Blogcritics

Announcement: Short-content feeds

Phillip Winn — Sun, 26 Aug 2007 12:00:00 EDT

Sunday, August 26, 2007, marks the switch of all Blogcritics.org article feeds from full-content to short-content. This is the result of several converging factors, and is unfortunately a permanent decision (as permanent as any decision can be on the web, that is). We are aware of all of the reasons that this is a Bad Idea, and we are aware that some of you will be quite upset about having to click on something to read the free content, and we're sorry. Unfortunately, despite great effort, full-content feeds are not currently economically viable. Two other factors are involved: full-content feeds have resulted in an unprecedented level of content theft, with BC content appearing on many websites, usually spam sites, without attribution or permission. This duplicate content causes a cascading set of problems, not the least of which is that search engines generally aren't favorable to duplicate content, and don't always guess correctly. Finally, our RSS advertising partner is strongly in favor of short-content feeds. We hope that you'll continue to subscribe to BC via RSS, and when an article grabs your eye, it's only a click away, still free on the BC website. Thank you for your understanding.

DVD Review: Arang and The Ghost

Steve Carlson — Wed, 8 Aug 2007 19:27:58 EDT

Is there any genre in modern horror cinema that is simultaneously more abundant and more depressingly rigid in its narrative constructs than the Asian ghost story? The spooky genre of Ringu-inspired films are to the beginning of the 21st century what the first-wave slasher flick was to the '80s -- an omnipresent, easily copiable template with which any minimally ambitious automaton with a camera and a crew can provide character names and let the cliches fill in the rest. Presumably, this means that a few years from now we'll start seeing entertainingly tongue-in-cheek deconstructions of the genre a la Scream or Behind the Mask: The Rise of Leslie Vernon; until that time, though, we're stuck with endless variations on a theme, of which Ahn Sang-hoon's Arang and Kim Tae-kyung's The Ghost are but two recent Korean examples to receive a U.S. video release from Asian-film specialists Tartan Video.Arang at least shows some initial promise. After an opening sequence featuring the typical expendable uniformed schoolgirl (who gets to deliver the priceless line, "It'd be better to see a ghost than a pervert"), the plot kicks in. It's the typical story of a group of people, linked by an incident in their past, dying mysterious deaths at the hands of a ghost with broken fingernails and long black hair. What sets Ahn's film apart initially is that it's framed as a police procedural -- rather than the research into the history and motivation of the vengeful spirit being done by one of its prospective victims, it's being done by two detectives. So-young (Song Yoon-ah) and her new partner Hyung-gi (Lee Dong-wook) are initially called to the scene of a death thinking it to be just another murder case; when investigations into a couple of other subsequent deaths reveal a cryptic e-mail delivered to the victims moments before their deaths, the two realize that, to solve this case, they must also tackle a case from many years prior.While the genre mash-up is an admirable idea, Ringu and its progeny already serve as procedurals by proxy, as the template demands an effort by the protagonist to figure out the nature of the haunting and how to stop it (if, indeed, it can be stopped). Despite his enthusiasm for the CSI-style goings-on that comprise much of the narrative, Ahn's tweak can only be considered cosmetic; beyond this minor change, Arang falls pretty quickly into the accepted plot progression often found in these narratives.Given this progression, I give Ahn and the other three screenwriters credit for tossing in little touches, such as the traumatic event in So-young's past that eventually aligns her sympathies with the ghost or the unexpected third-act homage to Carl Dreyer's Vampyr, that show them at least trying to make something even a little different than could be expected. This extends to their clumsy-but-sincere attempt at subtext; the corpses all show signs of having been killed by poison gases that forced their way out their stomachs and up through their mouths, thus drawing a concrete parallel to the guilt they hide within that proves to be their undoing. Nevertheless, the familiarity of the material overwhelms the small steps of progress made by Ahn's attempts to play with the framework holding said material. Slapping a rejiggered package on an old product doesn't make it a new product, and Arang unfortunately too often feels like a greatest-hits compilation that has had a new track added to it to make it more attractive.If Arang suffers from its familiarity, The Ghost collapses under the weight of its accumulated cliches. Even the English title screams out a warning -- it might as well have been titled Generic Asian Ghost Story #427. It too involves someone, this time a young woman with amnesia (Kim Ha-nuel), trying to discover why people are dying in eerie ways and whether there's anything she can do about it; however, it lacks even the low-grade energy of Arang, settling instead for a bland professionalism that suggests everyone on set, from writer/director Kim down to the key grip, was a mere hired gun aware that they were crafting product and nothing more.The Ghost, in fact, so slavishly adheres to the standard tropes laid out by the genre trailblazers (jet black hair, copious water imagery, spirits with an unquenchable desire for revenge as a result of a past grievance) that it almost seems a parody of itself, a la the sly first half of Takashi Miike's One Missed Call. Certainly satirical intent would explain the occasional moment of inexplicability, such as one character, apropos of nothing, advising another not to drink on an empty stomach or a coroner judging a man drowning in a darkroom to be a "natural death." Considering that Kim lets the film run for a good thirty-five minutes before telling us the names of the lead characters, though, these bits seem more symptomatic of the kind of slack filmmaking that occurs when nobody really cares how the final product turns out. It's indicative of the type of quality one gets from Kim's film that, despite the current home-video craze for just about anything that has a raven-haired ghost and subtitles, it took a full three years for it to make it to America. Neither The Ghost nor Arang are anything special, but at least Ahn's film shows signs of effort. Both films, though, demonstrate that this genre is weary unto death from repetition. It's time to put Sadako and her ilk to rest for a while.

Steve Carlson, the proprietor of The Ongoing Cinematic Education of... since 2002, neither conducts electricity nor talks to reptiles. However, he knows someone who does both.

Movie Review: Bloody Reunion

Steve Carlson — Fri, 23 Mar 2007 11:02:31 EDT

There is, it seems, an impulse within recent South Korean filmmaking to revitalize moribund disreputable genres. First, The Host flips the monster movie on its head, and now Im Dae-Woong's To Sir with Love arrives stateside, complete with a new title (Bloody Reunion), to shame the way the direct-to-video revolution has gotten crassly lazy with slasher films. Do we, as proud Americans, need to tell South Korea to keep their paws off our genres? Or have we enough strength of character to accept their superior efforts and enjoy them? Considering the entertainment value that would be sacrificed, the latter option seems the best course of action, since Bloody Reunion offers a nasty sort of pleasure long since abandoned by lowest-common-denominator films like Tamara or The Butcher (to name two of 2006's least impressive American genre attempts). Until it loses its way in its final minutes, it's an unapologetically brutal and camp-free example of hyperbolic slash-happy sickness.The story, as ever, is the umpteenth variation on a theme. A group of young adults convene on a beach home occupied by their ailing former elementary-school teacher Ms. Park (Oh Mi-hee) for a nostalgic celebration of their past glories before Ms. Park passes. As it turns out though, Ms. Park wasn't the nicest or most tactful of educators; consequently, all the attending parties have psychic (and in a couple cases, like former aspiring baseball player Dal-bong [Park Hyo-jun], genuine physical) scars as a result of her less-than-ideal tutelage. They've all shown up with big metaphorical axes to grind, so it's inevitable that someone would push that into the realm of the literal. It's a good forty-five minutes before the sharp objects come out, though, and it's to Im's credit that Bloody Reunion holds our attention even before the grue commences. The former students are all pretty messed-up, and though their grievances seem relatively petty, they are genuine; their actions and words may not deem them likeable, but they all at least stay within the realm of the sympathetic. The cast is rough around the edges but generally convincing at putting this across. Especially interesting is Sun-hee (Lee Ji-hyun), the requisite ugly-duckling-to-swan; what is generally a bitchy diva type in domestic product is given a more measured portrayal here, helped along immensely by Lee's eerily calm self-possession and omnipresent black sunglasses.Furthermore, Im's careful meting-out of the nature of Ms. Park's cruelties keeps the film engaging while the buildup to violence takes place. Themes of personal responsibility run through the first half of the film, with Ms. Park's failings as a responsible educator tantamount among these; there's also some hints of class resentment in that the majority of the gathered complain about their shoddy treatment at the hands of Ms. Park stemming from their lower financial status. But all this, honestly, is window dressing, briefly touched upon then buried; when the dam finally bursts, Bloody Reunion reveals its foremost concern to be merely how savage it can become.And savage it is - the violent scenes cooked up by Im and writer Park Se-yeol are grisly and vicious enough to make even the most sanguine old-school slasher pale in comparison. The killer's modus operandi favors school-related implements of destruction, and while that might sound gimmicky (images of Cutting Class come to mind), the mean-eyed gusto with which the murder setpieces are staged obviates any sort of eye-rolling. A ferocious amount of blood is shed during the second half of Im's film, enough to satiate even the most jaded gorehound, with the highlight being a wild bit where a woman's eyelids are stapled open. If nothing else, Im knows what will goose his audience will keep them entertained.With all that goes relatively right, it's a shame then to report that the ending blows the film to hell. There's a twist in the tail of Park Se-yeol's script, and it's the kind of thing that would work well as a shock shot finale followed by a cut to the credits (much like it did in the well-known '90s film which seems to have heavily inspired the twist here); unfortunately, the film keeps going for fifteen interminable minutes after the revelation. This then leads into one of those baffling closing shots (see also: Masayuki Ochiai's Infection) that probably seems more profound in theory than in action. Much like High Tension, another mostly-exemplary neo-slasher that detonated itself with a silly attempt at getting too clever, Bloody Reunion is not a good movie overall. It is, however, a pretty satisfying slasher movie. And that's all that it needed to be.

Steve Carlson, the proprietor of The Ongoing Cinematic Education of... since 2002, neither conducts electricity nor talks to reptiles. However, he knows someone who does both.

Movie Review: Sheitan

Steve Carlson — Fri, 5 Jan 2007 10:25:47 EST

Actors who play big and steal scenes with regularity are often tagged as 'forces of nature.' Though evocative, this well-worn term seems inadequate to describe what Vincent Cassel pulls off in the French horror film Sheitan, new on DVD from Tartan Films. Outfitted with massive yellow dental appliances, his Gallic good looks hidden beneath a goony farmer's mustache and a singularly unruly mop of hair, Cassel can only be described as a walking cataclysm. His performance doesn't so much chew the scenery as devastate it, laying waste to everything and everyone within reach and leaving behind smoking piles of wood and shattered windows aplenty. It's a fascinating, hilarious and wholly ego-free performance from a major world actor, and it goes a long way towards propping up what is otherwise a wobbly slow burn of a supernatural shocker.Cassel doesn't enter into Sheitan until the start of the second act, by which point director Kim Chapiron has generated a low-grade anticipatory air via careful application of visual style and a fine sense for the manic and the lurid. It's a pretty typical spam-in-a-cabin setup, with five friends — steely-eyed player Ladj (Ladj Ly), sweet-natured bartendress Yasmine (Leïla Bekhti), smooth-operating horndog Thai (Nicholas Le Phat Tan) smoldering temptress Eve (Roxanne Mesquida) and awkward, socially desperate would-be thug Bart (Olivier Bartélémy) — going up to the isolated farmhouse where one of them (Eve) lives. Chapiron takes the time to set each of these oafs up as semi-sympathetic, their delinquency (a bar fight, a gas-n-go) depicted as mere youthful foolishness; yet, he doesn't actually sympathize with them (the opening title card reads, "Lord, don't forgive them, for they know what they do"). Splitting the balance between clever and obnoxious — there's a wonderful near-throwaway bit involving a scarf — Chapiron manages the difficult balance of making us want to see these characters die horribly... but maybe not just yet.Then, Cassel's grinning visage turns up in the guise of oddball caretaker Joseph, and from there on the other characters might as well not have names. The introduction of Joseph amplifies both the film's energy and its weirdness; whether he's squirting goat milk straight from an udder into Eve's mouth or trying, in his twitchy grunting way, to hook up Bart with his hysterically oversexed niece Jeanne (Julie-Marie Parmentier), Cassel's live-wire antics are something to savor. As Sheitan stretches closer to its climax, gathering suggestions of Satanism and swinging group sex along the way, the whole endeavor takes on the shameless energy of a good, sick barroom joke. It's not unlike the anecdote Bart relates about a prospective hookup's poor genital hygiene.It is unfortunate, then, that Chapiron's script (co-written with his father Christian) also has the ramshackle construction of such a joke. While there's a killer punchline regarding Joseph's mysterious, hugely pregnant wife Mary, it's precisely that point at which the narrative structure begins to collapse — it's such a show-stopping topper that it negates any other surprises Chapiron might have holstered. The third act is both superfluous and not informative enough. For example, it's obvious that Joseph is in league with the Devil (and Eve's name wasn't just chosen for its palindromic perfection, either), so there's a certain level on which all there is to do is wait for the inevitable (which, when it arrives, is lifted from Jeepers Creepers). But in attempting to jazz things up, Chapiron muddies the clarity of the through-line. The dream sequence is well-played, but what is the impulse to dredge up forgotten characters (i.e. Jeanne) solely for the purpose of forgetting them again? And, indeed, what are we to make of the slapdash Christian iconography and the explicit earmarking of two characters as Muslim? (I think it depends on whether the Joseph-and-Mary symbolism is a perverse joke or a willful misunderstanding.) Kim's got a lot of ideas, which is good, but he's attempted to jam them all into a ninety-minute horror film, which isn't so good. Not even a bellowing, red-eyed Cassel crashing headlong through a window as though it were paper can keep the wrap-up from feeling like a surfeit of wasted opportunity.Still, Sheitan has a lot going for it. It's got moxie, a kinetically trashy spirit and a brazen willingness to offend. It's got a flashy visual style from Chapiron. And most importantly, it's got madman Vincent Cassel going as full-bore nutzoid as a well-respected actor ever has. I'm not sure Sheitan is a good film, but I wouldn't dissuade you from giving it a look. I might give it another look myself.

Steve Carlson, the proprietor of The Ongoing Cinematic Education of... since 2002, neither conducts electricity nor talks to reptiles. However, he knows someone who does both.

DVD Review: Savage Sinema From Down Under - Box Set

Steve Carlson — Tue, 7 Nov 2006 22:55:25 EST

As the DVD market expands, enterprising boutique labels have to keep up with and even anticipate demand. In particular, the number of small cult-centered DVD companies continues to increase; thus, the variety and obscurity of available titles has exploded. It's a good time to be a fan of the offbeat - there are things being brought out on DVD these days that astonish in the mere fact that they're seeing the light of day. Subversive Cinema's recent box set Savage Sinema From Down Under falls under this rubric. The set collects three feature films from low-budget Australian filmmaker Mark Savage plus assorted goodies. Savage is an unknown in the USA (I'd never heard of him prior to this set, and I like to consider myself relatively informed), and having combed through the set I think I understand why. Putting aside the question of how well regional B-cinema travels outside its home base (how well-known is Jim Van Bebber in Scotland?), the truth of it is that Savage's films aren't very good. Each of the three included films has its problems; taken as a whole, they paint a picture of Savage as a guy who's trying hard but, despite a certain trashy vitality, can't quite make his muse dance.His debut film Marauders, released in 1986, exemplifies both the good and the bad in Savage's ethos. Marauders is a fairly vicious piece of goods, a sick 'n' seedy story about Emilio and Zed (Colin Savage and Zero Montana), two amoral punks who go nutters after a macho meathead named David (Paul Harrington) runs down Zed with his car. From the outset, it's clear that Savage has talent. His visual sense at this point is rudimentary but promising, with his use of low-angle photography especially impressive for a neophyte, and he does manage a number of clever, interesting shots, my favorite being the tossed-off joke involved in David's car rental. Too, the shocking aspects of the film and the overarching nihilsm works for a while. The opening sequence depicting the depths of depravity plumbed by both Emilio and Zed on an everyday basis girded me to slug down a bracing shot of anti-everything insanity, and it works as long as Savage keeps the hyperbole alive. There comes a point, though (the extended rape scene), where the attempts at revulsion, at topping the previous bit of ugliness, become too calculated and transparent; since the film's horrors aren't anchored to anything like a worldview, Marauders quickly falls apart. It's shock for shock's sake, bereft of any reason to be other than a young filmmaker's desire to see how far over the top he can go. It sounds like fun in theory, but in practice all it amounts to is an increasingly tedious series of scenes where unpleasant people do unpleasant things while saying 'fuck' and 'cunt' as much as possible. Marauders is ultimately a piece of juvenilia that gets your attention, but does little else.Cut to 2004, and Savage's Defenceless: A Blood Symphony demonstrates that while his talent flourished in the interim, his control over the meaner parts of his mind did not. As such, Defenceless, a rape-revenge film with a supernatural twist and zero dialogue, is a meandering and pretentious mess. It's centered around the tribulations of Elizabeth (Susanne Hausschmid), whose life goes to hell when she refuses to sell her land to some extremely determined developers. Ridiculously overdone carnage and self-consciously 'disquieting' rape scenes bump uncomfortably against Savage's strained lyricism (lots of shots of the sea and whatnot) and the narrative's tone, placid to the point of comatoseness. The lack of words and classical music soundtrack cranked to full blast give the film a patina of Art, but Savage's soul still resides in the grindhouse; the destructive dissonance of the clashing approaches means he's essentially made a film for no one. (The ineffective acting doesn't help either, as the hopeless mugging lays waste to whatever subtlety might be gained from pure image-based storytelling.) In a perfect world, this film would exist at a crossroads between the fragile poetry of Takeshi Kitano's Fireworks and the snarling castigation of I Spit on Your Grave (with a soupcon of Jean Rollin's Living Dead Girl for flavor), but we live in a world of flaws and a million little things that can go wrong. Nothing goes right for Defenceless, making it perfectly dreadful.The best of the three films, then, is 2000's Sensitive New Age Killer, which is content to merely be a trashy, breezy black comedy about Paul (Paul Moder), a nice-guy hitman whose complicated private life begins to intrude upon his business just as fellow hitman (and childhood idol for Paul) Colin the Snake (Frank Bren) blows into town. The action scenes are heavily indebted to Hong Kong cinema (especially an early gunfight in a warehouse which screams of Hard-Boiled), but Savage's direction is adept enough to make them work for himself, even when the ludicrousness gets to be too much near the end. (This unreality, what with people firing guns two feet from each other and not landing shots, could be intentional self-mockery.) The perversity that comes with the territory in Savage's films is more inviting here, possibly because it's in more measured doses and generally isn't taken seriously; the detours into the weird and sick provide Killer with some of its most delirious and entertaining moments (i.e. Paul's mother-fixated partner George (Kevin Hopkins) snorting part of his mom's ashes as part of a self-loathing ritual). While part of me wishes Savage would have gone for the throat by further indulging some of his more screwed-up impulses (Colin's last scene, in particular, is memorable for its black-hearted ballsiness), another part is just glad for the cheerful dementia that we are given. Killer isn't great, but it's just clever enough to be undemanding fun.As much as I dislike much of what the Savage Sinema set is built around, I wish I felt differently, since the generous supplemental material shows Mark Savage to be a likeable, enthusiastic and passionate man who is proud of his work and is making exactly the kinds of films he wants to make. Each of the three films comes bundled with a commentary, a making-of featurette, trailers, stills, bios and a production diary penned by Savage. The featurettes tend to be hit-and-miss; the best of the lot is "Four Friends in Low-Budget Heaven" on the Marauders disc, since the commentary is a bit chaotic and eventually devolves into a series of comments about Colin Savage's amazing gravity-defying hair. The other two commentaries, though, feature Mark Savage and one other participant from each film, and they're golden. Paradoxically, the finest track is on what I consider to be the worst film, Defenceless -- Savage and Hausschmid contribute a discussion that is as thoughtful, intelligent and well-measured as the film should have been. Hearing Savage wrestle with his use of exploitative elements and the idea of 'going too far,' explain the long and emotionally draining nature of the shoot or cite his influences (everything from Living Dead Girl and I Spit on Your Grave to Rene Clement's Forbidden Games), indeed, makes me marvel at how this much planning and thought could have soured into nothing. (His comment on the metaphorical angle of the knife-in-the-vagina scene, though, makes me wonder if he's seen Fulci's The New York Ripper or Dallamano's What Have They Done to Solange?, which got to that first with less fuss.)The shiniest gems of the set are the exhaustive production diaries. As Savage charts the progress of each production, with their hopes and failures and triumphs and compromises, there are sensations of determination and joy that become undeniable. In these diaries, Savage appears a resourceful, unflappable and talented guy. If I were making films, I would want to work like him. Hell, I'd probably end up making films like him, which puts my response to his actual work in a weird position. I respect and admire the man but don't care for his films even as I recognize that I'd probably turn out the same sort of thing. Where do we go from here? I'm genuinely flummoxed.[Note: The Savage Sinema set includes a fourth disc with Savage's TV film Stained and a number of Super-8 shorts; unfortunately, I was not able to view this disc.]

Steve Carlson, the proprietor of The Ongoing Cinematic Education of... since 2002, neither conducts electricity nor talks to reptiles. However, he knows someone who does both.

DVD Review: Duck Season

Steve Carlson — Wed, 13 Sep 2006 16:17:49 EDT

There's no boredom quite as free or lively as teenage boredom. I remember many a summer day spent doing nothing with a friend; while theoretically we were "bored," it didn't matter because we didn't really need to be doing anything. Just hanging out was enough. Writer/director Fernando Einbcke appreciates this facet of teenage life; in part, it's this thorough understanding (and its indication of greater understandings) that makes his minimalist feature debut Duck Season such a marvel.What a joy, what an absolute pleasure this film is! Duck Season is a small film filled with moments of acidity and grace, but that doesn't mean it's slight. The mundanity of the film's occurrences reflects a belief that personal change is a series of imperceptible character shifts and decisions - in essence that your life can change without you realizing it until later. As Einbcke spins out the story of one lazy Sunday in the life of four people -- best friends Flama (Daniel Miranda) and Moko (Diego Cataño), next-door neighbor Rita (Danny Perea), and pizza deliveryman Ulises (Enrique Arreola) -- and shows us how moments that appear insignificant at first can end up having massive import. Duck Season, among other things, is a sweet-natured ode to the ephemerality of now.Lest I make the film sound like some inaccessible art flick, I should also mention that Duck Season is often really funny. The first laugh comes in the opening scene with the boys' perfectly timed reaction to being left alone on a Sunday, and the majority of the film mines a similar charmingly low-key vein. Einbcke's aesthetic approach recalls the deadpan shenanigans of Jim Jarmusch (at times, this leans towards a middle-school version of Stranger than Paradise), but his worldview lacks the air of hipsterism that infects Jarmusch's films. Much of the humor, then, arises from disruptions or anomalies in the carefully composed mise-en-scene. (There is, for instance, a hilarious setpiece involving the playing of a soccer video game. The arrangement of the characters -- Ulises and Flama with their faces pushed right up into the camera lens, Moko in the background providing support and criticism to Flama and Rita in the far back being roundly ignored -- can't help but provoke a guffaw, especially as the scene builds in energy to its perfect punchline.)The astute reader will notice that I haven't gone into much detail about the plot. Summing up the plot of Duck Season is almost beside the point -- it starts with two fourteen-year-old boys in an apartment with Coca-Cola and videogames, then it adds a slightly older female who needs to bake a cake, a disgruntled pizza man (an argument between the boys and Ulises over payment and a presumed lateness of eleven seconds leads to a stalemate), and a power outage. It wouldn't be entirely untrue to call this a film where nothing happens... but then, "nothing" doesn't need to mean literally nothing. Einbcke favors texture and character over incidence, and with the quality of the texture he brings out, I'm fine with forgoing a little narrative drive.It also helps that Einbcke's youthful actors are unusually skilled. Miranda and Cataño are believably awkward as two best buds heading into pubescence, with at least one of them starting to suspect that he may be wired a bit differently; Miranda also deserves commendation for carrying much of the dramatic burden, as this Sunday for him is a welcome respite from the increasingly messy divorce of his parents. Perea, meanwhile, is sweet and likeable as Rita, who uses her age advantage and take-charge attitude to mask her myriad insecurities. The funniest scene in the film involves her melting butter in the foreground and complaining, in a ferocious bout of logorrhea, that boys only like dumb blondes while, in the background, Cataño disinterestedly attempts to set fire to a marshmallow. It's such a perfect combination of character and aesthetics that I was tempted to applaud.Arreola has the most difficult role in Duck Season as Ulises; he's the sole adult in the picture, yet his emotional development hasn't progressed much beyond the kids with whom he's initially at odds. He's also the one who has the biggest epiphany about his station in life, and he gets to explain the reasoning behind the film's title (derived from a painting that hangs in Flama's living room). Arreola does all this with aplomb, shifting from stoic anger to unbridled amusement when needed on the turn of a dime. If you took all the teen-centric films Hollywood released in the last twelve months and smashed them all together into one lumpy, focus-grouped monolith, they still wouldn't have one-tenth the truth or entertainment value of Duck Season. Einbcke has given the world a gentle and genuine look at the slow process of growing up. My only reservation comes in trying to imagine what he'll do to equal this next time out -- it's that good.About the DVD: you get a trailer. That's about it. At least it's a good trailer. The black-and-white cinematography deserves the crisp transfer it has received, and it's even anamorphic (which I didn't expect for a film this small, even if it's industry standard now).

Steve Carlson, the proprietor of The Ongoing Cinematic Education of... since 2002, neither conducts electricity nor talks to reptiles. However, he knows someone who does both.

Movie Review: Lurking in Suburbia

Steve Carlson — Tue, 22 Aug 2006 07:04:42 EDT

In a conversation about Clerks II, a friend of mine remarked that he found it far too melancholy to function as a comedy. I have to wonder what he would make of Lurking in Suburbia, as morose a comedy as any I've seen in some time. I'm not averse to the picture that writer/director Mitchell Altieri has painted, but his lead character's unshakably downcast attitude dampens Altieri's good intentions.And why is Conrad (Joe Egender) so downcast? As the film starts, he's waking, staring at a ceiling fan and coming to terms with the fact that he turns 30 today. As a natural-born slacker, Conrad ('Connie' to his friends) hasn't done much with his life thus far, and the sense of disaccomplishment has finally caught up with him. It's a midlife crisis pre-midlife, and Connie's not quite sure what to do or where to go next. I can sympathize with this, and to Egender's credit, his portrayal of Connie's adrift despair is keenly observed.The trouble with Altieri's screenplay is that perhaps he observes Connie's despair too keenly. Lurking in Suburbia begins well (literally, with a shot lifted from the opening of Apocalypse Now). As Connie gradually introduces the audience to the world in which he lives and the friends he has, Altieri is careful to keep the humor and the hangdog in balance. The humor is rueful but generally effective in these opening scenes; the film's funniest and most cutting moment comes early on, when an arranged hook-up for Connie turns sour after the bubbly young blonde at his side says, "You went to high school with my mom." As Connie sinks further into his blackened mood, though, Altieri's finesse dries up. The bulk of Lurking in Suburbia takes place at a party that is being thrown for Connie, and the celebratory shenanigans are meant to contrast with the deepening depression of the lead. Therein lies the flaw, though: By setting the two moods against each other, Altieri sacrifices the accomplished tonal meshing that he had earlier achieved. Connie's melancholy, allowed to run unchecked, shades over into self-pity, and thus we get insufferable scenes like the one where he rejects a stripper's sexual advances; meanwhile, the cutesy asides and drunken laff material gets defeated by the leaden serious parts. The thing that bothers me about Lurking in Suburbia is that I can see how all of this, all I'm reacting against, is intentional and indeed meant to be reacted against. The third act, in which Connie essentially hits bottom only to receive several wake-up calls, has the same stance regarding Connie's behavior that I do. The overarching theme of the film is even spelled out by a minor character: "Don't waste your time figuring out what you're supposed to do. Just live your life." So I'm torn. Do I fault Altieri for dragging me along with this sad bastard, or do I praise him for repudiating and ultimately redeeming said sad bastard? At bottom, I have to go with my gut: The beginning works and the ending works, but the middle is a black hole, aiming for wistful and only achieving slightly whiny.Too, though, there are likeable things even about the midsection of Lurking in Suburbia, further muddying my reaction. The acting is pretty good from all parties; in particular, Samuel Child (as the perpetual horndog Sean) and Ari Zagaris (as homosexual former football hero Danny) essay their parts with aplomb. Their interactions with Egender give off a convincing longtime-buddy vibe; this holds doubly true for Zagaris, whose character is the film's most fascinating. He figures heavily in the film's most effective scene, an impromptu midnight football game. It's here that Altieri best nails the idea that holding on to your past can lead to stasis even as it offers short-term enjoyment. Elsewhere, though, the balance is imperfect; thus, the experience becomes dissonant. As well as I understand where both Connie and Altieri are coming from, the overcooked moroseness of the former defeats the achievements of the latter. The destination of Lurking in Suburbia is a satisfying one, but I think the journey is too rocky to justify. Your thoughts may vary, and you wouldn't be wrong.

Steve Carlson, the proprietor of The Ongoing Cinematic Education of... since 2002, neither conducts electricity nor talks to reptiles. However, he knows someone who does both.

Movie Review: Harry Knuckles and the Pearl Necklace

Steve Carlson — Tue, 8 Aug 2006 04:43:51 EDT

Enthusiasm is always a good quality for young independent filmmakers to possess. Director Lee Gordon Demarbe and writer Ian Driscoll, by all evidence, have plenty of enthusiasm to burn; their film Harry Knuckles and the Pearl Necklace, like their previous Jesus Christ Vampire Hunter, is goofy and unpretentious and, above all, genially enthusiastic. Watching it, you can tell that all involved had a swell time making it. The difficult thing about enthusiasm, though, is that it often supersedes discipline. And if there was ever a film that would benefit from a little structure, it's Harry Knuckles and the Pearl Necklace.For instance, it would be convenient if there was a plot of which to speak. To put it simply, I have no goddamn idea what happens in Harry Knuckles and the Pearl Necklace. I have to wonder if Driscoll knows what happens or even in what order he arranged the scenes. There's stuff that happens, true, and I think it involves special agent/superhero Harry Knuckles (Phil Caracas) trying to track down a stolen necklace and encountering Bigfoot, ninjas, drunks in hats, masked wrestler El Santos (Jeff Moffat) and a secret from his past; however, the progression of events doesn't seem to matter as much as the events themselves. It's a film that lives in the present at the expense of all else.For a while, this approach is amusing. The rate at which Demarbe and Driscoll throw out crazy shit is impressive - it's as if this film has been designed as a clearing-house for all the stuff they've ever wanted to put into a movie. A lot of the early scenes, like the bit where Harry takes on two lingerie-wearing, kickboxing nuns with the help of The Unknown Gas Station Attendent (wearing a bag on his head like The Unknown Comic), or the bit where Harry has to duke it out with a malicious virtual reality babe, get some incredulous laughs due to their cheesy, go-for-broke sensibilities. It's akin to watching a film with a good alcohol buzz: nothing makes sense, but everything is funny. (You know the reaction: "What the hell did I just see? Oh who cares, it's funny! HA!")Around the time Troma majordomo Lloyd Kaufman shows up as boozed-up information merchant The Man in the Hat, though, Pearl Necklace shifts into being like watching a film while falling-down drunk: nothing makes sense, your head hurts and you just want everything to stop so you can go to sleep. The problem is that Demarbe and Driscoll never set up any sort of parameters for their universe, and while the film's first half may be amusing for that reason, the technique has a pretty short vanishing point. If anything can happen, then the element of surprise that comes with inventing crazy new shit gets lost; when the element of surprise goes, so do the laughs and entertainment value. When Harry puts the smackdown on enemies the first couple times, it's fun, but when he does it for the fiftieth time, it's too much. Similarly, when El Santos flashes back to his childhood and is still wearing his platinum mask, that's hilarious; when he gets involved in a mock wedding ceremony that turns into a battle royale, that's not so much. (Maybe the latter is because genuine lucha libre films are ridiculous enough that any attempts to satirize them come off as weak - Nacho Libre suffered from much the same malady.) Demarbe and Driscoll have a modus operandi that is ideal for short bursts of insanity, but the two-hour canvas of Pearl Necklace proves to be exhausting.There's a difference between absurdism and incoherence. With Jesus Christ Vampire Hunter, Demarbe and Driscoll demonstrated they knew just how far they could go with the former without toppling over into the latter; with Harry Knuckles and the Pearl Necklace, they go hurtling over the edge at a million miles an hour. They're not the first filmmakers to be undone by the lures of excess, and they won't be the last. I still hold out hope for their next project, Black Kissinger, since Pearl Necklace at its most tiresome is still a lot more scrappy and likeable than your average summer-movie offering. I do hope, however, that they exercise a little more restraint the next time around.

Steve Carlson, the proprietor of The Ongoing Cinematic Education of... since 2002, neither conducts electricity nor talks to reptiles. However, he knows someone who does both.

Movie Review: Shockheaded

Steve Carlson — Thu, 27 Jul 2006 08:39:26 EDT

Eric Thornett's Shockheaded is a zero-budget production of uncommon ambition. In both narrative and visual terms, Thornett's ideas and sensibilities are more complex than the average shot-on-video product. Drawing from influences as disparate as the two Davids (Lynch and Cronenberg), bondage porn and American film noir, he goes as big as he can with his limited resources. If Shockheaded isn't entirely successful, it still holds great interest and marks Thornett as a resourceful talent.Shockheaded opens with fine, creepy promise: Noble (Jason Wauer) is a hard-drinking, hard-smoking fellow filled with reticence and defiant attitude. In other words, he's your typical noir anti-hero. He's holed up in an anonymous hotel room for reasons unknown (presumably to die, judging from the amount of whisky and aspirin he's consuming) when two cops show up and harass him about the whereabouts of the previous tenant, a pretty young woman who has disappeared. If that's not enough, there are mysterious notes being slipped under his door, a creepy guy with an umbrella who looks like Robert Blake in Lost Highway also wants to know about the missing girl, and he keeps dreaming about a blank white mask. Clearly, there's some strange goings-on afoot, so Noble does what any protagonist worth his salt would do: investigate this woman's vanishing himself by descending into the underworld of pornography.Noble's journey takes him to some seedy places, and one of the things that marks Shockheaded as more than your average B-movie is the tact with which Thornett handles the subject matter. Save for one brief shot that almost seems accidental, there is no nudity, and the flashes of sexuality we're shown are clinical at best, unpleasant at worst. Thornett has managed to pull off one of the rarest balancing acts -- like Cronenberg's Videodrome, with which this shares several points of contact, he's made a film about prurient interest without succumbing to it.This, though, is far from a simple porn-is-bad tract. Thornett also plays Normal, the sword-wielding director of the naughty films; his amusing and hyper-verbose turn goes a long way towards equalizing the argument. In particular, there's a sharp monologue where Normal defends his choice of vocation as a striving towards a utopic idyll. By casting his villain as a charismatic monster rather than a plain, banal thug (i.e. 8MM), Thornett keeps Shockheaded from devolving into finger-wagging. As Normal says during the course of the film, "If you have no vision, become a moralist."Speaking of vision, Shockheaded is about as visually impressive as can be found in the zero-budget world. The film is shot on digital video, and Thornett clearly knows the limitations of that medium, as he does everything he can to avoid them; in turn, adhering to these limitations improves the film on thematic levels. Especially striking is the film's noir-informed lighting scheme; while borne from necessity (excess light leads to a flat, washed-out picture), it furthers the mysterious and ambiguous air that drifts through the film's first two acts. Thornett's shot choices, too, are generally inspired, like the early shot at the level of a doorjamb; aside from some clumsy two-shots early on, Thornett demonstrates a clear understanding of film grammar and a confident directorial sense. (It never fails to amaze me how many no-budget filmmakers possess neither attribute.) Even when the film's narrative falters, as I feel it does in its third act, his eye remains sharp. I wonder what he could do with a large Hollywood budget.There is, however, that third act. Shockheaded is a worthwhile film, but it has its share of faults, and most of them exist in the last twenty minutes. Having spent a good deal of time setting up a foreboding atmosphere and a strong sense of unreality (the guy with the umbrella, for instance), Thornett proceeds to solve it all with a protracted series of shootouts. It's like he ran out of ideas. I can see how it's part of the subtle, unspoken debt owed by Shockheaded to Sam Peckinpah's Bring Me the Head of Alfredo Garcia (a debt that, judging from the writeups around the Internet, I seem to be alone in spotting). But I don't think the third act of Garcia works as well as what precedes it, either. Too often, killing everyone seems like the last resort of a man who's painted himself into a narrative corner.Furthermore, the film's answer to one of its central mysteries - the identity of the face behind the blank white mask - is a bit simplistic; I would have rather seen no answer at all. I grant that it's not a concrete answer (by the time the scene in question rolls around, we've clearly left any plane of reality), but it feels too easy. There is, however, the poetic last shot as compensation, so it's a wash.Aside from that, there are a couple elements from the usual litany of shortcomings associated with no-budget moviemaking that manifest here; chief among these is the deficiencies in acting. Thornett is fun, and Debbie Rochon, who plays the missing girl, can always be counted on to class up a B-movie, but the rest of the actors aren't too keen. Wauer in particular stays a bit too stoic for much of the film, which translates as disinterest.These are mere quibbles, though, and anyone who watches homegrown cinema with regularity has to make peace with the fact the acting is likely going to be uneven. Overall, Shockheaded shows Eric Thornett has a lot to offer the film world. It's not groundbreaking, but it's quite accomplished when compared to its zero-budget bretheren. And it's entertaining to boot.

Steve Carlson, the proprietor of The Ongoing Cinematic Education of... since 2002, neither conducts electricity nor talks to reptiles. However, he knows someone who does both.

DVD Review: Blood Bath

Steve Carlson — Thu, 29 Jun 2006 07:27:38 EDT

Joel M. Reed's Blood Bath is so cheesy and so cheap. I don't mean that as an insult. I rather like a certain breed of cheesy-n-cheap, and to an extent Blood Bath is a fair example of this. It's unpretentious and loony, and if you're in the right mood, it's pretty entertaining.Blood Bath is an omnibus feature inspired by Hammer and Amicus films, and as such it needs a framing device. The framing device here involves a horror filmmaker (Harve Presnell) with a secret. One night on set, he tells his actors and crew that, despite his chosen genre, he doesn't believe in the supernatural. A couple of them hang out and try to convince him to think otherwise by telling him weird, supposedly true tales. Like most framing devices, it's functional in moving the film along, and it does have a sort of twist ending, but it never really feels more than superfluous.The meat of Blood Bath comes in the recited stories. Despite the title, the stories are low on gore (an astonishing fact, considering Reed is best known for a movie in which a woman has her brains sucked out through a straw); instead, they benefit from a refusal to take themselves seriously. There's a big streak of silly running through these tales, and by all evidence it's intentional.Moreover, Reed's confidence in his ability to entertain via humor and ironic circumstances gains strength as the film rolls on. The first story, about a hitman whose latest assassination attempt backfires, is the weakest, as it's pitched mostly towards the serious and leans too hard on an O. Henry-style reversal ending; however, once you get to the lunatic fourth story (about a kung fu master who pays the price for selling secrets), Blood Bath is past caring about niceties like coherence or respectability.The third tale, about a loan shark who runs afoul of a ghost whose corporeal form he inadvertently killed and must resort to drastic measures to survive being locked in a safe, is the tightest and most traditionally entertaining, and the second, about a guy who uses a magic coin to wish himself back to the Napoleonic Era only to have his romantic illusions shattered, has some amusing bits (unwashed-Frenchman jokes!) and a corker of an ending; still, the surreal madness that closes out the fourth tale is probably the shining moment for Blood Bath.Technically, the film is quite rough (if ever a film needed wholesale ADR, it's this one), and Reed's direction never transcends mere functionality. The microbudgeted nature of this film also provides a tad too much unintentional mirth; for instance, I was greatly amused by the 'occult store' in the second tale, which consists of a small room with plain white walls and one piece of warehouse racking containing some tacky knick-knacks. It would be a stretch to call Blood Bath good filmmaking, and it's definitely a weak excuse for a horror film. It is, however, a reasonably fun diversion. Especially if beer or other alcoholic substances are within reach.About the DVD: Even if the included film isn't your speed, Subversive Cinema's DVD release is worth picking up solely for Joel M. Reed's feature-length commentary. Reed, who, like his forbearer Herschell Gordon Lewis (who gets a quick citation as Reed unfairly in my eyes claims "His fans want to celebrate failure"), long ago abandoned filmmaking for more lucrative shores (in Reed's case, computer programming) but now looks to get back into the entertainment business, carries with him a fascinating mix of hubris and awareness of his place in the cinematic food chain - the first thing he does is call Blood Bath bland. He chats (with the help of a moderator) about the genesis of the project and how, for the first time in his career, funding fell into his lap. As it turns out, the blandness he attributes to the film stems from his own toning-down of the material due to possible studio interest. That didn't pan out, but he had a money man who gave him the cash he needed with unexpected promptness, so he was able to make the film anyway.It wasn't a lot of money, though, and Reed touches on the concept of using humor as a gloss for the obvious cheapness (or should I say cheepnis?) of the project. He then gives a quick overview of the tax-shelter structure in New York that fostered the underground scene and provides a partial explanation of the FOWO syndrome that turned many exploitation films into semi-lost cult items.He also indulges in some fun name-dropping that speaks to the vitality of the New York City underground scene in the '70s. One of the crew members on this film was none other than Oliver Stone, who at the time was a hungry up-and-comer who had just helped make a film called Sugar Cookies (which Reed misremembers as Fortune Cookies). Interesting note: The co-director of Sugar Cookies was Lloyd Kaufman, co-founder of the infamous Troma Studios, which would eventually become the only house willing to release Reed's Bloodsucking Freaks to theaters.Reed goes on to mention that among those who auditioned for Blood Bath and weren't cast for various reasons were future stars Sylvester Stallone and Debra Winger. (The latter was turned down because Reed couldn't envision her doing the nudity that at the time was required for the role, not knowing about her stripped-off turn in Slumber Party '57.)In the course of the commentary, Reed rather surprisingly reveals himself as an ardent and intelligent film buff; he cites among his recent (at the time of the commentary) viewings Francois Ozon's Swimming Pool, Claude Chabrol's Merci Pour le Chocolat and Kang Je-gyu's Tae Guk Gi. (Of Ozon, Reed says, "My movies are better than his early movies.") Tireless Japanese autuer Takashi Miike, a follower of Reed's trailblazing sick-minded extremism, gets a shout-out as well; in a way, Miike gets the ultimate compliment when Reed claims that "Audition makes me sick."The ending to The Others is spoiled in the course of the commentary. Overall, it's really quite a fantastic track, and kudos are due to Subversive for landing it.The disc also includes a short documentary, "Taking a Blood Bath." Despite the title, it's less about the film on the DVD and more about the state of independent filmmaking in New York City during the period in which Blood Bath was made. It's an okay featurette, which includes Reed going more in depth on some stuff he briefly visted on his commentary.Plus, there's insights from Ron Sullivan, the film's accidental art director who later went on to renown as the prolific porno director Henri Pachard – his highlights include Babylon Pink (whose title was used on a marquee as part of David Letterman's opening Late Night sequence for a couple of years) and Blame it on Ginger (one of Ginger Lynn Allen's most iconic titles). The other two contributors, character actors Jerry Lacy and Sonny Landham, seem like they would rather talk about anything other than Blood Bath. "Taking" is too scattered to be a success, but it has its moments.The disc is then topped off by quick-but-informative biographies for anyone involved with the film who became even remotely famous (this includes Doris Roberts and P.J. Soles) and trailers for Blood Bath and other Subversive releases. The image looks about as good as it ever will (the print is soft like VHS, but the colors are dynamite), and Subversive went the extra mile by including both the original mono soundtrack and a remixed 2.0 Dolby soundtrack.Go ahead, compare the two. (Or don't. The mono soundtrack, to my ears, was so muddy as to be unlistenable; thank you Dolby!) It's a pretty good package, if I may say.

Steve Carlson, the proprietor of The Ongoing Cinematic Education of... since 2002, neither conducts electricity nor talks to reptiles. However, he knows someone who does both.

DVD Review: Funny Man

Steve Carlson — Wed, 28 Jun 2006 12:49:21 EDT

Does anyone fondly remember the last gasps of the first-wave slashers? I fail to see how anyone could - the late '80s and early '90s must be considered a low point in the history of the horror film, as the then-predominant slasher genre degenerated into cliches, repetition and lame 'humorous' killers. Out of this festering cesspool sprang Simon Sprackling's Funny Man. Its British pedigree only proves that the boys across the pond can make films as dissatisfying as their American brethren.The plot of Funny Man is straight out of stock (a bunch of people in a creepy house being picked off one by one) and the characters are one-dimensional prats - several of them aren't even given names, being instead identified by a character trait (i.e. Crap Puppeteer). The only note of interest - indeed, the only thing in which the filmmakers seemed to have had any interest - is its title character, a psychotic supernatural imp who looks like a jester that got caught in a fire. An interesting villain can forgive a lot of sins in the average slasher film. The Funnyman, though, is not going to get anything forgiven.Rather, the Funnyman is punch-pressed straight from the Freddy Krueger mold. You know which Krueger I'm taking about. Not the vicious Krueger who sucked Johnny Depp into a bed and growled, "Welcome to prime time, bitch!" The Funnyman is modeled, like so many others, after the famous and influential later version of Krueger. In other words, the crap Krueger, the one who killed Breckin Meyer with a goddamn Nintendo Power Glove in Freddy's Dead. This means that the Funnyman specializes in pointlessly ornate death scenes and has a laugh line ready for every murder. Be still, my beating heart.Granted, the Funnyman isn't the worst example of this godforsaken type I've seen. The Tanqueray-dry Britishness in his sense of humo(u)r helps; it's cheeky rather than overbearing, inspiring grunts and the occasional titter rather than groans, and I'll admit a sneaking affection for his tagline ("Sorted!"). The kill scenes also aren't too bad, and they're certainly heavy on the red stuff; my favorite involves a woman getting her brain blown out of her head in one piece (with her eyes still attached, no less). The problem with the character arises in the scenes prior to the kill-and-a-quip bits. After all, one can't just string together a series of brutal murders and call it a proper film (unless you're Alan Clarke), and once you get past the money shots, Funny Man is pretty paltry.The Funnyman isn't just a killer - he's a prankster and trickster as well, and as such he enjoys toying with his victims. This character quirk is interesting early on, with the neatest being a setpiece involving an art gallery that recalls the most effective bit from Mario Bava's Kill, Baby, Kill!. But the longer the film goes, the less amusing and more protracted the set-ups become. The Funnyman just isn't as funny as he thinks he is; the nadir in this respect is the killing of the character billed as Hard Man, whose death via spike heel to the eye in no way justifies the overlong and unfunny set-up involving pricey wigs, ugly strippers, Complimentary Beer and a back-alley argument. Surely there was an easier way to off this guy while still staying true to the character, no?The most shameful thing about this film, though, isn't its failure or lack of ambition. What really irks is that, from the evidence here, Sprackling and company are capable of good things. The first half hour or so is promising; it balances the goofy and the gross without sliding into gross incompetence. The Funnyman is allowed to be menacing while still keeping his prankish edge, and there's some low-grade tension developed by certain scenes (again, I must cite the art-gallery scene). Most importantly, though, Sprackling demonstrates a talented eye for composition that normally eludes the creators of lowest-common-denominator slasher flicks. I was especially impressed by his understanding of screen space; there's a funny gag early on that depends on proper framing, and Sprackling's use of foreground/background in regards to the running gag involving the fella in the shopping cart is consistently amusing.Sprackling's talent, though, is leavened by an equal talent towards self-sabotage. Take the early scene wherein our main character, a venal record producer, listens to an unmarked demo tape with evil properties. It's a well-paced and well-shot sequence that builds quite effectively... or it would be if it wasn't cut together with two other setpieces. The sequence still retains some of its power, but it would have been so much more effective if it didn't keep getting interrupted. This tendency towards unnecessary cross-cutting holds through the whole of Funny Man, which not only defangs the good parts but makes the intolerable parts that much more extended and annoying.The post-mortem on Funny Man goes like this: cheerful without being funny, gory without being scary, enthusiastic without being good. It's the kind of film that would probably be fun to make, but watching it is another matter. Films like this are why the slasher film keeled over in the first place. Then again, it's films like this (and in that, I mean films made by people with an obvious love for the genre) that are keeping it alive today. Where does that leave us? Hell if I know.Postscript: Christopher Lee appears in this as the owner of the Funnyman's mansion. He's excellent, as he always is, but he's also barely in it once you get past the precredit sequence. About the DVD: Subversive Cinema, an up-and-coming DVD company who's already proven their worth with several overstuffed discs of films ranging from David Lynch to Japanese extremism to long overdue and heavily bootlegged American '70s sleaze (and who also have the coolest animated logo in the business), have gone to obsessive lengths to present the most comprehensive package of Funny Man that they could. Chief among the extras is a commentary with Sprackling and Funnyman portrayer Tim James.The commentary, which also includes a moderator, covers a lot of ground from the project genesis to technical aspects to trivia and minutiae. The film originated as a half-hour short which the directors claim is much more serious in tone (having seen it, I'd have to agree), and during the expansion and re-shooting process it turned into the cheeky thing we have here. Part of that expansion, it turns out, involved a good deal of improvisation - the majority of the Funnyman's dialogue was improvised by James, and several scenes (notably the strip-club scene) were made up on the spot. Other things were changed due to budgetary limitations, like the death scene for the Psychic Commando. The budget restraints get touched on in other ways, as well; listening to this commentary will, among other things, give you a master class in how to get lighting equipment for zero cash.A good amount of time is spent talking about Christopher Lee; Sprackling reveals that all his scenes were shot in a couple of days and that his material kicked off the production, which Sprackling credits with giving them a strong starting point (as the crew had to look like they knew what they were doing so Lee wouldn't write them off as incompetents). The two also discuss their "wanker of a publicity agent" who wanted to start a faux feud with Lee as a way to drum up publicity, a tactic which to the relief of everyone never came to fruition. Also interesting to note is that, despite the film's significant gore content, the filmmakers were only asked to cut two seconds from the spike-heel-to-the-eye scene.The commentary's most surreal and entertaining moment comes two-thirds in, when an innocent question about sequels inspires in Sprackling a long, free-floating exegesis of the planned follow-up, which, to hear him tell it, involved Christopher Lee, Japanese schoolkids, mental patients' dreams being psychically projected onto celluloid, a mechanized tree, copyright infringement and Mel Gibson. Also, there's a submersible cow. Even though I'm not a fan of Funny Man, I'd see that sequel in a goddamned heartbeat.Also included on the disc is the previously mentioned short, which covers about the opening 20 minutes of the film and offer a peek of a very different (and, in my opinion, more interesting) direction the production could have taken. Then, there's the making-of featurette "Sorting Funnyman," which bolsters my conviction that this thing must have been both a blast to make and incredibly difficult, as most microbudget cinema is. (Ask Lloyd Kaufman.) The set is rounded out by a short interview with Lee (part of which shows up in "Sorting"), in which he praises the filmmakers' originality and drive, then holds forth on the sorry state of British cinema for a couple of minutes, a pair of trailers - one for the film and one for the short (!) - and an inexplicable short entitled "Pop Promo." I have no idea what that last thing is supposed to be, but it's not boring. The soundbite from the Funnyman that plays over the special features menu says it best: "Well, ya get ya fuckin' money's worth, dinnae?"

Steve Carlson, the proprietor of The Ongoing Cinematic Education of... since 2002, neither conducts electricity nor talks to reptiles. However, he knows someone who does both.