Two Anti-Thrillers from the Criterion Collection

Two-Lane Blacktop (1971) consistently, intentionally, and brilliantly defies expectations, so if you’re unfamiliar with it, don’t be misguided by its subject matter into thinking it a precursor to action-thrillers such as The Fast and the Furious (2001) despite its similar emphasis on street racing.  Instead, director Monte Hellman, who on Criterion’s definitive DVD appears on a commentary track along with indie filmmaker Allison Anders, uses the Western as a model for his cross-country tale, creating a kind of pioneer-epic-in-reverse as the characters make for the East Coast under the power of their four hundred “horses.”  And the road camaraderie of the ostensible antagonists, a group that includes a memorable Warren Oates, is at times reminiscent of the code of honor in a samurai flick.

Yes, Two-Lane Blacktop still has its thrills, but these are not so much visceral in nature as they are, well, soulful.  With its elegiac tone and subversion of genre staples, both visually and dramatically, the film actually explores the nature of heroism and mythmaking on a deeper level.  Two-Lane Blacktop has long been a cult film, and so it makes sense that appreciations from admirers such as Tom Waits and Richard Linklater are included (as is the full script!) on this 2-disc release.  However, the folks at the Criterion Collection did not get Rob Zombie, who wrote a song with the same title, to contribute to this superb and comprehensive package.  Maybe next time.

Drunken Angel (1948), which Criterion released a couple of weeks earlier, also takes genre film to a place where some audiences may not want to venture:  it’s a yakuza movie that’s not really about the yakuza.  Although Akira Kurosawa’s masterful script makes reference to the “feudal” characteristics of the local gangsters, the movie does not romanticize them as vestiges of traditional Japanese culture but rather uses them as a vehicle to critique its crass Westernization during the American occupation.  The title character is a doctor played by Takashi Shimura, and if you know of this actor only from his far more famous roles such as the ill-fated bureaucrat in Ikiru (1952) or the sagacious leader of the Seven Samurai (1954), then his performance here is revelatory:  brazen, full of vitality, and self-possessed and high-minded even as an alcoholic, he takes over the screen nearly every time he appears.  Which is tough to pull off given that he is paired for the first time with Toshiro Mifune, who, although he looks disconcertingly young, blazes with intensity.  Kurosawa, who felt that this was the first film that manifested his own mature style, keeps the focus on the story and the performances.  He positions the camera parallel to the ground and keeps it quite still while also making the filmic space “closed,” lending a somewhat stagy feel to the proceedings—until the wild, almost expressionist climax, in which the two yakuza square off, their faces mask-like in fear and rage.  As with many Criterion editions, the disc includes features that are more than just nice extras for completists; they actually help the viewer appreciate the film on a whole new level, at least in my case.  Here we get a well-researched, eye-opening 25-minute featurette that details Kurosawa’s battle with the censors over Drunken Angel.  The fact that the writer/director could navigate such exacting “guidelines” throughout the creative process and still produce such a deeply affecting drama is yet another testament to his genius.

New Must-Have Horror Releases from Anchor Bay

Meanwhile, Anchor Bay continues to position itself as the “Criterion of Horror,” with another top-notch deluxe version of an undisputed classic.  This time it’s the beautifully designed “Ultimate Edition” of Evil Dead (1981).  As fans know, there have been many DVD releases of Sam Raimi’s seminal film over the years and indeed, the wonderfully self-effacing commentary track by the director and his longtime producer Robert Tappert, is hardly new.  However, that’s just a single feature on only one of the three discs that make up this treasure chest for fans of Ash, the “Book of the Dead,” and colorlfully spewing bodily fluids.  Believe it or not, there are six new featurettes in this DVD set, most of them appearing on the third disc, entitled “Ladies of the Evil Dead.”  More than one of these chronicle the experiences of the trio of actresses who portray the film’s central victims/monsters.  Studio-shot footage as well as on-location segments at cons and screenings show them reminiscing about the notoriously difficult shoot and how, in recent years, they’ve developed a kind of traveling road show within fandom.  But there are plenty of extremely gratifying extras for those who want to learn more about the historical and cultural context of the film itself.  I particularly appreciated “Discovering the Evil Dead” which recounts the role of the film in the U.K.’s “video nasties” uproar of the early ‘80s

And did I mention that a nifty reproduction of the original theatrical poster is also included?(As soon as I finish typing this, it’s going up on the wall.)

With a presentation that’s both so comprehensive and attractive, it’s easy to forget that at the center of it all is what is first and foremost a great film, one that’s held up for me for, well, a quarter-century of viewings.  It’s still amazing how Raimi and Tappert were able to draw so artfully upon the most resonant themes and ideas from Night of the Living Dead (1968) and The Exorcist (1973), the two most influential and groundbreaking horror movies of the previous decade (remember, The Evil Dead first started being made back in ‘79).  But they did it in such a way that not only does the resultant work not feel derivative, but also seems to echo James Whale, Jean Cocteau, and Warner Brothers cartoons, suggesting some kind of unholy but giggle-producing kinship between such varied cinematic touchstones.  And since this ultimate edition does an equally good job of covering The Evil Dead both as a work of film art and as a pop culture phenomenon, I recommend it as a gift for fledging filmmakers, historians of the medium, and really for anyone who can still be inspired by the triumph of imagination over all else.

And just in time for the holidays, Anchor Bay has also released Silent Night, Deadly Night (1984) on a DVD that, while lacking the outsized features of the above title, still contains thoughtful features that shed light on the film’s significance to the genre.  If you thought the recent religious furor over The Golden Compass was something, check out the archival press clippings that recount the uproar that led to Tri-Star pulling the film and canceling its West Coast run entirely.  I can understand some Catholics being offended by the portrayal of a cruel Mother Superior, but the arguments that the image of a Santa-costume-wearing maniac was corrupting the innocence of America’s youth seem truly bizarre.  Wouldn’t it have been simpler and more American to ask TV stations not to broadcast spots that kids could have seen rather than pressuring theater owners to withdraw an R-rated film from exhibition that few kids would have seen anyway?  I guess the lasting value of what Anchor Bay has done here is to show horror fans how much they now take for granted…

Also on the disc is an extremely disarming audio-only interview with Silent Night’s director, Charles E. Sellier, Jr.  During it he acknowledges the importance of his A.D.’s to filming many of the best known “action” set-pieces (read: the gore-soaked killings).  Moreover, Sellier admits that he “regrets” having made a “slasher” picture and goes on to explain how he now lectures at film schools to make young directors aware of the “consequences” of what their work.  This kind of mea culpa is probably not what those who are currently remaking this film want to hear, although perhaps nowadays courting controversy may actually be part of the marketing strategy, I don't know.  In the interview we also hear details about the improvised nature of some of the brutal death scenes, including the infamous “antlers sequence.”

But what about when we consider Silent Night, Deadly Night as a film, not just as a cultural artifact?  First off, it’s undeniably nasty—especially in its conflation of ultra-violence and absurdly gratuitous nudity (how many women open their front doors topless, let alone in the winter?).  However, the excruciating earnestness with which the filmmakers lay out the backstory of the protagonist’s psychopathology—his rampage proper does not begin until the second half of the movie—is fascinating.  The directness of the film’s approach and even the simple-minded flavor of its characterizations can be criticized as crude, to be sure, but they also fit the point-of-view character’s immature understanding of the world around him and actually work to lend a pronounced creepiness to the story; that is, you could argue that with even a dollop more artiness, this film would not be half as effective.  Add to that the subversiveness of taking a major holiday as your springboard and imbuing your killer with all-American good looks and you’ve got a movie that’s far more interesting than most of its ilk.  So I recommend this DVD as indispensable on two levels:  for the highbrow viewer to explore again and again for its subtextual commentary on the materialism and phony piety of the early ‘80s… and for the decidedly lowbrow purpose of showing on a large-screen TV as the perfect background reel to a terrifically twisted holiday party.

(Finally, please note that another notable DVD release from Anchor Bay this week is Hatchet.  In lieu of discussing that film here, please allow me to encourage you check this site again within the next couple of weeks, when Firefox News will feature a new interview with its acclaimed writer-director, Adam Green.)

Compelling Nonfiction About Genre Films

Released earlier in the year by Vertical, David Kalat’s J-Horror makes a welcome addition to the library of not only those interested in that school of filmmaking, but also to fans of the horror genre as a whole—as well as to anyone interested in Asian film in general.  The book’s subtitle is “The Definitive Guide to The Ring, The Grudge and Beyond” and for once such a claim is not hyperbole.  While taking neither a dryly encyclopedic approach to the subject, nor adopting a fanboyish lack of perspective, Kalat strikes the perfect balance:  he writes to a target reader much like he must have been about six years ago—an intelligent moviegoer who is intrigued by the successes of J-Horror and wants to learn more.  With a conversational tone that belies the vast amount of research this volume entailed, Kalat leads us on an awesome journey through an important recent landscape in the cinema of the fantastic.  And Kalat knows his stuff as few else do.  You’ll find references to Claude Chabrol and Fritz Lang nestled in passages about Kiyoshi Kurosawa and Hideo Nakata.  Providing the creative and generic contexts for J-Horror’s impact in both the United States and Japan, this well-organized book is the kind of title that, once you own it, you wonder how you ever did without it.  In addition to covering Japan’s “Haunted School” in an approach at once critical and historical, Kalat also surveys Korean, Chinese, and American entries in the movement.  The text is also punctuated by extremely helpful sidebars that cover select topics in greater depth, often clarifying mind-numbing topics such as out-of-sequence sequels and American translations of titles that don't make sense.  Available as paperback at US$14.95 and running around 300 pages, J-Horror represents a great deal.  My one gripe about the book is that the publisher did not splurge for an indexer’s services—a reference book as dense with names and titles as this certainly deserves one.

A couple of months ago I reviewed Titan Books’ The Hammer Story (see “related articles”), and for me that has to remain near the top of any holiday roundup that includes gorgeous books on film.  However, published at around the same time was Titan’s similarly impressive Starring Sherlock Holmes by David Stuart Davies and featuring a foreword by the late Ian Richardson.  Like the Hammer title, this handsome volume is organized chronologically and it covers more than a century of the archetypal sleuth on the silver screen, from 1900’s Sherlock Holmes Baffled clear through to Jonathan Pryce’s BBC two-parter that aired in the spring of 2007.  Every page contains evocative stills or poster art and Davies’s prose is analytical and precise without being too insiderish.  Reading this book is like getting a solid education in literature and film studies, not in obscure minutiae about an iconic fictional character.  In fact, it’s the kind of book that could double the size of your Netflix queue if you’re not careful.  At US$35, Starring Sherlock Holmes is quite a bargain—costing about as much as four glossy film magazines at a newsstand yet deserving a lifelong place on your book shelf.

And Don’t Forget About These!

I’ve raved elsewhere about Jack Ketchum’s The Girl Next Door (see “related articles”) but I really need to harp on this title again because now it’s out on DVD and it’s the sort of release that can fly under the radar of both genre and mainstream reviewers.  That’s because it arguably occupies a kind of limbo generically-speaking—too dark to be considered anything other than horror by much of the mainstream, but lacking the conventions (and clichés) that the mass of genre fans often expects.  Yet the film’s fearlessness in claiming its own territory and holding fast to it is a tribute to the integrity and creativity of the folks at Moderncine.

For those who have seen the movie and share my enthusiasm, you should know that the DVD does not emphasize the usual trappings of new releases—anecdotal meanderings by cast and crew and some tired stills galleries.  No, here we get two beyond-fascinating commentary tracks that perfectly complement each other.  On one track, the producers and director recount the tricky logistics of shooting with their young cast.  How and why did they need to get their script approved by New Jersey’s Assistant Attorney General?  How did they manage to shoot scenes with nudity so that the audience experienced them as such but the in-frame underage actors did not?  The answers to all such mysteries are revealed.  On the other commentary track are screenwriters Daniel Farrands and Philip Nutman as well as Jack Ketchum himself.  Their conversation ranges from the finer points of adapting the interiority of a first-person narrative for the screen to some draw-dropping psychosexual interpretations of the film’s content by Nutman.  What’s great about this commentary is that none of the writers hold back, with Ketchum completely forthright about the few things he was not crazy about in the adaptation.  (And as a bonus treat, you can experience the slightly disorienting sensation of the author being addressed as “Dallas,” his real first name.)

Indeed, listening to both of these tracks renews my awe of commercial cinema—they provide plenty of evidence for why it represents the highest level of multi-level artistic collaboration, one that just can’t be duplicated in other media.  So if you haven’t seen TGND during its limited theatrical run, be warned—not because of its well-publicized graphic content, but because if you purchase this DVD you may end up enrapt and watching the entire feature three times, thus losing about day of your life.  If you’re still owed some sick days for 2007, here’s a good way to burn one.

I have also waxed rhapsodically in the past about Crawlspace, a vintage TV movie released on DVD by Wild Eye.  Of all the impressive DVDs out there, I’m thinking this may make the perfect gift for those who are partial to macabre thrillers.  Why?  Because they are not likely to have seen it and so will be endlessly grateful to you for bringing it to their attention.  This is a title that’s not shown on cable or probably even available at your local library, although it should be.  And while I’m at it, I just want to mention another Wild Eye release, The Devil’s Daughter.  As corny and overripe as Crawlspace is restrained and subtle, this TV movie was directed by Jaws 2 helmer Jeannot Szwarc and should appeal to anyone who values campy, obscure, and downright weird horror.  Originally airing during the relative lull in its subgenre that took place between Rosemary’s Baby (1968) and The Exorcist, this flick is the type you’d expect to be lost in a vault somewhere:  it’s simply too crazed and silly to survive in full daylight.  First there’s the oddball assemblage of actors, many of whom are interestingly cast against type:  Abe Vigoda, Joseph Cotten, and Jonathan Frid all play important parts.  But the high point is undeniably Shelly Winter’s performance—so thoroughly entertaining, modulating between over-the-top manic and cloyingly sugary but never less than intense in either mode.  Rarely scary, and featuring a lot of cheesy ‘70s moments such as unnecessary zooms and romantic walks along the beach, The Devil’s Daughter should put a big smile on the face of anyone who can laugh at a ridiculously predictable plot and plenty of occult hokum.  In short, if you’re in the mood to stage your own MST3K, you could not do with better fodder.  By the way, don’t expect special features with these DVDs from Wild Eye.  In the future perhaps the label will augment their releases with such extras, but for now it’s best to consider the fact that these works even exist as the ultimate special feature.

Happy shopping!