There’s just no way around it; King Ghidorah is the most heavy metal monster in movie history. I mean that in the literal sense, since the supreme kaiju being is seemingly armored by a layer of gold scales, making his “heavy metal” designation as matter-of-fact as Mechagodzilla‘s. Of course, I also mean it in the colloquial sense. The three-headed dragon beast is loudly & proudly metal as fuck on a cellular level. When Ghidorah flies into the frame to take down Godzilla and his fellow skyscraper flunkies, the image conjures the crushing sounds of heavy-metal guitar riffs in audiences’ brains, even in the 1960s pictures that were produced well before Black Sabbath had a record deal. Ghidorah is so metal, in fact, that it takes at least three other Toho-brand monsters to muscle him out of the pit, one for each lightning-spewing head. 🤘
The first time I encountered King Ghidorah was in the 1968 kaiju crossover picture Destroy All Monsters, in which the space-alien bio weapon was unleashed to union-bust a gang of kaiju that included Godzilla, Mothra, and Rodan (among the less-famous monsters Minilla, Gorosaurus, Anguirus, Kumonga, and Varan). Seen out of order in my winding journey through Criterion’s Godzilla box set, this appeared to be an especially grand ego-boost for the giant beast, like when WWE puts over their biggest, brawniest wrestler by having them eliminate every other competitor on the roster during the Royal Rumble. As it turns out, that was Ghidora’s exact funciton from the very beginning, and his debut entrance into the Toho kaiju ring marked the very first time Godzilla felt compelled to team up with other monsters to fight on humanity’s behalf. That Godzilla face-turn was in 1963’s Ghidorah, The Three-Headed Monster, in which evil space aliens declare interplanetary warfare by launching Ghidorah at Planet Earth, threatening to take over. It’s then up to Mothra, in her squirming grub form, to convince Godzilla & the pterodactyl-like Rodan to stop throwing rocks at each other like schoolyard children and instead join forces to fight off this existential, heavy-metal threat. They’re both petty assholes about it, but they eventually relent and team up to repel the flying hell-beast before going their separate ways.
The reluctant tag team of Godzilla & Rodan reforms when King Ghidorah returns in 1965’s Invasion of the Astro-monster. Rebranded with his new wrestler gimmick as Monster Zero, Ghidorah is once again deployed as an interplanetary weapon of mass destruction, one that can only be disarmed by the collective power of multiple kaiju opponents. His inevitable 2-on-1 battle with Godzilla & Rodan is delayed until the climactic 15 minutes of the runtime, though, as the invading Xiliens from Planet X smartly abduct Godzilla & Rodan with UFO tractor beams and imprison them for as long as possible so Ghidorah can do maximum damage, unchecked. Without the large-scale monster battles to fill up the runtime, Invasion of the Astro-monster spins its wheels with lengthy indulgences in political espionage and The X From Outer Space-style extraterrestrial cocktail parties. It’s maybe not the most thrilling approach to making a monster movie, but it does lead to some gorgeous 60s-kitch imagery. It’s impossible to decide what the most striking image of the film is in retrospect, but I’ve narrowed it down to two options: literalizing the Cold War aspect of the Space Race by putting a gun in the flag-planting astronaut’s free hand or Godzilla being abducted by a UFO. Then, Ghidorah soars into the frame to battle Godzilla & Rodan once again, erasing such questions entirely with heavy-metal bursts of lightning.
If there’s one detail of Ghidorah’s design that makes his metal-as-fuck majesty immediately obvious, it’s that each of his individual dragon heads moves independently, which is especially impressive when combined with his suitmation power of flight. It’s a lot like watching Kermit the Frog ride a bicycle for the first time in The Muppet Movie, adding an entire new dimension to kaiju suitmation spectacle audiences previously did not dream was possible. The suit was reportedly exceedingly difficult to operate as a result, often leading to longer shooting schedules as his operators struggled to keep his long, golden necks from tangling like noodles. Like headbanging to thrash riffs, it was well worth the headache. Everything else that makes Ghidorah so thunderously badass is immediately, visually obvious. He is the essence of metal, skyborne and beautiful. Godzilla mastermind Ishirō Honda’s impulse to bulk up the monster’s reputation by making him undefeatable unless several other kaiju attack in unison was a smart one, but it was also necessary. Look at him. No one would buy into the kayfabe otherwise.
Brandon texted me a couple of weeks ago to ask if I would be interested in writing about Final Destination: Bloodlines, and I admitted that I hadn’t even planned on seeing it, as I had only seen the first movie years and years ago at a sleepover and hadn’t seen any of them since (although I, like almost everyone on Earth, was familiar with the log-truck opening of the first sequel). This surprised him, as my fondness for Screamand my almost academic interest in the post-Scream teen horror boom is something that has come up often around these parts. Looking back at the franchise, the release years perfectly overlap with the most academically rigorous years of my life, which explains why I never paid much attention to the franchise. I have a very good friend who was very interested in seeing Bloodlines, however, and I did ultimately see it in theaters after several attempts to plan an outing. I’ll be doing a full review of that one, but I didn’t feel fully qualified to do a write-up on it with so little familiarity with the series (despite its largely self-contained nature), since I also didn’t really foresee that I would get the chance to binge all of the others in order to make the most informed review possible. But something else bigger than me had a plan all along … and within six days of seeing Bloodlines, I had seen all five of the previous Final Destination entries. And I have thoughts.
Final Destination (2000)
There’s something legitimately special about this one. I already knew before going into it that this began life as an X-Files spec script, with Alex (Devon Sawa)’s character having initially been planned to be the younger brother of FBI agent Dana Scully. On the show, Scully is specifically noted to have three siblings: sister Melissa and older brother Bill Jr., both of whom appeared in four episodes in the present and a few others in flashbacks, and Melissa is mentioned frequently outside of her actual appearances. Younger brother Charles never appears in the present and, in Jeffrey Reddick’s initial script, occupied the role that would become Alex. The narrative of the film follows Alex as he has a premonition of a terrible air disaster occurring on his class trip to Paris, and his pursuant panic results in him being kicked off of the flight with several other students and a teacher: his nondescript best friend Tod, orphaned sculptor Clear Rivers (Ali Larter), class bully Carter (Kerr Smith) and his girlfriend, goofball Billy (Seann William Scott), and Miss Lewton (Kristen Cloke). As a result of this, he and the others are stated to have “cheated Death’s design,” which means that Death is now coming for all of them, as Alex tries to figure out if there is a way to get off of Death’s list permanently.
I watched this one last during my binge, as my buddy who wanted to watch the movies with me said we should skip to the second as we had both already seen the first, which ended up working out well, since Final Destination 5 is actually a stealth prequel that leads into the the events of this one. It also meant that I had already seen where the franchise was going before returning to the original text, which gave some insight into how this formula would be adapted and recycled. The film franchise that most came to mind as a result was not another horror series but the Mission: Impossible movies. As with those movies, this initial outing is in a genre that the other films aren’t necessarily. The first M:Iis a spy thriller that focuses mostly on spycraft and espionage but which happens to include a couple of major action sequences, notably the Langley heist (where Tom Cruise’s Ethan Hunt descends into a computer room to steal information) and the big train-set finale that includes a helicopter crashing into a tunnel. The later M:I films are really only spy movies in the broadest sense of the term, and could be more accurately defined as action adventure films that happen to include international intrigue. Every film after the first exists first and foremost as a vehicle to deliver high-octane stunt spectacle, with the “spy” elements only being present to the extent that they are needed to provide a scaffolding on which the action hangs. Likewise, Final Destination is structured as a mystery with the trappings of a horror movie, one that happens to have a singular Rube Goldbergian death in it (Miss Lewton’s), and which is more interested in the question of why these people are marked for death and acting as a somber meditation (as much as a mainstream horror film from the turn of the millennium could be) on survivor’s guilt. It’s not a top-tier Scream-era teen horror, but it’s solidly second rung given the care that went into it. As a franchise, the following Final Destination movies are structurally identical; the lead character has a vision of horrible death, they manage to save others from impending doom, and the survivors then find themselves marked for death and die off in a particular order while they try to figure out a way to avoid dying, all of their deaths being horrific. Like the M:I sequels, the FD sequels take the most memorable element from the first film—Ethan Hunt doing something nearly superhuman in the former and the complicated domino-falling deaths of the survivors in the latter—and then make that gimmick the primary selling point. The stories in the films that follow put more effort into the complexity of the deaths than into the narrative drive or character motivation … and that’s fine, honestly. The “Every movie is essentially the same but come see how complicated the machinery of death is” approach is a perfectly legitimate marketing strategy, since, as a friend of mine put it, “You get exactly what you expect in a nice way.”
The fingerprints of The X-Files are still all over this thing, if you’re familiar enough with the series. First time director James Wong was a producer on the series and wrote seventeen episodes of it (most, if not all, with writing partner Glen Morgan), largely within the first couple of seasons (including “Beyond the Sea,” the episode that first introduced Scully’s family). Coincidentally (or not?), I caught a rerun of the season two episode “Die Hand Die Verletzt” on Comet a couple of weeks ago and there were a lot of elements of it that I saw in Final Destination. That episode focused on teenagers at a high school dealing with a tragedy, a dark force that was claiming them and other members of the community, and a lot of Vancouver forest night shoots that featured lightning almost-but-not-quite killing people. I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised that this one was one of many episodes co-written by Wong and Morgan. There are also moments scattered throughout the film in which I could detect the influence of characters from the series speaking through the characters in the film, with Daniel Roebuck’s FBI character reciting dialogue that I could hear Scully saying. The overall somberness of the proceedings is really what makes this one both stand out as a film and feel like part of the X-mythos.
Opening Disaster: Despite being the original, this is not the best opening sequence, but it’s still a strong start. I’ve seen parts of this sequence an uncountable number of times, given the number of movies I’ve seen over the years that were released on DVDs that loved pitching the idea of expanding your home media collection based on the presence of special features. I’m fairly certain that every single New Line Cinema release had the same advertisement, that promised “behind the scenes looks” at special effects, playing over clips from this scene. With air disasters being relatively low in the two decades following the film, this one became less scary over time before the recent ongoing spate of crashes and other issues in the past few years make this one frighteningly plausible once again. We’re all watching The Rehearsal, right?
Best Death: It has to be Miss Lewton, although this could be considered the franchise’s “original sin” as far as what the series would devolve into. Special mention has to go to Tammy getting flattened by a bus mid-sentence as well.
Worst Death: Billy Hitchcock is barely a presence in this film, only appearing when a scene needs Carter to bully someone other than Alex for a while. His death is also the most forgettable, as he’s decapitated by a shard of debris after a train smashes Carter’s car.
MVP: Devon Sawa is undoubtedly giving this his all, and I really like him here. He was trying to distance himself from his image as a teen heartthrob at the time by taking on “weirder” roles, as in this and in Idle Hands. Special mention has to be made of Tony Todd, however, as he makes his first appearance here as Bludworth, the mortician who “explains” the rules of Death’s design, such as they are.
Spot the Battle “Star”: In a break from my normal Star Trek obsession, it’s worth mentioning that I noticed an actor from Battlestar Galactica in (practically) every one of these films. Alessandro Juliani appears in an extremely minor role as a street musician in Paris in the film’s epilogue scene. He’s been in tons of stuff, but I know him best as Lt. Felix Gaeta. I met Juliani at a GalaxyCon in 2023 and he was very nice!
Final Destination 2 (2003)
Right off the bat, this film feels cheaper than its predecessor. The opening credits of all of these movies range from good to excellent, with later entries going into full-blown 3D glass breaking and x-ray recreations of the films’ various fatalities. This one opens in the bedroom of Kimberly (A.J. Cook) as the camera pans around in the semi-darkness, occasionally settling on the TV that’s playing an interview with a conspiracy theorist obsessed with the previous film’s Flight 180. This got a theatrical release, but from the first frame, it feels like a sequel in a franchise making its leap from cinemas to the direct-to-video market; it’s all very Lifetime. Luckily, from there, we move fairly quickly to the franchise’s defining scene, Kimberly’s premonition of a massive highway pile-up that occurs as the result of an unsecured load on a log truck. This was the only part of this movie that I had seen prior to this big rewatch, and it has stuck with me forever, as it probably has for an entire generation of moviegoers. Not to spoil too much, but while I thought this movie was pretty mediocre overall, I have to credit Final Destination 2 for a horror sequence that is, in its own way, responsible for altering human behavior to the same extent that Jaws did.
It’s unfortunate that after such a strong opening premonition, what follows is the first instance of using the Final Destination plot mold as straightforwardly and ho-humly as possible. Kimberly’s fellow survivors are a cop (Thomas Burke), a kid and his mom, a workaholic (Keegan Connor Tracy), a recent lottery winner (David Paetkau), a motorcycle-riding high school teacher (T.C. Carson), a pregnant delivery driver (Justina Machado), and a burnout (Rory Peters). The lottery winner dies first, and we’re starting out by jumping into the Goldbergian deaths for everyone, every time now that will henceforth be the defining trait of these films. He throws some old pasta out of a window and then proceeds to experience a series of implausible chain reactions: a magnet falls off of the fridge into his takeout, which then goes into the microwave; he spills oil while preparing a skillet to fry up some frozen snacks; his new Rolex gets caught in the sink, trapping him. We in the audience ask ourselves: Will the oil start a fire? Will the garbage disposal in the sink suddenly click on and mangle him? Will he have to turn on the disposal to get free? It’s not necessarily a bad thing that this will be all that there is to these movies from here on out (see above, re: “You get exactly what you expect in a nice way”), and it’s also good that the first of these survivor offings is one of the better ones. Unfortunately, this once again means that FD2 is front-loaded with the best stuff with a much weaker second half.
My friend that I watched FDs 2-4 with said that this one was his favorite, because there are some impressive deaths here, and that’s what he likes best. In addition to the aforementioned lottery winner (who meets his death when he manages to escape a fiery explosion in his apartment but slips on the spaghetti he threw out earlier and is impaled when the sticky fire escape ladder finally descends all the way), teenager Tim is flattened by a pane of glass that falls from a crane outside of his dentist’s office, his mother is killed due to broken failsafes in an elevator, and the burnout is bisected by a flying barbed wire fence. That’s what you’re probably here for, and you get what you want. Another positive is that Larter reprises her role as Clear Rivers from the first film, and we get two contributions to the (convoluted) lore: she’s managed to stay alive by committing herself to an institution where she finds safety in a padded cell and additional precautions, and we’re also introduced to the concept that Death ties up its loose ends, as each of the survivors in this one should have died sometime in the past year, but for various reasons, Alex’s actions aboard Flight 180 led to their survival. One woman was headed to a bed and breakfast where everyone else died in a gas leak, but she missed her flight because she was on the bus that hit Tammy in the first film; the teacher missed a fatal stabbing that happened to one of his colleagues instead because the school district transferred him to replace Miss Lewton; and so on and so forth.
This is all well and good, but I couldn’t shake the overall sense of cheapness that cast a pall over this one. The set-ups for the Goldbergian deaths is a high water mark for some, but for me, the difference in production quality and overall directorial cleverness between this and the next film was stark, so it ranks a little low for me. In conclusion: strong death sequences, shoddy character and framework.
Opening Disaster: Speaking of high water marks, this is the highest for the entire series. Iconic, socially influential, and twenty years later the marketing for Bloodlines directly invoked people’s decades-long fears that were instilled by the log truck pile-up. Impeccable and unimpeachable.
Best Death: Although Tim’s death is one of the more memorable (since the film had the guts, no pun intended, to kill off a child), the unexpected postscript death by barbecue explosion of a farm kid who happened to be saved by one of the survivors in an earlier scene may be the best part of the film other than the opening sequence. The workaholic’s death via being impaled not during a car crash but after when the airbag is deployed due to first responders’ use of the jaws of life is a neat little subversion as well.
Worst Death: Eugene and Clear’s hospital fireball is pretty goofy, and an ignominious end for Clear after her survival of the first film.
MVP: Despite minimal screen time, it’s definitely Tony Todd.
Spot the Battle “Star”: This time we’ve got a two-fer. I adore Keegan Connor Tracy; she’s been in a million things that I enjoy, with one-off and recurring characters on virtually every show shot in Vancouver: the Blue Fairy in Once Upon a Time, Professor Lipson in The Magicians, Norman’s first onscreen victim in Bates Motel, not to mention appearances on Supernatural, SG-1, First Wave, the list goes on. I even have a particular affection for her “sleep stories” in the Calm app. She plays a major role in this one as one of the survivors, and I almost completely forgot that she was in nine episodes of Battlestar. This film also features an appearance from Aaron Douglas as a frazzled deputy who rushes the pregnant survivor to the hospital; he was the Galactica’s deck chief, Tyrol.
Final Destination 3 (2006)
From the very first moments of FD3, I was immediately more impressed with this one than with its direct predecessor. The credits are well rendered, playing out over images of carnival rides and activities, and the text graphics pattern matches it; it’s a minor thing, but really sets the tone for what followed. Wendy (Mary Elizabeth Winstead) is at a senior night at the local amusement park with her boyfriend, best friend, and the best friend’s boyfriend Kevin (Ryan Merriman) when she foresees the derailment of the park’s roller coaster and the deaths of everyone aboard. She demands to be let off of the ride, and the operators release all of the seats in her section and they deboard: goth shithead Ian McKinley (Kris Lemche), his girlfriend Erin (Alexz Johnson), football jock Lewis (Texas Battle), a couple of people whose identities are hidden and form part of the mystery, plus two airheaded stereotypes and the creep who won’t stop trying to film them. The accident happens as Wendy foresaw, and Death comes for the survivors one by one, because that’s the Final Destination formula.
The extent to which this means that these films run together also means that when you talk to other people about these movies, the questions that they ask show you what parts of them had memorable staying power. Final Destination 3? Is that the one with the log truck? (No, that’s 2.) Is that the one with the bridge collapse? (No, that’s 5.) Is that the one with the racecars? (No, that’s 4.) Is that the one with the mall? (No, that’s 4 again.) Sorry, folks; the questions we were looking for were “Is that the one with the roller coaster?” and “Is that the one with the tanning beds?” The two airheads, Ashley and Ashlyn, could slot right into any openings in Daria’s younger sister Quinn’s Fashion Club with ease, and their deaths by being cooked alive while trying to bronze up are two of the more memorable kills that Death racks up. Just as importantly, there’s a match cut between their two tanning beds to their side-by-side caskets at the funeral that shows that there’s a bit more thought being put into the direction and editing of this one. It’s not just about following a trail of little contributions that create a big problem, but has some real interest in creating something visually interesting and well-composed outside of simply watching how Death tips the dominoes. That’s the James Wong touch, as he’s back to direct this installment.
That said, the rest of the fatalities in this one are nothing too special, until the climax at the town’s tricentennial. The sequence in the hardware store runs a little too long, and closing with the death-by-nailgun of Erin borders on trite. Similarly, Lewis’s fatal workout is also nothing to write home about. By the time the fireworks start going off and spooking horses into galloping through crowds of people while dragging a rope with a heavy stake at the end, you’ll be grateful that someone decided to put their foot on the gas a little. It’s also worth noting that although the metaphorical scaffolding of this one is stronger than FD2’s, the script itself is a little undercooked. A great deal of hay is made about Wendy’s supposed need to be in control, but this never really amounts to anything more than telling us that this is her Primary Character Trait, and it never really gets around to showing it. I did like the new twist that all of Wendy’s (terrible) photographs taken the night of the roller coaster incident provided clues about how the survivors would be picked off one by one, and it’s good that the film can find some new wrinkle to add despite being, skeletally, exactly the same as the movies that came before it. I also appreciated that the film included a human antagonist, as it did with Carter in the first one, as it gives the characters something more tangible and real to fight against than just a spooky wind. This one is in the top half of my rankings, if for no other reason than that it’s trying harder than FD2, and mostly succeeding.
Opening Disaster: A pretty solid opener, all things considered. There’s a bit more work put into introducing the characters and their various motivations, and the fact that Wendy’s best friend was planning on dumping Kevin, a secret that only Wendy knows (and plans to take to her grave) lends the whole thing a bittersweet quality. Where the log truck sequence succeeds is in making something completely mundane feel like it has the potential for massive death. On planes and rollercoasters, people already feel a certain (and usually normal) amount of uncertainty and anxiety, so it’s less surprising when something goes awry. The maulings are pretty brutal, though, if that’s what you’re into.
Best Death: There’s a reason that people still talk about the tanning beds.
Worst Death: It’s Ian getting smashed by a cherry picker, easily.
MVP: I really wish it was Mary Elizabeth Winstead/Wendy here, but that underbaked element to her “control freak” characterization leaves her feeling less fleshed out than she could have been. I think I’m actually going to have to give it to sleazeball Frankie Cheeks. He captures the 2006 vibe more than anything else, and his pervy nature makes his death decently satisfying. A little bit of air gets let out of the balloon when he’s no longer part of the story.
Spot the Battle “Star”: Patrick Gallagher is one of those “Hey it’s that guy” actors, having guested in a million things. He’s here as the carnival employee who escorts the survivors off of the ride, and he had a memorable appearance as a terrorist in the first season BSG episode “Colonial Day.” Weirdly, I know him best from his appearance in the Rapture flick Revelation.
The Final Destination, aka Final Destination 4 (2009)
People say that this is the worst one, and they’re right. The Final Destination was shot to make the most out of the (at the time) most recent attempt to foist the gimmick of 3D movies on the public, and as such there’s a lot of stuff flying at you. Final Destination is, admittedly, the perfect franchise to translate to the “Here comes something fast!!” experience, but the models used are just bafflingly awful. The main character’s visions appear as giant, poorly-rendered low-res images of scissors, tow chains, and a truly laughable snake that wraps around a pole before morphing into a caduceus. It’s a universally agreed upon low point, and it shouldn’t come as a surprise that it features the return of FD2’s creative team of David R. Ellis as director and Eric Bress as writer. In between that film and this one, Bress wrote The Butterfly Effect and Ellis directed Snakes on a Plane; this information is presented without comment. Even the things that worked about that one are absent here, and the film’s very short 82 minute runtime speaks to just how little inspiration there existed to fill out the scaffolding of this premise. It’s barely a movie.
At a race track, Nick (Bobby Campo) foresees a blowout on the track that results in an escalating accident that will take the life of a huge number of the attendees. He creates enough of a ruckus that his girlfriend Lori (Shantel VanSanten), her friend Janet (Haley Webb), and his bro-y bud Hunt (Nick Zano) are escorted out by security guard George (Mykelti Wiliamson). George also ejects a racist asshole, and the commotion also ends up saving the life of a mother of two young brats, who was trampled to death in the original vision. The racetrack disaster then unfolds, and, you know the drill by now, Death is tracking down each of the survivors one by one in the order that they would have died before. By this point, the scene in which the person with the vision presents their research/theories to the others is old hat, and the recap itself just keeps getting longer since each previous film’s disaster is added to the list of historical instances each time. The random deductions that characters make to reason out Death’s plan are always like the non sequitur trains of thought that would pop up in the old Adam West Batman, but it’s particularly tedious this time around. It also doesn’t help that this is the least developed or interesting group of characters, with even the shallow characterizations of the folks back in FD2 feeling like people with rich backstory in comparison. Presumably to suit the 3D conversion, everything has flat, boring, TV style lighting that calls back to the cheap-feeling nature of Ellis and Bress’s previous collaboration.
My friend who loved FD2 hated this one. At about halfway into the movie, he stood up to leave the group screening, since he was bored, but decided to sit back down to try and see at least “one good death scene” (this was after the racist was burned alive and dragged behind his own tow truck while trying to light a cross on George’s lawn, which would turn out to be the best that the film had to offer). He ended up staying all the way through the end—a man getting sliced into pieces by a chain-link fence (what we around here refer to as getting Cube-d), another man getting his guts sucked out through his rectum by an overpowered pool filter, and a man getting hit by an ambulance—not a one of them was good enough to satisfy the particular craving for creative gore that the film-going public has come to expect from a series that’s branded itself so strongly at this point. Part of what makes these so effective is when people can see tragedy befall the characters in a convoluted but not impossible way and recognize the potential for things to go horribly wrong in their own life. The most tragic things that occur at the racetrack are the things that could happen in any public setting when something awful is going down and people stampede or otherwise panic, and in that way it has an admitted kind of universal applicability. But I don’t see a man getting his asshole stuck on a pool filter or watch another man get shot into a fence by a gas canister so hard that he gets smooshed through it like he was secretly made of cake and think “That could happen to me.” Really and truly not worth the time.
Opening Disaster: It’s fine.
Best Death: The most cathartic death is watching the racist asshole get dragged/burned to death while “Why Can’t We Be Friends?” plays over his radio. But the best death is probably the one that Lori has in the second premonition, in which she gets mauled to death by an elevator that has been busted by architectural damage. It’s marred by the fact that she starts coughing up blood when she’s only in the gears up to her shins, but it’s still the only thing that happened in this movie that reflects any real life anxieties that I have.
MVP: I really only enjoyed two sequences in this, which were the scenes in which Janet almost drowns in a car wash and the part of the film in which George attempts to kill himself over and over again to get on with it, but his attempts keep failing since he’s not the next person on the list. Although his backstory basically blends that of Eugene (who tried and failed to kill himself to choose his death rather than let Death choose him) and Mrs. Carpenter (who was resigned to death and looked forward to meeting her spouse and child on the other side) from FD2, it doesn’t feel like a retreading of the same ground. That’s owed all to Wiliamson’s performance; he’s the best thing here.
Spot the Battle “Star”: There is no overlap between Battlestar and this, the worst Final Destination film. Take from that what you will, although it’s probably simply because this was the only one shot in New Orleans instead of Vancouver. There is still a connection, however, as actress Shantel VanSanten had a major role as Karen on For All Mankind, Battlestar creator Ronald D. Moore’s current series.
Final Destination 5 (2011)
So, Final Destination 5 is actually … great? Although this one doesn’t lean as hard into comedy as Bloodlines would after it, it’s still the first time that this one went for as many jokes as it does scares. I also found the characters in this one to be some of the most likable; I really appreciated that several of the characters were making ends meet by working multiple jobs, just like I was around the same time. Sam (Nicholas D’Agosto) spends his days as a salesman alongside with his buddy Peter (Miles Fisher) at Presage Paper, and at nights he works for the local branch of Le Cáfe Miro 81, where he’s impressed the head chef so much that he’s been nominated to apprentice at the flagship location in Paris. This complicates his relationship with Molly (Emma Bell), who also works at Presage, as does Peter’s girlfriend Candice (Ellen Wroe), a competitive gymnast. Candice’s work enemy is Olivia (Jacqueline MacInnes Wood), the extremely nearsighted office hottie, although office IT guy Isaac (P.J. Byrne) is indiscriminate with his pervy flirtation with every woman in the office (and outside of it). All of them are being taken on a company retreat by bus by their boss, Lapman (David Koechner), and when the bus stops on a bridge that’s under construction, Sam has a vision of it collapsing, managing to prevent the deaths of the named characters above as well as new factory foreman Nathan (Arlen Escarpeta). You know the drill by now; this means that they’re all on Death’s list … except for Molly, who survived even in the original vision.
It was a pretty widely revealed spoiler at the time that this film was a stealth prequel to the original Final Destination, and it’s hard for me to imagine that this wasn’t obvious to anyone paying attention, even without that knowledge. There’s a noticeable backward technological step in all of the cell phones that people use, and there are some visible dates (like on the massage coupon that Isaac steals out of a dead co-worker’s desk, leading him to the very parlor in which he would meet his fare) that show that this is pre-2001. As in the original Final Destination, the main character is initially interrogated by federal agents under suspicion of committing an act of extremism, and they are pursued by a member of the FBI (Courtney B. Vance here), but the use of “extremist” instead of “terrorist” feels very 90s. And as soon as you realize that the job opportunity that Sam has means that he would be working at the same Paris cafe where Carter died in the epilogue of the first film, you get the inkling that he’s never going to make it to France. None of these movies has a happy ending (except perhaps 2), as the great cosmic joke of the series is that Death can never be cheated, and no matter what steps the characters take, they’re going to die just before the credits roll when they finally think that they’re safe. Despite this happening every single time, it’s always a little bit of a shock, and the way this one winds around and dovetails with the franchise’s beginning is nicely done. I watched 2–5 in order, then looped back around to the first, and the effect was seamless.
Tony Todd has his largest presence in any of these films in this one, where Bludworth reappears after a two film absence, once again a creepy figure at the scenes of the deaths of the bridge collapse survivors. Sam thinks he’s involved, but it’s revealed that he’s only the coroner (which isn’t exactly the same as a mortician, as Alex and Clear broke into a funeral home in the first one, not a morgue, but I’m quibbling), although he does clue them in on the whole “Death’s design” thing. There’s a fresh new wrinkle in this one for the first time in a while, as Bludworth mentions a theory that one could “steal” another person’s time by killing them directly, as kind of a sacrifice. When Nathan spots an accident about to happen while arguing with antagonistic union rep Roy, he tries to get both of them out of the way of a falling piece of industrial equipment, but Roy grapples with him instead and, when Nathan breaks free by pushing Roy away, Roy ends up impaled on a giant hook. When this does seem to cause Nathan’s death on the list to be skipped, Peter, already grieving the loss of Candice (who was the first survivor to die), goes a little off the deep end. Final Destination 5 doesn’t deviate too far from the formula, but it finally does something different and fresh, introducing a bit of a slasher element. Although he’s found a way to profit off of his resemblance to Tom Cruise, Fisher’s hairstyling and wardrobe as Peter give him a distinctively Patrick Bateman-esque aura, and it’s a lot of fun to watch him deteriorate into a willingness to kill to save himself.
Fundamentally, I think that I may simply be out of alignment with the audience that these are made for, with the biggest example of this being that I think these movies are at their best when there are other antagonists beyond simple, amorphous Death. If you’re into watching those dominoes fall, then you get what you want every time, and that’s what these movies exist for, so I’m the odd man out here. I’m much more invested when there’s something tangible for the heroes to grapple with, even if I know that they’re ultimately doomed and we’re all just killing time (no pun intended) before Death crashes a plain, train, or other automobile in (or around) which all of the so-happy-to-be-alive survivors will meet their inevitable gory deaths. Making one of the main characters devolve from friend to attempted murderer that the leads have to fight directly adds a level of complication, if not complexity, to the proceedings. This is the one I’m looking forward to watching again.
Opening Disaster: Ranks second behind the log truck pile-up in FD2. There may be a bit of geographical bias going on here as, being from Louisiana, I’ve spent a lot of my life driving over many, many somewhat scary bridges. The Mississippi River bridge between East and West Baton Rouge Parishes, the Morganza Spillway bridge, the Atchafalaya Spillway bridge, the Sunshine Bridge, and especially the structurally deficient Calcasieu River Bridge; I’ve travelled them all, countless times. And yet in all my anxious bridge crossings, I never considered that there were so many harrowing ways to die in a bridge collapse. Lapman is doused in hot road tar, Candice falls and is eviscerated by the mast of a sailboat passing below, Peter gets impaled by falling rebar, and Olivia manages to survive the fall into the water only to be crushed by a car. Horrifying.
Best Death: To reveal the cause and circumstances of Nathan’s death would give away too much after I’ve already said enough, but it’s classic stuff. Candice’s death in a gymnastics accident is certainly one of the more gruesome, and watching her do flips and spins on the bar while juuuust barely avoiding stepping on the screw that’s waiting to set off the chain of events is one of the most effectively tense set-ups. I have to give it to Isaac, though, as he really makes you groan with disgust at his whole deal before he bites it, comically.
Worst Death: Like FD4, this one was shot for 3D, but it’s much less obtrusive than in its predecessor. The credits feature lots of glass breaking at the audience, but I didn’t think much of it. When I read that this was the case, I could remember certain shots that, with that knowledge, were clearly throwing things at the camera, but I hadn’t given them a second thought. The only one that feels really out of place is Lapman getting beamed in the head by a heavy duty wrench that was shot out by machinery. It’s the least interesting by far.
MVP: I never really understood why Nick D’Agosto’s career wasn’t more successful. I remember first seeing him as West in the second season of Heroes, where he played Hayden Panettiere’s love interest that year before disappearing after the 2007 writer’s strike resulted in an abbreviated season. He got some exposure on The Office, where he played Jan’s handsome young assistant who spurred Michael’s jealousy, and then he was in that movie Fired Up, where he and Eric Christian Olsen con their way into attending cheerleading camp so that they can hook up. It was a flop, but somewhere in a box in my closet I still have a mini football from the movie’s marketing campaign, since we used to get a lot of that kind of stuff at KLSU, so it’s never all that far from my mind. I find him very charming here, and he has the precise amount of boy-next-door charisma to pull this role off.
Spot the Battle “Star”: The head chef at the restaurant where Isaac works is played by Mike Dopud, who played Specialist Gage (a crewman from the Battlestar Pegasus who later joined in the Season 4 mutiny) on Battlestar Galactica, and appeared again in the prequel webseries Blood & Chrome.
Final Destination: Bloodlines (2025)
A full review of this one is coming soon! Some initial thoughts on Bloodlines is that it’s a strong entry overall. It’s got a great opening sequence, manages to subvert expectations in several places, and goes full tilt into being more comedic, which made it feel very fresh.
Opening Disaster: One of the best. This one tapped into my primal fear of heights and pumped me for every ounce of adrenaline I had in my body. The rooftop restaurant that collapsed filled me with abject terror; I was sick for the entire first fifteen minutes.
Best Death: After such a long absence, it’s great that the film goes for broke with one of its earliest death sequences, for Uncle Howard. The dominoes in this one feel perfectly calibrated for maximum physical repulsion and suspense. It would have only been topped by one that followed, except that one was actually a fake-out, so I can’t count it officially.
Worst Death: Darlene kicking it mid-sentence when a light pole falls on her was a bit of a let down.
MVP: Tony Todd is the obvious choice once again, especially as the younger actors in this one are probably offering some of the least interesting performances. I think I have to give it up for Richard Harmons’s Erik Campbell here, however, as he has the most dynamic performance, delivers some pretty great lines (and, according to press releases, had a lot of great alternates for some of the ad libs that made it to the final print), and is overall one of the more endearing characters to come out of the series, even if he’s too obnoxious to get along with in real life. He’s the goth guy from FD3 done correctly.
Spot the Battle “Star”: I immediately recognized Vancouverian actor Richard Harmon, who plays major character Erik in this one, from his appearances in many of the shows shot there. He has a notable face, and the first time I saw him in something was in his appearance on Fringe, in the very important episode “White Tulip.” The next time I remember seeing him on screen was in two episodes of the Battlestar spinoff Caprica, and was going to use that as a slight cheat since he was never technically on BSG. But I also recognized Gabrielle Rose for her many TV movie and genre television appearances, having otherwise completely forgotten that she was in the BSG episode “The Woman King” until I was perusing her IMDb profile, so we’re in the clear! To be fair, “The Woman King” is a pretty forgettable episode.
Final (heh) ranking, from worst to best:
6.The Final Destination (aka 4): Absolute bottom of the barrel. Bad kills, unlikable or incomplete characters, hard to believe that this was released as a finished film.
5. Final Destination 2: Shoddy narrative framework, nothing to speak of in terms of cinematography, paper-thin character work, but good death sequences. Best opening sequence, though.
4./3. Final Destination 3 and Final Destination: Bloodlines (tie): Both very solid entries that have an equal balance of scares, character work, and narrative throughline.
2. Final Destination: The first and one of the best; strong work from X-Files alums.
1. Final Destination 5: Strongest overall, most consistent; brings something fresh to the table by introducing the slasher/human antagonist angle.
I recently enjoyed a weeklong vacation in Mexico City with my family, my first time traveling abroad. It was an indulgent trip that mostly consisted of visiting art museums, shopping for vintage clothes, and eating piles of delicious food. Those may not sound like especially strenuous activities, but they did require long hours strolling in the sunshine, which meant a lot of afternoon downtime for my fellow travelers to recover with a traditional siesta. While everyone else smartly took the opportunity to nap between major-event excursions to the lucha libre show or to Diego Rivera’s studio, I instead ventured out of our apartment on solo adventures to survey the local cinema scene. In total, I visited three of CDMX’s local theaters that week for three unique moviegoing experiences. The films I saw were English-language productions subtitled in Spanish, so the only language barrier was figuring out how to order tickets without totally embarrassing myself; I like to think I failed admirably. Here’s a quick recap of the titles & venues I was able to squeeze into the trip.
Goodbye Horses: The Many Lives of Q Lazzarus (2025) @ Cine Tonalá
The one hip English-language film that screened at every indie CDMX cinema the week I happened to visit was the portrait-of-an-artist documentary Goodbye Horses: The Many Lives of Q Lazzarus. Like most audiences, I was previously only aware of its titular one-hit-wonder through her association with Jonathan Demme soundtracks. It turns out that was for a very obvious reason: racism. After running through about a dozen or so Q Lazzarus in the usual style of more famous artists’ docs, a title card in this new career recap reveals that she’s never had an official record release besides her contributions to movie soundtracks, because contemporary producers decided she was too “difficult to market.” It dropped my jaw. As a rise-to-near-fame story, Goodbye Horses gets intensely friendly & intimate with Q herself as she gets to know documentarian Eva Aridjis on a personal level. The most incredible part of her story, really, is the happenstance of meeting the two directors who’ve popularized her music through cinema—Aridjis & Demme—by picking them up as a cabbie working the streets of NYC, decades apart. For his part, Demme made an all-time classic out of “Goodbye Horses” by placing it in two separate films (Married to the Mob and, more infamously, Silence of the Lambs). Aridjis’s contribution is no less significant, though, since her new documentary includes a 21-track collection of Q Lazzarus songs that have been previously left unpublished.
Just as I knew little of Q Lazzarus’s personal or professional life before watching this new documentary, I also had no idea the documentary itself existed until I traveled to Mexico City, where it was playing relatively wide (partially because it’s director Eva Aridjis’s home town). That widespread distribution gave me plenty of options for cinemas to visit, and I settled on Cine Tonalá in the La Roma neighborhood. The single-screen theater is attached to a proudly laidback cocktail bar & performance venue, functioning as a multi-purpose arts space rather than a popcorn-shoveling corporate multiplex. Its closest local equivalent in New Orleans would be The Broad Theater, except with steeper incline seating and more lounging-around space in the lobby. It’s the kind of cozy spot with thoughtful programming that I would visit every week if I lived in the neighborhood (speaking from experience with The Broad).
The Cineteca Nacional museum in the Coyoacán neighborhood is anything but laidback. Built in the 1970s as a temple to celebrate & preserve the artform, it’s an impressively large & lively venue that was swarmed with visitors on the Saturday evening when I dropped by to see 1963’s The Haunted Palace. The 12-screen cinema was showing an eclectic mix of both repertory titles (including selections from Hayao Miyazaki & Agnieszka Holland) and new releases (including Goodbye Horses), but its public cinema is only one facet of the sprawling facility. The massive complex had a college campus feel, complete with museum exhibitions, appointment-only archives, multiple cafés & vendors, an outdoor market, and a quad area where young cineastes were chilling & chatting. I arrived at least a half-hour early, which allowed me enough time to go DVD shopping, picking up a copy of the Mexican horror staple El Vampiro. If I ever return, I’ll make sure to arrive a half-day early instead, since there was plenty more to explore elsewhere on-site.
Among the few repertory titles being offered that week, I of course went for the one directed by Roger Corman and starring Vincent Price, since that’s squarely in my comfort zone. The Haunted Palace is an odd outlier in the Corman-Poe cycle that actor-director duo is best known for, since it only recites a few lines from an Edgar Allan Poe poem and mostly pulls its inspiration from Lovecraft instead. It’s also out of step with the typical payoffs of a classic Roger Corman creature feature, since its central monster doesn’t move an inch and Lon Chaney Jr. gets all of the best jump scares in a supporting role just by . . . hanging around. It’s only a pleasure for audiences who enjoy lounging in spooky castles and fog-machined graveyards while flipping through pages of the Necronomicon (or listening to its Vincent Price audiobook version), not in a rush to get anywhere. That is to say that I very much enjoyed seeing it screened big & loud with an enthusiastic crowd, even if there are far better titles in the Corman-Poe cycle that would’ve been a better use of the time & space (primarily, The Masque of the Red Death). In local terms, the experience was comparable to The Prytania’s recent afternoon screening of The Fall of the House of Usher, except the venue was a half-century newer and the audience was much fuller.
Mission: Impossible – The Final Reckoning (2025) @ Cinemex
If Cine Tonalá is the Mexico City equivalent of The Broad and Cineteca Nacional is the Mexico City equivalent of The Prytania, then Cinemex is the local equivalent of an AMC palace. I must’ve passed by a half-dozen locations of the corporate franchise while exploring different parts of the city, so it was hilarious that the one located closest to our apartment was called Casa de Arte, as if it were an independent arthouse. It’s the same way that AMC arbitrarily labels some of its offerings as “Artisan Films” even though they’re wide-release, major-studio productions with massive budgets (no offense meant to the artistry behind AMC Artisan titles like Sinners & The Phoenician Scheme). Cinemex does not offer a one-of-a-kind arthouse experience. It offers the same-as-it-is-everywhere multiplex experience, which is a different flavor that sometimes tastes just as good. It’s about as artisan as a cup of Coca-Cola.
It was in that downtown multiplex that I caught the latest (and possibly last) installment in the Misión: Imposible franchise, The Final Reckoning. Perhaps due to the lack of enthusiasm with the previous entry in that franchise, DeadReckoning, the three-hour epic does a lot of sweaty scrambling to connect its story to the larger, decades-spanning Mission: Impossible narrative arc before then settling into the tension of two lengthy Tom Cruise stunts: one in which he raids a sinking submarine and one in which he pilots an upside-down airplane with his foot. The resulting picture is one hour of aggressively incomprehensible crosscutting & flashbacks followed by two hours of old-school movie magic. I would say that it’s the kind of classic movie magic that you can only find in Hollywood, except the movie was mostly shot in England and I personally watched in it Mexico. There really isn’t anything especially recommendable about it beyond the excuse it offers to escape the summer sun for a few hours with a lapful of overpriced junk food, which is the only reason anyone would visit an AMC or a Cinemex anyway.
There was a brief, glorious time a couple years back when AGFA’s scan of Jon Moritsugu’s 1993 trash-art classic Terminal USA was streaming on The Criterion Channel. Not only did that ungodly godsend set distorted expectations of Moritsugu’s working being legally & conveniently available for home viewing, but it also distorted my expectations of the director’s political themes. In Terminal USA, Moritsugu reached through the TV sets of suburban America (via highly improbable PBS broadcast) to mock & torment the suburbanites on the other side, offering a grotesque reflection of the nuclear family unit as performed by a punk-rot regional theatre troupe straight out of Mortville. Having not seen his other work, I assumed that John Waters-style strain of freaking-out-the-normies antagonism echoed throughout the rest of Moritsugu’s catalog, but it turns out he generally could not care less what suburbanites are up to. I recently lucked into purchasing a trio of lesser-seen Moritsugu films second-hand on DVD, which together painted a picture of a much more insular, flippant director concerned more with petty punk-culture preoccupations than any of the ideals those punks supposedly buck against. These are movies about young wannabe iconoclasts who are desperate to stand out, look cool, get famous, and be celebrated for doing nothing in particular, all while enjoying the street-cred status of never “selling out.” This trio finds Moritsugu mocking his own people rather than mocking the off-screen suburbanite conservatives whose phoniness is taken for granted, which in a way makes them more personal works than the bigger-picture political statement of Terminal USA.
Moritsugu’s first feature film was funded by a settlement from a factory-work accident that nearly tore off his arm. The only reason it qualifies as feature-length is that he stretched it past the 1-hour runtime mark on a dare from a friend who was tired of seeing him waste his time on shorts. The resulting ramshackle, barely held-together energy of 1990’s My Degeneration is about as D.I.Y. punk as cinema gets. It perfectly captures the editing style, snotty sarcasm, and punk-scene snobbery of a vintage Xerox’d zine . . . now in motion on the big screen! “A story of Greed, Scum, and Filth,” it follows a trio of California teens (despite being filmed in Rhode Island) whose punk band Bunny Love is co-opted by The American Beef Institute to promote meat consumption among disaffected, MTV-era youth. The movie opens with Bunny Love’s lead singer praying to portraits of Jesus Christ & Madonna in her bathroom mirror to make her famous – a prayer that’s immediately answered by an evil corporation that purchases her band, renames it Fetish, and starts landing her national headlines like “Is Meat Art? Fetish Thinks So!” The girls are quickly corrupted by “the stench of stardom,” but selling out their punk ideals registers as a small price to pay in exchange for national fame. Even the inevitable burnout & breakup part of the rock ‘n’ roll rise-to-fame cliché seems to be a career goal for them, rather than a dire warning. They want it all. Meanwhile, Moritsugu teases this short-film premise to feature length by filling the screen with hideous video-art footage of mimed punk performances and meat-industry waste, with detours featuring a talking pig head that romances the lead singer of Fetish in her spare time between gigs. It’s the much rougher, meaner version of proto-riot-grrrl classics like Times Square & The Fabulous Stains, with an incredibly cynical worldview about what punk iconoclasts really want to achieve with their music.
1994’s Mod Fuck Explosion is much more realistic about the kind of fame most teenage urbanite punks can achieve. It’s the story of one girl’s quest to earn her own leather jacket, so she can look as tough & cool as the motorcycle gangs who regularly clash in her neighborhood. Most reviews of Mod Fuck Explosion cite it as Moritsugu’s dirt-cheap remake of West Side Story, but really it’s his dirt-cheap remake of Quadrophenia: a gang warfare drama about a pathetic, meaningless clash between traditional rock ‘n’ roll bikers and nerdy scooter-riding Mods. It goes one step beyond Quadrophenia by graciously extending Kenneth Anger biker-gang fetishism to include moto-scooters, making that fetish much more financially accessible to its cast of terminally bored teenage wastoids. Otherwise, it allows that turf war to fade into a background hum while Amy Davis (Bunny Love’s fictional drummer & Moritsugu’s real-life spouse) frets about where she fits into the world of street-toughs as a teenage brat who doesn’t even have her own leather jacket. Despite all of Moritsugu’s snotty flippancy elsewhere, Davis gets genuinely introspective here in her frustrated teenage boredom. While roaming an industrial art-instillation piece, she worries in voiceover that she’ll never truly fight, never truly fuck, and never truly be cool. It’s later revealed that she’s mostly been comparing herself to her much cooler older sister, who has retired from local punk-scene notoriety to enjoy a static life consuming “schizophrenic painters, tortured writers, fashion designers, low & vulgar literature, porno movies, video games, punk music, motorcycles, tattoo artwork, homo poetry, disaster & murder magazines, and horoscopes.” Even though she no longer needs it herself, her sister still won’t hand over her own leather jacket, which sits in the closet unworn as a symbol of her past teen-years fame on the local scene.
While My Degenration & Mod Fuck Explosion are the much cooler and more recognizable Moritsugu titles in this trio, 1997’s Fame Whore is by far the funniest. That superlative is mostly earned by Amy Davis’s robotically verbose performance as a socialite sycophant who will not stop monotonously bragging about her accomplishments in her 27 simultaneous careers as a “video artist, fashion designer, painter, actress, photographer, producer, art director, image consultant, playwright, performance artist,” and the list goes on. That NYC wannabe fashionista splits the runtime with two other titular fame whores: a hothead tennis pro who brags about his insatiable libido in the third person and an animal-rights activist who’s reluctant to share his do-gooder cred with any coworkers at his New Jersey dog shelter, so he spends his work hours talking to an imaginary sports-mascot dog instead. They’re all pathetic losers, just like the rest of us. As with Terminal USA, there’s something especially heightened & subversive about Moritsugu’s freak-show characters escaping punk-scene containment and doing decidedly un-punk things like, in this case, filing their taxes & negotiating endorsement deals. It’s like when John Waters left the trailer park & Mortville behind to instead terrorize the normies in his own suburban-invasion comedies post-Polyester. Shot on a grainy, degraded 16mm film stock just like the rest of his punk-zine-in-motion features, Fame Whore would never be mistaken for a mainstream studio comedy, but it does find Moritsugu pretending that he has “made it” as a filmmaker. If he had included a sarcastic live-studio-audience soundtrack, it would’ve played exactly like a primetime multi-cam sitcom — complete with a goofball sidekick character in the imaginary Mr. Peepers, whose smartass quips follow in a long tradition of Great Gazoos, Alfs, and Mister Eds.
The only bonus feature to speak of on any of these mid-2000s discs is a feature-length commentary track for My Degeneration, but it does offer major insight into the bigger-picture ethos of Moritsugu & Davis’s film company Apathy Productions. They basically act as their own Beavis & Butthead-style stoner hecklers, complete with vocalized guitar noises and bored digressions from anything happening on the screen. The entire exercise is meant to mock anyone who’d take this work seriously as academic fodder (i.e., me) instead of what it truly was: a group of friends playing around with camera equipment in a quest to make something Cool. The way Moritsugu scratches up the celluloid for shots that didn’t come out right, films television sets at incompatible frame rates, and frequently fills the screen with punk-show-poster block text of phrases like “THE SHIT GENERATION” & “TEEN SUICIDE EXPLOSION” is all D.I.Y. formal experimentation to make art that visually appeals to his scuzzy friends (who’d assumedly rather be pounding beers than watching art films, if asked). There’s a tension between his own punk-rock credibility and his desire to reach a wide audience as a Famous Artist, then, as evidenced by his films being submitted to international film festivals instead of just being screened as opening acts at basement punk shows. In that context, his career highlight likely wasn’t hijacking PBS’s public funds to make Terminal USA. It was when Roger Ebert made a show out of walking out of My Degeneration seven minutes into its premiere at Sundance. That way, he became famous (on the independent film scene, anyway) without becoming marketable, so his films couldn’t be used to promote beef sales or tennis shoes.
Self-described as “a summer camp for genre fans,” The Overlook Film Festival has quickly become the best of New Orleans’s local film fests . . . as long as you’re a total sicko. I consistently catch a wide selection of the year’s most stylish, violent, and memorable horror films & thrillers in the festival’s lineup, many of which don’t otherwise reach local big screens before they get siphoned off to the cultural void of streaming platforms. In recent years, all films programmed have been corralled to the two locations of The Prytania Theatres, which allows you to form a weekend-long bond with fellow movie nerds you continually run into while lining up for the next fucked-up delight. Everyone’s watching too much, sleeping too little, and loving every horrific minute. It really does capture the summer camp or sleepover feeling of staying up all night watching scary movies with your friends after the adults fell asleep and can no longer police what’s playing on the living room TV.
This was the first year of the festival where I made some time in my schedule for a couple repertory screenings: the Corman-Poe classic The Fall of the House of Usher (1960) and a block of David Lynch’s early short films (namely “Sick Men Getting Sick,” “The Grandmother, “The Amputee,” and “Premonitions Following an Evil Deed”). The Vincent Price campiness and costume drama fussiness of House of Usher made for a classically wonderful trip to the Prytania’s original location uptown, but the Lynch shorts made a much more significant impression on me. As a collective, they offered a glimpse into an alternate dimension where Lynch might have stuck to a full career as a Don Hertzfeldt-style outsider animator. More importantly, they also projected most of the scariest images I saw at this year’s festival, especially in the domestic blackbox-theatre artificiality of “The Grandmother.” There’s always something novel about watching challenging art films in a downtown shopping mall like Canal Place, and that Lynch block may have been the most abstract & challenging films ever screened there. It says a lot about Overlook’s sharp, thoughtful curation that they made room for films that academically rigorous alongside feature-length sex-and-fart-joke comedies like Grace Glowicki’s Dead Lover (which, I might as well admit, was my favorite of the fest).
I see no point in rating or raking the works of recently fallen legends like Corman & Lynch here, since their contributions to the festival are so deeply engrained in genre cinema history, they’re beyond critique. Instead, I’m listing below the ten new-release feature films I caught at this year’s Overlook Film Festival, ranked in the order that I appreciated them, each with a blurb and a link to a corresponding review. For a more detailed recap of the Swampflix Crew’s festival experience beyond these reviews, check out the most recent episode of The Swampflix Podcast.
Grace Glowicki follows up her freak-show stoner comedy Tito with a flippantly surreal Hammer Horror throwback, filtering the Frankenstein myth through the Tim & Eric meme machine. Some of the most gorgeous, perverted images you’ll see all year paired with the kind of juvenile prankster humor that punctuates its punchlines with ADR’d fart noises. If Glowicki’s filmmaking career doesn’t work out, she can always pivot to becoming the world’s first drag king Crispin Glover impersonator, bless her putrid heart.
Grief has been the major theme in horror for the past decade, while Conspiracy has been the major theme of mainstream political thought. Only Cronenberg could find a way to eroticize both in a single picture. The king of the perverts continues his reign, despite his reluctance to wear the crown.
An all-in-a-car, real-time thriller that reimagines 2013’s Locke as a dark fairy tale about irresponsible parenting. Extremely satisfying for anyone who loves to watch Rosamund Pike act her way through a crisis.
A self-deprecating meta doc about a true crime dramatization that fell apart in pre-production. Reminded me of a couple postmodern television series of my youth: Breaking the Magician’s Code – Magic’s Biggest Secrets Finally Revealed (for spoiling the magic of how the true-crime genre works) and The Soup (for giving a broad enough overview of the genre that I don’t feel like I have to watch any genuine examples of it to Get It).
The new Kiyoshi Kurosawa (no not that one, the other one) asks a really scary question: What if online flamewars became physical, literal, and consequential? Turns out they’d still be at least a little bit silly and a lotta bit pathetic.
Screenlife cinema that abandons horror in favor of the heist thriller, following the small-scale, laptop-bound schemes of four teens who steal a Bitcoin fortune from an Elon Musk-type dipshit. I personally preferred when this still-burgeoning subgenre was fully supernatural, but it’s nice to see a version of it where teens are actually having fun being online (even when in peril).
A documentary about To Catch a Predator as an aughts-era reality TV phenomenon. Felt like I was going to throw up for the first 40 minutes or so, because I had never seen the show before and wasn’t fully prepared for how deeply evil it is.
You’ve seen a haunted house movie from the POV of a ghost. Now, line up for a haunted house movie kinda-sorta from the POV of a dog! What a time to be alive.
A WWII-set creature feature stranded somewhere in the Pacific Ocean. Continues a long tradition of unspoken homoeroticism in wartime dramas, now with a Roger Corman rubber-suited monster as lagniappe.
A sci-fi revenge thriller about a grieving mother who gets addicted to killing her child’s murderer in multiple alternate dimensions. It brings me no pleasure to act as the logic police, but the temporal shenanigans of this one make no sense. It’s like they wrote it as a time-loop movie and subbed in the word “multi-verse” instead at the last minute without cleaning up the implications of how time passes differently in that genre. The violence is effectively nasty, though, and there are a few tense set-pieces that almost distract from the quibbles.
I recently caught a double feature at my local multiplex of high-style, high-tension thrillers about American soldiers under siege in claustrophobic locations. The stories told in Alex Garland’s Warfare & Ryan Coogler’s Sinners are separated by entire genres, decades, and oceans, and yet they both trap American soldiers in tight-space locales by surrounding them with enemy combatants, whittling down their ranks one corpse at a time. That shared Americans-under-siege dynamic puts them in unlikely conversation with each other as two feature films currently in wide release, but what really makes that conversation interesting is the films’ respective relationships with the cultural & historical context around their sieges. Warfare is so hostile to providing context that it borders on experimentation in narrative form, while Sinners is entirely about context, explaining its own supernatural siege’s relation to America’s past, present, and future. Together, they represent the two extremes of contextual explanation in cinematic storytelling, to the point where considering them together is something that would only occur to you if you happen to write movie reviews and catch them both at the same theatre in a single evening.
Assigning Warfare‘s authorship entirely to Alex Garland is a bit misleading, since he shares directorial credit with former U.S. Navy SEAL Ray Mendoza. In fact, the real-time, true-story siege thriller is most interesting for the battle between its two directors: one who wants to honor the soldiers depicted “for always answering the call” (Mendoza) and one who wants to examine them & pluck their limbs off like bugs he caught in a jar (Garland). An opening title card explains that the film’s reenactment of a failed 2006 American military mission during the Iraq War was made “using only the memories” of Mendoza’s platoon, who experienced the violent episode first-hand. After the reenactment concludes, surviving members of that platoon are shown visiting the film’s set mid-production to provide their insight, contextualizing the movie as an honorable commemoration of their service & sacrifice during the harshest conditions of war. Only, that final moment is undercut by inclusion of a portrait of the Iraqi family who were also present that day and whose home was invaded & destroyed to fit the American military’s needs & whims. Earlier, when the surviving American soldiers have safely escaped the real-time gunfight in rescue tanks, the camera then lingers on that family appearing puzzled & shellshocked in the rubble of their home, as if they were just invaded by space aliens and not fellow human beings.
Garland & Mendoza’s choice to reenact this one specific mission without explaining the larger context of the U.S. military’s invasion of Iraq (under false pretenses of seeking weapons of mass destruction) has been hotly debated as a disingenuous, amoral screenwriting choice among the film’s detractors. From the Iraqi family’s perspective, however, that absence of context only makes the unlawful intrusion even more terrifying & cruel. The family is sleeping in their cozy duplex when Americans kick down their doors and sledgehammer their walls in the middle of the night, inviting enemy fire into the home as a makeshift military base while they’re gathered to huddle on a single bed, powerless. There is no warning or preparation for this invasion, nor is their any communication once the fighting ceases. There’s no context whatsoever, neither for that family nor for the audience. All that’s offered is a dramatic reenactment of the gunfight from the surviving American soldiers’ perspective, with the flattering casting of young Hollywood hunks like Charles Melton, Will Poulter, Kit Connor, and D’Pharaoh Woon-A-Tai to help sweeten the deal for those who “answered the call.” The absence of testimony from the Iraqi citizens invaded, shot at, and displaced by those soldiers’ mission becomes glaring by the final credits, though, and the questions that absence raises hang heavy in the air. I like to think that unease was Garland’s main contribution to the picture but, without context, I can only guess.
The political & historical context behind the all-in-one-day siege plot of Sinners is much easier to parse, since Ryan Coogler is much more upfront about what he’s saying through his art. The director’s fifth feature film (all starring career-long collaborator Michael B. Jordan) and his first not adapted from either pre-existing IP or real-life events, Sinners is set in a 1930s Mississippi overrun with bloodsucking vampires. You wouldn’t guess the vampire part in its first hour, though, which is mostly a getting-the-gang-back-together drama about two former soldiers and current booze-runners (twins, both played by Jordan) who return to their hometown to set up a juke joint for Black patrons during Prohibition. After a long stretch of friendly “Look what the cat dragged in” reunions (featuring consistently dependable character actors like Delroy Lindo & Wunmi Mosaku), the juke joint proves to be a communal success, if not a financial one. Unfortunately, the party gets to be a little too lively, which attracts the attention of white, vampiric interlopers (led by the consistently intense Jack O’Connell). The vampires are particularly attracted to the transcendently beautiful blues music played by the juke joint’s youngest employee, Preacher Boy (newcomer Miles Caton), which introduces an unignorable cultural appropriation metaphor to the vampires’ violent desire to be let inside the party. More practically, it also sours the vibe of the evening by trapping the partygoers in a single location, waiting to be drained of their blood and assimilated into the vampire cult.
Sinners is a truly American horror story, a beer & blues-fueled gangsters vs ghouls battle set against endless fields of cotton and all the commodified evil they represent. Every detail of the story that isn’t character-based drama registers as commentary on American identity: the illusion of freedom, the fixation on money, the compulsory Christianity, the lingering infrastructures of slavery & The Klan. The only positive touchstones of American culture are, in fact, Black culture, as represented in a fish-fry dance party that offers a Mississippi farming community a few hours to cut loose before returning to a life of poverty & backbreaking labor . . . until the party attracts vampiric outsiders who want to claim that culture as their own. In one standout sequence, Coogler extrapolates on this idea to visually & aurally lay out how the Delta blues that Preacher Boy is playing in the juke joint is foundational for all fundamentally American music & pop culture, illustrating its connections to funk, rock, hip-hop, bounce, and beyond in a physical, impossible embodiment of the story’s context. It’s a moment that not only accomplishes everything Baz Lurhman’s Elvis picture failed to do across 150 extra minutes of runtime, but it also positions Sinners as one of the most distinctly American vampire stories ever told on screen (among which I suppose its closest competition is Katherine Bigelow’s Near Dark).
The only dramatic context Warfare provides before kicking off its real-time siege sequence is a brief moment where all soldiers involved are watching a pop music video on a shared laptop, laughing at its over-the-top sexuality & pelvic thrusts. There’s just enough time allowed to that scene for the audience to discern a few key soldiers’ personalities through body language & facial expressions, before they’re immediately shown breaking into and destroying a sleeping family’s home. In contrast, Sinners spends the first half of its 140min runtime getting to know the gangsters, players, and partiers it eventually puts under vampiric siege, so that they feel like real people instead of walking, talking metaphors. It’s through that sprawling attention to context that we learn that the booze-running twins who open the Mississippi juke joint were WWI soldiers before they became gangster contemporaries of Al Capone in Prohibition-era Chicago. Even after the siege story is officially over, Coogler can’t help but pile on more context about cultural vampires & the blues, dragging the setting into contemporary times with a surprise guest appearance by blues legend Buddy Guy. Normally, I would say less is more when it comes to a movie explaining its own themes & context, but Coogler overcommits to those explanations to the point of academic scholarship, while still managing to deliver a fun & sexy vampire movie in the process. Meanwhile, Warfare‘s deliberate aversion to context threatens to implode the entire project, with only a few stray shots of Americans viewed from an outsider’s perspective affording it any sense of artistic or political purpose.
The scariest films I saw at this year’s Overlook Film Festival featured none of the ghouls, ghosts, goblins, demons, and vampires that typically populate the screen at the horror-leaning genre fest. I was mostly scared by the dark-sided media consumption habits of my fellow human beings, some of whom were in the audience of the very same theater as me. Personally, I can watch supernatural evil illustrated on the screen all day without being emotionally affected by the darkness & cruelty depicted, but when it comes to turning true-crime documentation of real-world evil into passive, consumptive entertainment, my heart sinks in my chest. True crime documentaries have recently become a hugely popular micro-industry, with a huge audience second-screening 10-hour miniseries about heinous murder sprees while eating dinner & folding laundry, as if they were half-listening to episodes of The Office or Friends. Something about that passive, disaffected viewing habit is even more disturbing than the crimes being dramatized for mass entertainment (and for easy, routine streaming-service profit). So, it’s appropriate that two of the documentary selections at this year’s Overlook focused on general audiences’ insatiable true-crime appetite from a critical distance, asking how, exactly, did we allow our formulaic background entertainment to get this fucked up?
Sometimes, you need a little distance to recognize just how rotted things have gotten. David Osit’s documentary Predators profiles the aughts-era true crime series To Catch a Predator as a reality-TV phenomenon in which Dateline NBC anchor Chris Hansen baited online child-molesters from behind their keyboards to stage sensational on-camera confrontations in the meat space, to great financial success. Deploying “decoy” actors who pretended to be underage, the show would then interview the titular predators in the lowest moment of their lives, watching them to beg for mercy & therapy before promptly being arrested by local cops. I remember finding this premise and the show’s success too grotesque to stomach as a teenager when it first aired, so I spent the first 40 minutes or so of Predators fighting back the urge to vomit, confronted with how deeply evil it was in practice after only being aware of it in the abstract. No one in the To Catch a Predator production—Chris Hansen included—cared about the children they were supposedly protecting by luring these men to a bait house. The show is a seasons-long ratings stunt meant to hook & shock an audience by tapping into our animalistic impulses for violent vengeance. Its legacy is not in making the streets safer; it’s in prompting one of its targets to commit suicide during a taping and in inspiring dipshit influencers to stage their own D.I.Y. versions of the show on YouTube & TikTok, each with their own brand-conscious catchphrases & subscription models. Osit eventually wrestles with his personal connection to the show and how his young mind was shaped by it while it initially aired, but I mostly walked away disgusted with the broader, mainstream audience that made it a hit in the first place.
Charlie Shackleton’s self-deprecating meta documentary Zodiac Killer Project is much more current and much more conceptual in its own examination of true-crime cinema’s popularity. Shackleton’s original pitch was to adapt a book about an unprovable theory on the identity of the titular serial killer into a generic true-crime miniseries, but the rights for the adaptation were pulled at the last minute before production, so he couldn’t legally complete it. Instead, he’s made a movie about what he would have done if he had maintained those rights, breaking down the tropes, rhythms, and attention-grabbing tactics of a formulaic true-crime documentary as he outlines the incomplete project. He illustrates this game plan through four rigidly segmented visual approaches that afford the film a kind of academic distance from the typical straight-to-streaming docs it satirizes. In one approach, he narrates the scenes he cannot legally film over celluloid images of empty Californian landscapes, slowly zooming in on minor background details whenever he gets wrapped up in the heat of the story. In another, he illustrates individual images from that story with “evocative B-roll” in a purposefully artificial sound stage environment, mimicking Errol Morris’s pioneering true-crime doc The Thin Blue Line as it’s been diluted through countless reiterations. He’s also often shown in the recording booth as he’s being interviewed by an off-screen collaborator, making all of this observation & deconstruction of the true crime genre sound casually improvised, as if it’s occurring to him in real time. In the most important approach, he proves his point by inserting scenes from the made-for-Netflix true crime docs he’s describing in a YouTube video essay presentation, demonstrating that he clearly knows what he’s talking about as a self-critical fan of the genre.
Zodiac Killer Project reminded me of a couple post-modern television series I did watch in the early 2000s, while avoiding the amoral cultural rot of shows like To Catch a Predator. I’m thinking of Breaking the Magician’s Code: Magic’s Biggest Secrets Finally Revealed—for how it spoils the magic of how the true crime genre works its audience—and The Soup, for giving a broad enough overview of the genre that I don’t feel like I have to watch any genuine examples of it to get it. Even when breaking down the laziest & evilest aspects of the genre in real time, however, you get the sense that Charlie Shackleton is still a little bummed that he didn’t get to complete his formulaic streaming-service doc as originally conceived. His mourning the loss of that work is even tied to his realization that so many fewer people are going to watch this artful, academic documentary than the audience that would have auto-played his formulaic Netflix slop, if completed. Indeed, only a miniscule fraction of the audience who watched To Catch a Predator as it originally aired are going to reckon with the moral implications of that mass-entertainment character blemish as examined in its post-mortem doc Predators. Hell, I’m sure David Osit would even settle for a fraction of the still-watching audience commanded by micro YouTube celebrity Skeet Hansen, who lamely punctuates his Chris Hansen-impersonating predator exposures with the catchphrase “You’ve just been Skeeted.” The scariest aspect of all of this is how little anyone gives a shit about the exploitation of real-life violence, suffering, and abuse that provides the background noise to our absent-minded chores & scrolling; it’s all comfort watching. The monsters are the audience.
When I think of how the horrors of parenting are usually represented in genre cinema, I picture cruel, demonic children. In most horrors & thrillers that prompt you to think twice about having kids, the prompt is a warning that the kids themselves can be absolute nightmares, typified by titles like The Bad Seed, The Omen, Orphan, and We Need to Talk About Kevin. I was treated to an entirely different flavor of parental Hell at this year’s Overlook Film Festival, however, one that torments parents even when their kids are total angels. Both of the high-concept thrillers Redux Redux & Hallow Road ask what if the true horror of parenting is your own potential for failure? What if you fail to keep your children alive or, worse yet, fail to prepare them to keep themselves alive once your part of the job is done? The lifelong responsibility to raise, protect, and prepare another human being for the Hell of everyday living leaves parents incredibly vulnerable to the heightened pain of genre storytelling. It’s just unusual for the source of that pain to be a long, hard look in the mirror.
In Redux Redux, the major failure of the mother figure played by Michaela McManus (sister of co-directors Kevin & Matthew McManus) has already happened before the story begins. We meet her nursing her grief over the loss of her daughter with a weak cup of coffee in a roadside diner. She wordlessly trails the diner’s short-order cook back to his shitty apartment, then stabs him to death in his bedroom. Then, the scenario repeats: the same diner, the same doomed cook, the same violent end. The only thing that changes is the color of the coffee mug. Redux Redux is a revenge-thriller version of the television program Sliders, wherein our grieving-mother antihero jumps from alternate universe to alternate universe to murder her daughter’s killer in thousands of temporarily satisfying ways. Of course, these empty acts of revenge do nothing to bring her daughter back to life; it’s more of a multiversal addiction story than anything, where she hides from her pain by violently acting out against a convenient effigy of the man who ruined everything. The main tension of the movie is whether she can break this violent pattern of addiction to do better by her new, reluctantly adopted daughter figure: a street-smart wiseass teen (Stella Marcus) who’s in danger of becoming the spitting image of her worst self. The horrors of parenting are apparently inescapable, even when you have a magic microwave coffin that allows you to slide into an alternate dimension at a moment’s notice.
In Hallow Road, there’s still plenty of time to do the right thing, but the parents fail anyway. Rosamund Pike & Matthew Rhys star as a middle-aged yuppie couple who are woken in the middle of the night by a panicked phone-call from their college-age daughter. It seems that after a passionate fight with her parents, she decided to go do some drugs in the woods about it, and accidentally struck a stranger with her car on the drive back home. Panicked, the couple start racing to their daughter in their own vehicle, where most of the film is confined for the remainder of the runtime. With only their voices & wisdom to guide their child through this life-changing (and life-ending crisis), they find themselves at a moral crossroads. Do they instruct her to alert the authorities of the accident and face jailtime, potentially saving her stoned-driving victim’s life, or do they help her escape responsibility for her actions, taking a blame for the hit & run themselves to preserve her post-collegiate future? The resulting story is an all-in-a-car, real-time thriller that reimagines 2013’s Locke as a dark fairy tale about irresponsible parenting. The further the couple drive into the woods to “rescue” (i.e., corrupt) their child, the more illogical and darkly magical the rules of their world become, and the the entire film functions as a kind of artificial stage-play examination of parents’ most harmful, regrettable impulses.
Personally, I was much more pleased with the genre payoffs of Hallow Road than I was with Redux Redux, mostly because its internal logic felt more purposeful & thoroughly considered. Because Hallow Road opens itself up to Old World supernatural magic, it’s a lot easier to accept its high-concept premise than the more grounded, sci-fi theorizing of Redux Redux. It brings me no pleasure to act as the screenwriting logic police, but the temporal shenanigans of Redux Redux made no sense to me, especially once I started counting up the untold thousands of weeks the mother figure claims to have been murdering her daughter’s killer for and noticed that she is not, in fact, 100 years old. It’s like the McManus family started writing it as a time-loop movie and subbed in the word “multi-verse” instead at the last minute without cleaning up the implications of how time passes differently in that genre. Meanwhile, director Babak Anvari is in total control of just how much information to reveal to the audience about the logic of his hermetic, supernatural world to keep us on the hook — very little. While Redux Redux plays like an audition for a bigger-budget Hollywood actioner for the McManus clan (if you squint hard enough, you can see Betty Gilpin & Jenny Ortega headlining this one as the makeshift mother-daughter avenger duo), Hallow Road is more realistic about what it can achieve on its car-bound scale, using its confinement & limited resources to increase the attention, rather than distracting from them. Its local premiere at this year’s Overlook was also a nice kind of homecoming for Anvari, whose previous picture Wounds is one of the best New Orleans-set horror movies in recent memory (despite what its general critical response will tell you).
Speaking even more personally, I will never know the full horrors of parental failure illustrated here, because I will never be a parent myself. Maybe the unthinkable nightmare of having lost a child and the resulting addictive, self-destructive coping mechanisms that inevitably follow that kind of tragedy stir up powerful enough emotions in a parental audience that the basic temporal logic of its conceit doesn’t matter much. The violence is effectively nasty at least, and there are a few tense set-pieces that almost distract from the conceptual quibbles (and from the nagging feeling that you’re watching the DTV version of Midnight Special). Meanwhile, the violence of Hallow Road is more verbal & conceptual, as the entire narrative is teased out over the course of a feature-length phone call. I still found it to be the more rattling picture of the two, thanks to the aural jump scares of the sound design and the bigger, crueler questions it asks about what it means to truly be a Good Parent. In either case, I’m happy to have my suspicions that being a parent is a nonstop nightmare confirmed, even if it’s not the kids themselves who are the terror. Apparently, it’s the personal responsibilities & shortcomings that really haunt you.
We try our best to cover both the highest and the lowest ends of cinema here, from the finest of fine art to the trashiest of genre trash. Occasionally, those two polar-opposite ends of the medium intersect in unexpected ways. Last week, I found myself watching two seemingly discordant movies that covered the exact same metatextual topic – one because it screened in The Prytania’s Classic Cinema series during New Orleans French Film Fest and one because the Blu-ray was heavily discounted during an online flash sale. Both 1963’s Contempt and 1989’s The Black Cat are movies about screenwriters who jeopardize their marriages by taking on doomed-from-the-start film projects that put their wives’ personal safety at risk. The former was directed by French New Wave innovator Jean-Luc Godard at the height of his professional career, while the latter was directed by Italo schlockteur Luigi Cozzi in a sly attempt to cash in on his tutelage under his much more famous mentor, Dario Argento. They also both happen to be literary adaptations, at least in theory. While Godard was relatively faithful to his source-material novel, Cozzi’s film is an adaptation in name only, daring to bill itself as “Edgar Allen Poe’s The Black Cat” in its opening-credits title card before immediately abandoning its source text to leech off Argento’s legacy instead of Poe’s. Godard does indulge in his own allusions to an earlier, foundational filmmaker’s work in Contempt, though, by casting Fritz Lang as himself and including discussions of Lang’s early artistic triumphs, like M. You’d never expect these two movies to have anything in common at first glance, but The Black Cat really is Contempt‘s trashy cousin, long estranged.
Typically, I don’t think of Jean-Luc Godard’s signature aesthetic to be all that distant from the low-budget, high-style genre filmmaking ethos that guided the Italo horror brats of the 70s & 80s. At the very least, both sides of that divide would have been passionately reverent of Alfred Hitchcock as a cinematic stylist. However, Contempt is so far removed from the handheld, D.I.Y. crime picture days of Breathless that it’s hardly Godardian at all, at least not visually. Shot on location at seaside Italian villas in Technicolor & Cinemascope, Contempt is often breathtaking in its visual grandeur, especially in its 2023 digital restoration that aggressively pops the intensity of its colors. Godard presents star Brigitte Bardot in several magazine glamour-shoot set-ups that accentuate the otherworldly beauty of her body, with particular attention paid to her buttcheeks. Of course, vacationing with a beautiful woman in an exotic locale doesn’t fundamentally change who you are, so the usual self-defeating macho bullshit that plagues Godard’s protagonists follow him there too. Michel Piccoli co-leads as a cash-strapped screenwriter who takes a well-paying job doing re-writes on an already-in-production Fritz Lang adaptation of Homer’s Odyssey. Lang is making a much more abstract, artsier picture than what his American producer had greenlit, so Piccoli ends up in a sickening position where he must undermine the work of a genius he respects to instead please a meathead cad from The States who values commerce over art (Jack Palance, playing a pitch-perfect dipshit). Worse yet, the American pig has the hots for Bardot, and Piccoli does nothing to get in his way or to protect his obviously uncomfortable wife. This leads to an endlessly vicious, Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?-style argument between the couple, so that they spend much of their time in an Italian paradise bickering about the purity of their love and the corruption of money. Meanwhile, Fritz Lang amusedly shakes his head, as if he’s seen this all before.
The marital crisis of The Black Cat is much more outlandish & abstract, but it also starts with a filmmaker taking on an ill-advised project. Our protagonist is a Luigi Cozzi-style horror director who decides to make good use of the Italian film industry’s loose copyright laws to make his own unsanctioned sequel to Suspiria. The project is in the early writing phase, where he is collaborating with a writing partner to sketch out the backstory of the Third Mother referenced in Argento’s Suspiria, believing there was room for another cash-grab witchcraft story in that lore (after the Second Mother was covered in Argento’s Inferno, and long before the Third Mother was covered in Argento’s Mother of Tears). They foolishly decide to pull inspiration from a “real”, powerful witch named Levana, who is awakened from her cosmic slumber by the project. Specifically, once the wart-faced Levana catches wind that she will be played onscreen by the director’s wife, she flips the fuck out and invades the real world through a mirror in the couple’s home, puking a chunky green goo in the actress’s face and then generally causing havoc. From there, The Black Cat is a supernatural horror free-for-all, following its scene-to-scene whims without any care or attention paid to the pre-existing work of Dario Argento, Edgar Allen Poe, or high school physics teachers. The movie is a jumbled mess of demonically possessed space fetuses, witchcraft-practicing house cats, 19th Century ghost children, telekinetic explosions, laser-shooting eyeballs, internal organ ruptures, creepy-crawly spiders, and whatever else amuses Levana as she tears apart this doomed marriage, all because she doesn’t want a movie made about her. What a diva.
You can assume a lot of what was on Godard’s mind while he was making Contempt just by watching the movie. Between the intensely bitter (and even more intensely gendered) marital argument that eats up most of the runtime and the art-vs-commerce argument that eats up the rest, you get a pretty clear picture of what was going on in his internal & professional life at the time. Even after watching the “Cat on the Brain” interview included on the Blu-ray disc, I cannot begin to tell you what Cozzi was attempting to communicate in The Black Cat. During the interview, he describes the picture as “science fiction,” likening it to his Star Wars knockoff Starcrash, with which it only shares a few extraneous insert shots of outer space. I’d say it’s much more spiritually in line with his supernatural slasher film Paganini Horror, which hooks the audience with the undead spirit of famous composer Niccolo Pagnini for a familiar starting point, then launches into a series of hair-metal music video vignettes where he just does whatever amuses him from scene to scene. Both of these vintage European relics might generally be about the artform of screenwriting, but only Contempt seems to put any sincere thought into that craft, while The Black Cat is much more about trying whatever looks cool in a scene, internal logic be damned. Something the two pictures do have in common, though, is the assertion that the basic labor & finance of filmmaking will ruin your marriage, whether through the intrusion of jackass Hollywood money men or the intrusion of evil mirror-dimension witches. If two movies so far apart in philosophy, tone, and intent happen to come to that same conclusion, I have to believe there’s some truth to it. Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be screenwriters.
I had a classic theatrical experience at the downtown location of The Prytania this Wednesday, when I caught a double feature of the new Looney Tunes movie and the new Soderbergh. Since both films mercifully clock in around 90 minutes a piece, it was not an especially exhausting trip to the cinema, but more importantly they paired well as a charming throwback to theatrical programming of the distant past. The next morning, I read a series of confusing headlines about how “Moviegoers Want More Comedies, Thrillers and Action Titles,” so they haven’t been showing up to theaters for lack of interest in what’s currently out there. The survey generating those headlines is obviously flawed, since moviegoers simply don’t know what’s currently out there. Anyone claiming they don’t regularly go to the theater because “They don’t make ’em like they used to,” has lost sight of what’s actually on theatrical marquees, a problem that could be solved if they’d just glance up. The Day the Earth Blew Up & Black Bag are both exactly how they used to make ’em; it’s more that audiences “don’t watch ’em like they used to.” The habit of checking the newspaper for listings of what happens to be playing this afternoon or physically stopping by the nearest theater and catching whatever has the most convenient showtime is a lost cultural practice.
The Day the Earth Blew Up: A Looney Tunes Movie is about as classic as they come. Sure, its sexual & cultural references are a little more up to date than the anarchic sex & archaic pop culture parodies of Looney Tunes past (with innuendo about anonymous truck stop hookups and visual allusions to sci-fi horror classics like The Thing,Invasion of The Body Snatchers, Jurassic Park, and Night of the Living Dead). At its core, though, it’s just an extended Merrie Melodies short, following the goofball exploits of Daffy Duck & Porky Pig as they desperately attempt to hold onto their entry-level jobs at the local bubblegum factory while simultaneously fighting off a space alien who wants to poison that gum with a mind-controlling goo. Classic stuff. The humor ranges from vaudevillian slapstick to Ren & Stimpy gross-outs in a cacophonously loud celebration of all things loony, all rendered in glorious 2D animation. In a better world, every movie would open with a condensed version of this kind of goofball novelty as an appetizer for the Feature Presentation, maybe accompanied by a short news report about The War or what Lana Turner wore to her recent premiere. Instead, we live in a Hell dimension where its day-to-day box office uneasiness is a bargaining tool in backroom negotiations about whether the other recently completed Looney Tunes feature should be released to theaters or deleted from the Warner Brothers servers for a tax write-off. It’s grim out there.
For the adults in the room, Steven Soderberg has put a pause on his recent unsane genre experiments to instead re-establish his presence as one of Hollywood’s more classical entertainers. Black Bag finds the director returning to the suave professionalism of past commercial triumphs, this time casting Michael Fassbender & Cate Blanchett as a married couple of international cyber-spies who would literally kill for each other despite their shared need to constantly lie in order to do their jobs. The spy plot is a tangled mess of double-triple-crossings involving two “interlocked counterplans” to break this elite marriage part (and take over the world in the process), but none of that really matters. The project is more about signaling a return to the handsome, timeless world of tweed caps, stirred cocktails, and wholehearted monogamy. Soderbergh puts in a Herculean effort to make monogamous marital commitment sexy & cool. It’s a trick he finds much easier to pull off with Fassbender’s love of administering polygraph tests to fellow spies, since those come with their own bondage gear that signals sexiness from the jump. Setting all of this laidback, horny sophistication in the swankiest corners of downtown London and then going out of your way to cast a former James Bond actor in a prominent role (Pierce Brosnan, as the spy agency’s untrustworthy head honcho) all feels like a deliberate callback to the kind of classic thriller surveyed moviegoers claim to want, even if they’re not used to seeing it filtered through Soderbergh’s personal kink for commercial-grade digital textures.
In a word, Black Bag is cute. It’s a nice little treat for Soderbergh casuals who prefer the classic sophistication of Ocean’s 11 over the erratic playfulness of Ocean’s 12. I’m happy for that audience, even though I can’t relate. Similarly, The Day the Earth Blew Up is cute. It’s good for a few sensible chuckles and a few outright guffaws (the origin story for Porky Pig’s trademark stutter got an especially big, unexpected laugh out of me), but it’s in no way attempting to invent or innovate. It’s classic Looney Tunes buffoonery, a familiarly pleasant offering for anyone who’s looking to get out of the house and chomp some popcorn at The Movies. Watching it as a warm-up for a handsomely staged spy thriller about the timeless beauty of a traditional marriage felt like an experience that I could have had at the picture show at any time in the past century. People largely seem unaware that these traditionally entertaining movies are out in the world right now, though, since only the occasional Event Film (i.e., reboots, superhero flicks, live-action remakes of Disney cartoons) seems able to cut through the social media babble to grab their attention. It’s a problem I don’t really know how to fix, but thankfully I’m not in marketing, so it’s not really my job to fix. I just like going to the movies. Every week, I check my local listings and pop in to see what’s being offered to me. It’s a constantly rewarding hobby, one that requires minimal effort.