror movies ever.
15 year old Veronica, played by the wonderful Sandra Escacena, is tasked with both managing her social life at catholic school and being a mother to her siblings, since their actual mother is works all day and night. You’re greeted with a gripping tale of teenage exploration and supernatural ideas that might sound generic on paper, but is amazingly executed on film.
I think what amazed me the most about this masterpiece is that it was more than just a horror movie--which doesn’t mean it isn’t filled to the brim with scares of all different types, but that you also see this teenager struggle with the weight of the world and juggle all sorts of real-life hardships without losing her mind. You watch all of this psychological terror unfold over a simple botched seance, one she only participated in to get in touch with her deceased father. Of course, this is a horror movie, so that isn’t who she was contacting.
I went into this film on the strength of Plaza’s previous movies, and there was not a single moment where I wasn’t absolutely gripping the edge of my seat, even during the set-up portion of the film. There are scenes throughout that will make your skin crawl with nothing more than a well-framed shot or the movie’s diverse takes on foreshadowing. If there is one thing that stands out about this movie, it’s the fact that it’s really a tale of becoming what you are afraid of, and that sometimes you are your greatest fear.
“DEVILMAN Crybaby”- Masaaki Yuasa
Watch “DEVILMAN Crybaby” on Netflix
This review is as spoiler-free as possible. Unfortunately, it’s difficult not to spoil some of the major beats of the anime. Read with caution.
DEVILMAN Crybaby is a 10-episode Netflix original anime series inspired by the 1970s manga and anime, Devilman. The story revolves around a teenage boy named Akira Fudo, who lives a normal teenager’s life until his best friend, Ryo Asuka, informs him about demons returning to Earth to destroy it. Believing that the only way to defeat the demons is by combining a demon and human, Ryo fuses Akira with the demon Amon, giving Akira the power to eliminate the demons. However, Akira begins to realize that the demons may not be what they seem--they may, in fact, be more human than we think.
The execution of the story is incredible. I am not particularly fond of binging shows, but I just had to binge this one. The first five episodes are mainly spent developing the characters and their environment, leaving about five or so minutes per episode devoted to super violent action sequences. In the latter half of the series, more time is spent building up to the conclusion of the series. The animation can get choppy, especially during scenes of dialogue, but the action is always animated well. If you’re a fan of Elfen lied and Another, you definitely do not want to miss out. The shows sets up the kind of scenarios you just need to witness to believe, and DEVILMAN Crybaby goes above and beyond to give its dark, gritty tone purpose.
While it is very much in the style of Japanese animation, the series is not animated like your typical Shonen anime, but more in the vein of The Tatami Galaxy over DragonBall Z, which is something that might catch viewers off guard. My only issue is that mouths are sometimes drawn uncomfortably big; otherwise, the the show is packed with beautiful scenes, especially towards the latter half. I should also mention that the soundtrack is always on point; mostly synthwave with a dash of neo-classical, it’s well-suited to the anime’s mix of old and new tactics. There is an unfortunate freestyle rap by Wamu and his gang, but outside of that bizarre misstep, the soundtrack is phenomenal.
Thematically, the most important thing to focus on is the origin of the devilmen. They are created at raves, known ironically as “Sabbaths.” In the world of the show, raves are places of pure hedonism, places for humans to indulge their darkest impulses, allowing the demons to possess their bodies and lend them their powers. This is how Akira becomes a devilman. There are various other religious references as well that deepen the show’s thematic ambitions. Interestingly, the original Devilman is actually an anime and manga in Crybaby’s universe, and serves a pretty vital part in how Ryo develops.
DEVILMAN Crybaby has a lot of good things going for it, but it’s not without its cliches. Most of its character are not badly written, but only Ryo Asuka feels well-fleshed-out, with some ambiguity to his character. While his devilman forms are pretty neat, Akira’s character is as archetypal as anime protagonists get. He continually shouts out who he is and what he wants, and he cries every episode. I guess I should have expected that from the word “crybaby” in the title, but it doesn’t make it any less obnoxious. As for everyone else in the anime, none of them serve any more purpose than to progress the story, and while they do a fine job, I didn’t really care for their fates. I also wish some of the dialogue was better, especially in moments of more adult-oriented conversation.
Despite its problems, DEVILMAN Crybaby is easily Netflix’s best attempt at anime yet, and easily one of the best original shows that Netflix has to offer this year. The series improves as it goes along, balancing story and action well. The lead-up to the final two episodes is one of the most rewarding I’ve seen in anime. If you are a fan of violent, gory, and occasionally reflective anime, give DEVILMAN Crybaby a watch.
The Post - Steven Spielberg
If there's one thing I love, it’s awards season, when I can boast about my superior taste in film and how I don’t agree with any of it to all my family and friends.
In all seriousness, awards season sheds light on movies that either show real promise or put the spotlight on titles that wouldn’t otherwise find the mass appeal they deserve on its own. The Post is a great example of the former, considering the current tension between the public and the media.
In the early 70s, amid the United States’ involvement in Vietnam, a study was conducted from the ground on the progress of the conflict in the east. When the author of this study saw how the United States government was lying to its people and sending soldiers into a failing conflict, they made the decision to leak the four thousand pages of the study to the New York Times. This collective document was dubbed “the Pentagon Papers,” and was published at a time of financial crisis for the Washington Post; on top of that, they were in competition with the New York Times and facing legal action from the Nixon administration.
Spielberg has a tendency to make light of pivotal moments and tremendous stakes. For instance, Bridge of Spies used Tom Hanks’ charm and injected off-handed humor that diluted the tension of delicate U.S.-Soviet relations, despite being a decently-made picture otherwise. The Post does something similar with its sticky situation, although I was more often than not reminded of Snowden in the way Spielberg takes dramatic liberties for the sake of broad appeal. The story can stand on its own legs just fine without these kinds of gestures. For example: there are plenty of great examples of strong women in film, like Rey from Star Wars, or more recently, the excellent Frances McDormand in Three Billboards Outside Ebbing Missouri. Both characters shows their strength and capability without extra work from their respective filmmakers. In The Post, there are moments when Kay Graham (Meryl Streep) takes walks proudly through women, and is commented on by other characters chime for verbally cutting a man down. These don’t feel like character moments as much as they feel like weak attempts to absolve the filmmakers of some imagined bias. What I will give Spielberg credit for is showing Graham’s personal growth. In the beginning, she lacks the confidence to say her rehearsed lines in a board meeting; by the end, she is making decisions she knows could land her and her team in jail.
The Post is a good film with big stars playing comfortable roles. Hanks in a supporting role doesn’t affect his performance, even if the character of Ben is often flat. Spielberg’s structural competency and shooting technique are wonderfully cinematic. As long as you watch the film as just that--a film--and not as a political statement, it has the potential to be the rare crowd-pleaser that also enlightens its audience to what goes on, and what should go on, behind that anonymous, catch-all term “the media.” It’s a reminder that the press shouldn’t work for the respect of the government, but to honestly inform the people, as a part of the many checks and balances present in our society.
But The Post is safe. It could have been scathing, it could have been revelatory, but it chooses instead to tell a story tailored to fit into the template of boilerplate social commentary we’ve seen since November 2016. I want to love it. I really do. A film about a government lying to the country and news outlets telling the hard and painful truth deserves more than being a podium for partisan bickery. But I believe that this really comes down to Spielberg realizing that he’s at his best making fun Hollywood blockbusters and not political statements Films like this are reason to question whether best films are behind him. How it’ll fair with the Oscars is up in the air. It may have gotten the nominations during the Golden Globes, but didn’t pick up a single win, and given the other hopefuls this year, I doubt the Oscars will be any different.
- Alex B.
Stranger Things 2 - Duffer Brothers
Last year, Stranger Things took the title of “most bingable Netflix original.” The ’80s drenched X Files-infused marathon of The Goonies made for a fun time and instantaneously spawned massive fandom. I pointed out in July of last year that, for all its entertainment value, there were still rough corners that only became more prevalent upon second viewing. Everyone's favorite D&D players weren’t as nicely fleshed out as some supporting characters, and the show feels more like a composite of pieces from other, better-known properties than a thoughtful blending of them. Regardless, that didn’t stop the second season of Stranger Things from being the most anticipated season of the year for most audiences.
Of course, spoilers for season 1 ahead. Season 2 spoilers will be separated from the general discussion.
The demigorgan is dead, Eleven is missing, Will is saved but he can see into the Upside Down, and coughed up some interdimensional slug. After almost a year from those events, Will’s visions are getting progressively worse: he’s now seeing a massive, tentacled entity, visible in the trailers for the season. As part of a deal made between the Byers and the shadowy institution behind the events of season 1, Will is brought into Hawkins Lab for various regular check-up. Despite the prying of his doctors, Will’s visions are swept under the rug. Meanwhile, Eleven finds her way back to Hawkins and, by chance, runs into Hopper, who shelters her in a secluded cabin for her protection. Mike and the gang induct a new member, Maxine (or “Madmax”), but her older brother proves to be a problem. Dustin finds the interdimensional slug, which is rapidly developing into something else. There's a lot, I know. It's not super elegant.
My time with this season feels like a third viewing of season 1. Once again, the show is entertaining, but the more I watch, the more the show’s flaws bubble to the surface. First, the positives: the banter between Mike, Dustin, Luke, and Will is just as light and fun as ever. I feared the dynamic would shift with the return of Will, but he’s mostly a quiet, fearful, blank slate. What makes this corner of the narrative a little more interesting is the introduction of Bob (Sean Astin), Joyce’s new boyfriend. Hes mostly a one-dimensional techie goober, but he has a few moments that will remind any tech-geek of themselves, making him somewhat more relatable than your average newcomer. It's just a shame he doesn’t have more screen time. Nancy, Steve, and even Jonathan mostly carry on their young adult love triangle from season 1, which ended with Nancy back with Steve. It's hard to justify this storyline since it boils down to fanservice in response to the unexpected reception to Barb last season. At the end of the day, it has no impact on the big picture.
One of the things I’m truly happy about this season is the Joyce and Hopper’s partnership. Their friendship is mostly the unspoken comfort they find in each other after having been through the shit. With that being said, the challenge that both characters face together are exactly the same as the previous season, and there's still a bit of unnecessary nativity just to play the audience. But Hopper now has to look after Eleven, which proves multiple times that things aren’t quite perfect. Eleven wants to return to Mike and the gang, Hopper doesn’t want Hawkins to pick her up again. He sees a bit of his daughter in her. As it is with this show, what could have had a beefy relationship is instead reduced to thin, surface level functionality.
Mechanically, this season is not up to the quality of the first season. The writer's hand is always visible, as every reveal is accompanied by multiple, frequent flashbacks connecting the dots for the lowest common denominator. Sometimes, it’s insulting. Yes, Duffer Brothers; I understand the slug that Dustin finds is much like the one Will coughs up. You don’t need to do multiple eye-line matches of Will looking worried, play overly-suggestive music, and try graphic matching it all. It doesn’t look good. It also seems as if the show hasn’t learned from the past year of horror, as it features an overabundance of easy jump scares and false scares. While present in the first season, they were not this cheap or numerous--I found myself progressively more annoyed every time someone touched someone's shoulder from off-screen and we have to hear that stock metal bang again.
Since it became the most divisive part the season, let's start with episode 7. Having seen a majority of diehard fans revolting against the episode, I was worried going in, but was surprised to see that it acts like the rest of the series, only with an overt fish-out-of-water story. It has the same strengths and weaknesses as any other episode this season, but the overriding fact is that it's ultimately a useless episode. It does three things: we’re shown Eleven harnessing her powers, with a scene more than a touch reminiscent of Yoda training Luke to lift an X-Wing with the Force. The problem is that we’ve already seen her do incredible things, many in high-pressure situations, but many more in moments of calm. The next is the moral hurdle she encounters facing a man who destroyed her mother's life. Eleven is ready to kill this man until she sees he has a family. So what does that mean for the people she killed in season one? She also had a moment in season one when she used her powers to separate Lucas and Mike in the midst of a fight, and even, then she showed instant regret. The last part is really a matter of personal taste, but why do we need to explore everything about Eleven’s past? We got what we needed last season, and what we get here is forced story. Eleven sees more than one kid in the rainbow room, so why does she go to Eight and call her sister? It seems unnecessary.
The last thing I want to talk about is the part that made me throw up my hands. From the season premiere, we are told that the main antagonist is the shadow monster, a hulking beast capable of devouring a town. It looms over every bit of promotional material. While it’s possession of Will is an interesting spin and makes for some entertaining sequences, the twenty minutes Eleven holds it off virtually on her own makes me question if this entire struggle is necessary. Look what changed from the beginning to the end. The gateway is closed. Eleven is reunited with the group. Nancy is with Jonathan. Steve is now the best babysitter. Bob is dead. At best, the shadow monster has only been temporarily delayed. I feel that the season almost invalidated itself in those last minutes, and Will’s struggle is now in vain.
I think down the road, this season will occupy the same space as season two of Mr. Robot. It’ll be referred to as the filler season, but at the very least, Mr. Robot had real character progression. I don’t see a lot of that here, outside of Steve, who isn’t all that important when all’s said and done. It’s entertaining to serve the lowest common denominator, and if you’re just looking for a show to veg out to, Stranger Things 2 is perfect. But if you want something with a little more quality, or even something closer to the first season, I’m sorry.
- Alex B.
Well, it’s Halloween!
This is the end of Metal Lifestyle’s 31 Nights of Horror, and we thank each and every one of you that’s taken the time to read or take our suggestions and add one of our recommendations to your watch list, and hope you have a blast tonight (or this weekend). I tinkered for some time with this entry, unsure of how I wanted to cap our first annual 31 Nights of Horror. Michael Myers is the once and future king of Halloween, and the Sanderson Sisters its queens; and while I doubt that will change anytime soon, that’s not to say it won’t ever change. Since 2007, Michael Doughtery’s Trick 'r' Treat has developed a cult following and snowballed--at least in my opinion--into the other must-see Halloween movie.
It’s an anthology movie of several interlinked stories told on a cleverly staggered timeline. In order of appearance rather than occurrence (a big part of the movie’s appeal is untangling all the narrative threads), these stories are: a couple returning from the night’s festivities; a principal with a dark secret; a virgin and her not-so-virgin friends on their way to a Halloween party in the woods; a group of kids collecting jack-o-lanterns; a vampire on the loose; and a stodgy old man drinking his way through the night. The common thread? A mysterious, sack-headed little figure named Sam.
Trick 'r' Treat’s festive atmosphere, braided narrative, and relatively brief 86 minute runtime makes it an easily-digestible movie with seemingly endless replay value. Every frame is packed with detail, and there are enough little nods, gestures, and clues to keep you entertained for hours. Above all, it’s the movie’s holiday spirit, somewhere between the autumnal chilliness of Carpenter’s Halloween and the silliness of Hocus Pocus, that makes it both a perfect bridge between the two and--arguably--the best of both worlds.
Happy Halloween from all of us at Metal Lifestyle!
I told you we’d come back to Australia to visit Sean Byrne one last time, and here we are: seven long years after making a splash with The Loved Ones, Byrne is back in his element with The Devil’s Candy, the movie Deathgasm can only dream of being. Yeah, it’s not good form to praise one movie by trashing another, but give The Devil’s Candy a watch and see for yourself the level this movie is operating on compared to Deathgasm.
A deftly-wrought horror movie, The Devil’s Candy is built on the complicated dynamics of a family that isn’t just a main character and kill fodder: protagonist Jesse Hellman (Ethan Embry, Late Phases) is both a father and an artist, struggling to balance his creative passions with the need for financial security and his family’s well-being, which means he sometimes has to paint butterfly murals for local banks, and sometimes can’t be there for his wife and daughter, Astrid (Shiri Appleby) and Zooey (the wonderful Kiara Glasco), who love him almost as much as he loves them. The Devil’s Candy, like Deathgasm, is a movie by metalheads, ostensibly for metalheads; but it’s clear from the posters in Zooey’s room and the stickers on Jesse’s car that Byrne knows his stuff far better than Deathgasm’s creators. His love for the genre doesn’t go unappreciated at Metal Lifestyle, and neither do those Cult Leader and Young and in the Way stickers on the back windshield of Jesse’s car. Most importantly, his characters aren’t completely defined by their music choices--it’s the family’s relationships to one another that define the movie and give it its beating heart, one that will weather a lot before all the supernatural maliciousness of their suspiciously dirt-cheap new home is through.
Sure, “new family moves into old house with a dark secret” is a familiar enough premise to warrant some skepticism, but The Devil’s Candy is one of those rare movies that truly upends old formulas in the spirit of his first feature The Loved Ones, blazing new trails in the pursuit of great modern horror. It movie carries absolutely no fat on its lean 79-minute body, cutting all the repetitive haunted-house and possession tropes to focus on its people, so that when the horror kicks into high-gear in the third act, the danger hits like an axe to the chest. Effortlessly balancing its dramatic weight on a tightrope of hardcore horror and light goofball comedy, The Devil’s Candy is unlike any horror movie this year, and is therefore unquestionably one of the year’s best.
Plenty of horror movies can be described as “nightmarish,” and plenty evoke the sense of non-sequiturial unease we feel in our strangest nightmares; and while there’s an entire history of surrealist and expressionist film dating back well before it’s time, I don’t think it’s an exaggeration to say that recent weirdness like We Are the Flesh wouldn’t exist, or be half as potent, without Don Coscarelli’s Phantasm.
Blending comedy and horror under the umbrella of uniquely dreamlike mood, Phantasm pits a boy, his older brother, and his uncle against a supernatural mortician known as The Tall Man (played by the late Angus Scrimm) and his hordes of cloaked dwarves. Even a shoestring budget and the limited acting abilities of its cast can’t get in the way of Coscarelli’s singularly weird imagination, or Mr. Scrimm: with his bulldog face, imposing height, and a gravelly, authoritarian voice, he’s an instant horror icon from the moment he locks eyes with protagonist Mike Pearson (A. Michael Baldwin) from across the street, through a cloud of vapor from a nearby ice cream cart. And like every good horror icon, he has a signature weapon: his flying death balls. These shiny, silver, blade-equipped orbs whizz through the air to latch onto the faces of the Tall Man’s enemies, and while they’re used less sparingly in future Phantasm installments (oh yeah, it’s a franchise), there’s nothing quite like that first death-by-ball. Nothing at all.
Phantasm recently got a full 4K blu-ray restoration overseen by none other than J.J. Abrams, if you needed anymore proof of the legacy of this underground horror gem. No shelling out for overpriced bootleg DVDs or scrounging around pawn shops in hopes of a lucky find--Phantasm is more widely-available than it ever has been before, and looks the best it ever will, so go watch it!
South Korea should be the first place you look for new and engaging horror. If I Saw the Devil didn’t do it for you, 2016’s The Wailing is an even more sprawling and absorbing movie from the director of The Chaser that made waves on its debut, quickly becoming one of the most profitable movies to come out of South Korea in a long time. While we know sales don’t always equate to quality, The Wailing is the real deal: a true epic of the genre, it’s a monster of a picture with a long, long shadow.
Big things start small: The Wailing initially passes itself off as a police procedural, following an officer’s investigation into a series of criminal activity in and around the village he polices, but this is only as the foundation on which the movie will pile its layers of intrigue. It’s cornerstone, and initiating event, is the arrival of Japanese stranger who gains the immediate distrust of his neighbors in the village. The Wailing doesn’t rush its plot points, so its first third of will test the patience of certain viewers as it stacks its pieces; but rest assured, the movie’s Jenga tower of homicides, ghosts, and inexplicable illnesses will mount into a fearsome horror movie before a jaw-dropping South Korean exorcism (that has to be seen to be believed) collapses the movie into a Rubix cube of ever-shifting parts, resolving as much as it complicates, shuffling up tones and tropes until whatever you imagined this movie would be seems like a grievous mistake, and whatever you want it to be doesn’t matter. It will suck you down and hold you there.
Every minute of The Wailing’s five-year gestation period is up on the screen. Nothing that happens or is said wasn’t carefully weighed and considered. Nothing was left in that didn’t need to be there over the course of the movie’s two hour and thirty-six minute runtime. There are no loose ends; and while there is some sag in the middle, it’s more like the slack of a tripwire than any misstep in the narrative--because the moment the movie enters its final act, it will close on you like a steel trap. You don’t just walk away from this movie. It sticks.
Although it’s now receiving the accolades it deserved all along, John Carpenter’s Apocalypse Trilogy--The Thing, Prince of Darkness, and In the Mouth of Madness--has been through some rough times. Part of the blame rests with The Thing, a critical darling and, to be fair, one of the greatest horror movies ever produced, remake or not. It’s a bonafide classic, with all the hallmarks of a classic; and whether the technical aspects of Prince of Darkness and In the Mouth of Madness measure up to it or not, it can’t be denied that all three movies are pieces of a singular vision, one that owes as much to H.P. Lovecraft as it does to the westerns John Carpenter so loves to emulate, and whose mix of Wild West grit and gooey existential horror even feels, at times, like a spiritual ancestor to Stephen King’s Dark Tower series.
Prince of Darkness is at once the silliest and most mysterious entry in the trilogy, and far more deserving of praise than its reputation suggests. Whether or not Carpenter knows what he wanted to say or do with its witches’ brew of theology, mathematics, and eschatology, it’s a novel and absorbing concoction only let down only by tough sell of a plot--although, amid the movie’s aura of intrigue and those ominous synth-strikes on the score, its outlandishness doesn’t really set in until after that haunting final shot. Prince of Darkness is the story of a group of university students brought together to study and decipher a series of mathematical and audiovisual phenomena occurring at a local church. These phenomena, we discover soon enough, are caused by a glowing green canister in the basement of the church. This canister is...Satan.
Carpenter never directly adapted Lovecraft, which is a shame: he nails the point of his fiction that we discussed back in Re-Animator. Prince of Darkness isn’t out to make us afraid of some green slime--the horror comes from its dramatic reframing of Genesis, positing that Jesus Christ and Satan were aliens, creatures of unknown origin whose feud defined our evolution, but wasn’t necessarily intended to (sound familiar?). It implies our existence is accidental, trivial, and unimportant, which is a horrifying prospect all on its own. It doesn’t need recurring dreams, body horror, or Alice Cooper as the leader of the horde of zombie-like Satan-worshippers that surround the church as night falls--but they certainly don’t hurt!
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