reviews

Urban Legend (1998)

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The 1998 college-campus horror Urban Legend resides at the crossroads of two major 1990s cultural projects, both involving the legacy of Wes Craven. First & foremost, it’s a post-Scream third wave slasher, coasting on a deluge of self-aware meta horrors starring young, hot teen actors who are conscious they are in a horror movie and provide live commentary on the tropes of the genre as they’re systematically killed. In this case, the famous-at-the-time teenyboppers in question (Alicia Witt, Jared Leto, Tara Reid, Joshua Jackson, etc.) attempt to guess the next patterned kill of a serial murderer who’s recreating long-debunked urban legends rather than recreating famous movie scenes—like in Scream—but the effect is the same. The secondary project of Urban Legend was part of a larger 1990s effort to reclaim the public reputation of Robert Englund as more than just the creep who played Freddy Kreuger, presenting him instead as a kind of effete academic. His late-80s turn as the Phantom of the Opera transported his Freddy Kreuger persona to the more refined cultural space of a period-piece opera house.  He later turned up as himself in Craven’s proto-Scream meta slasher A New Nightmare, appearing out of Kreuger drag as a thoughtful, classically trained actor haunted by the grotesqueries he was typecast as post-Elm Street fame. In Urban Legend, Englund’s past professional triumphs as Freddy Kreuger still linger in the audience’s mind as his character is floated as the most obvious suspect in the serial-killer investigations, but he’s quickly cleared of guilt and presented as something much more respectable: a bespectacled, leather-patched college professor and the leading expert in his field, which conveniently happens to be urban legends.

Of course, the only reason to return to Urban Legend all these decades past its expiration date is to pinpoint what, exactly, is the most 1990s-specific detail about it. There are plenty of late-90s time capsule contributions competing for that honor: frustrations with dial-up internet connections tying up a shared phone line, Joshua Jackson’s frosted-tips Peroxide hairdo, a meta joke at the expense of Jackson’s Dawson’s Creek fame, “Goth 4 Goth” campus hookup message boards, needle drops from Stabbing Westward and Cherry Poppin’ Daddies. When I saw the film was screening on a Monday evening down the street from my house, I didn’t attend in hopes that it would hold up as a wrongly dismissed 90s classic, à la The Rage, The Craft, or Cherry Falls. I attended out of nostalgia for the film’s value as a retro Blockbuster Video rental, watched alone on my bedroom VCR when I was old enough to crave teenage transgressions but too young to experience them first-hand. It was a pleasant time to return to, if not only to reminisce about a moment when teen slashers were slickly produced, hot commodities. Every exterior scene involves a completely unnecessary crane shot, and every nighttime slashing sequence is set during a music video-style thunderstorm for atmospheric effect, flaunting money most modern slashers couldn’t afford to scrape together. The only embarrassing thing about the movie, really, is watching the adults in the room have to play archetypes for mouthbreathing teens’ entertainment: Brad Dourif as a creepy gas station attendant, Loretta Devine as a Coffy-obsessed campus cop and, of course, Robert Englund as a learned professor of the macabre.

As for the urban-legends-obsessed serial killer conceit, even the teenage victims point out that the premise is “a bit of a stretch.” There are a few obvious go-to urban legends that map well to the teen slasher format. There’s the classic “The call’s coming from inside the house” story of the babysitter being killed by a home invader, restaged here in a frat house much like how the foundational 70s slasher Black Christmas restaged it in a sorority house. The first kill involves an axe murderer hiding in the backseat of a woman’s car, played for ironic humor as she sings along to the “Turn around” refrain of Bonnie Tyler’s “Total Eclipse of the Heart,” painfully off-key. The killer’s motivation being a disastrous prank version of the “flashing headlights gang initiation” legend is similarly effective. Three or four clever kills are not enough to fill the 100-minute runtime, though, which inspires the movie to reach for urban legends that don’t fully map to the genre. In the most egregious example, one character is force-fed a combo of Pop Rocks & Drano in a violent escalation of the schoolyard myth that combining Pop Rocks & soda will explode your stomach. Otherwise, things get exceedingly silly when the legends are updated with modern twists, like switching phone calls for online chatrooms or creating new teen slang in which victims-to-be each share their “favorite U.L.” at the campus coffee shop. With the gnarly exception of a microwaved dog, the violence of the film is never especially gruesome, but it does find plenty of novelty in its post-Scream meta slasher premise. It’s a wonder there were any legends left for its two less-remembered sequels; it seems like this one ran through all the standards.

If you want a smart, level-headed version of this movie, you’re much better off revisiting the 1992 classic Candyman, which starts with a grad student recording a broad range of urban legends before settling on one specific, hyperlocal one that destroys her life. The modern folklore academia of Urban Legend is much broader, and it only serves two cynical purposes: cashing in on the popularity of Scream and making Robert Englund appear intellectual. A couple decades later, the only cultural significance the movie has gained is as a reminder that Jared Leto was once passable as a normal, functional human being, albeit a strikingly pretty one. Everything else is pure late-90s nostalgia, the cinematic equivalent of binging Stabbing Westward & Cherry Poppin’ Daddies music videos on YouTube.

-Brandon Ledet

Fade to Black (1980)

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“Why don’t you live in the real world with the rest of us?”
“No thanks.”

During the opening credits of the early-80s horror curio Fade to Black, our serial killer anti-hero Eric Binfold (Dennis Christopher) is mumbling to himself about Bogart & books, likely in reference to the Howard Hawks noir The Big Sleep. He’s then revealed to be lounging in his underwear, studying local TV broadcast & repertory theatre listings in the newspaper to plan out his week. His bedroom is wallpapered with movie posters for violent genre films like Don’t Bother to Knock, Frenzy, and White Heat. His first kill, halfway into the film, is pushing his wheelchair-using adoptive aunt down their apartment stairs, inspired by an infamously vicious murder in Kiss of Death. He is later depicted masturbating to a Marilyn Monroe poster while wearing a Nosferatu t-shirt. He changes his name from Eric Binfold to Cody Jarrett in honor of James Cagney’s performance in White Heat, reflecting the way he deals with his mommy issues by violently lashing out against the world. Eric Binfold is living my exact life and watching the exact same movies I am, except that he’s a sociopathic murderer, and it scares me.

Fade to Black is an uncomfortably prescient film about how anyone with a Letterboxd account is an antisocial degenerate. It makes visual allusions to early slashers like Psycho & Halloween to help guide the audience with genre-template guardrails, but the horror classic it most closely resembles is Willard. All Eric Binfold wants to do is be left alone to watch his movies, but he keeps being hassled by family, coworkers, and bullies who interrupt his hobby. Like how Willard eventually exacts revenge on the world by weaponizing his own hobby of training rats, Eric snaps and goes on a killing spree using The Movies as his weapon of choice. He dresses as vampires, cowboys, and classic-noir gangsters, hunting anyone who belittles his favorite pastime of sitting alone in the dark, watching a glowing screen. Dennis Christopher gives an intensely nervous performance in the role, calling into question why Willard got the Crispin Glover remake treatment instead of this one. He’s also, of course, a prototypical incel – not committing his first murder until he’s stood up by an Australian flirt who happens to vaguely resemble Marilyn Monroe. What a dweeb; I hate that he’s so relatable.

The real horror here is the isolation & frustration of dedicating every waking thought to the antisocial pursuit of Watching Movies. It’s an unhealthy lifestyle, but given the choice between “escapist trash” and the cruel mundanity of the real world, it’s a relatively attractive one. The trick when “going to the movies a lot” is “your thing” is to remember how to talk & relate to other people in the hours you inevitably have to spend outside the theater. You can’t just fire off movie trivia at normal, functional human beings and consider the exchange Polite Conversation. Universal’s Famous Monsters aren’t famous to everyone; you have to recognize that you are the town freak, not the local genius, and adjust your behavior accordingly. When Eric’s killing spree spirals fully out of control and he takes the Marilyn impersonator hostage at gunpoint, the taboo he can’t wait to break is touching a movie theater screen with his hands, something that wouldn’t register as a blasphemous transgression to most. He’s an avatar for Cinephile Brain Rot at its most rotten, another reminder to periodically step outside the cinema and touch some grass.

-Brandon Ledet

Juliet of the Spirits (1965)

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The standout sequence in Juliet of the Spirits that dropped my jaw lowest in the theater was its ugliest & most mundane. The 2015 restoration of the 1960s Fellini classic is, for the most part, a gorgeous swirl of vibrant color. It’s a dark fantasy movie in which the Italian master invents the cinematic language for later texts as disparate & monumental as Lynch’s dream sequences, Jodorowsky’s circuses, and Friedkin’s exorcisms, all rendered in sinfully lurid Technicolor. That was all expected, though. What really caught me off guard is when Fellini pauses his gaudy reverie to also invent the cinematic language for the television program Cheaters. It happens in the sequence where his real-life wife & muse Giuletta Masina visits the private detective agency that’s been trailing her husband, and they play back to her a full week of documented adulterous behavior. The way the head dick in charge narrates the sepia-tone surveillance footage with time stamps and sneering innuendo is so specific to the Joey Greco era of Cheaters that I now understand that reality TV show to be a loving homage to the film’s legacy. Such is the power of Fellini.

Much like an episode of Cheaters, watching Juliet of the Spirits feels like intruding on a private domestic dispute that’s really none of our business. Our director is working through his real-life conflicts with his wife by illustrating his own adulterous behavior onscreen, through the avatar of actor Mario Pisu. Giuletta Masina stars as Giuletta Boldrini, a wealthy but lonely housewife who’s increasingly isolated by the extramarital indulgences of her husband Giorgio, played by Pisu. As Giorgio spends increasingly long stretches away with his latest fling, Giuletta seeks spiritual advice from the dark arts, meeting with a series of psychics & mystics in search of a calmer, wiser perspective on her broken marriage. This pursuit opens her mind to a loud circus of perverted spirits & ghosts that constantly parade through her head, pulling her out of her Catholic comfort zone towards a larger religious truth: pleasure is the true religion, and she should be cheating too. The whole thing plays like a plea from Fellini to his wife to start cheating on him to help balance things out and to take her mind off the marital injustice he initiated.

Unlearning Catholic guilt is easier said than done. The proto-Exorcist imagery results from a childhood memory in which Giuletta starred as a martyred saint in a church play, burned alive for the transgression of accepting Christ in her heart. Anytime the adult Giuletta considers indulging in an extramarital affair (with a handsome ghost, demon, or otherwise), her mind flashes back to this scarring memory, which has taught her to associate Earthly pleasure with guilt & pain. Everyone around her is fully enjoying what being alive has to offer—especially in the pleasures of the flesh—and yet Giuletta continues to fret, unable to let go and enjoy herself as much as her wandering husband. Buried somewhere in the film’s increasingly dreamlike imagery, there’s eventually a healing moment in which she frees her flaming inner child from her Catholic shackles and comforts her with a motherly embrace, but it’s still not enough to fully make up for what Giorgio has done to their marriage. Maybe Fellini’s admitting personal guilt there more than he’s attempting to shake his wife loose from her own self-limiting Catholic guilt. Again, it’s not really any of our business.

For all of its messy offscreen domestic drama and the deep psychological pain caused by religious repression, Juliet of the Spirits is often a light confection. Snazzy jazz scores the backyard wanderings of a mystic housecat and the Italo-fashion beachwear modeling of Giulietta’s fabulously amoral neighbor with no attempt to underline the dark-fantasy elements of the plot with any palpable menace. Fellini feels just as preoccupied with injecting eye-searing beauty into every frame of his first in-color picture as he is with working out his domestic issues with his wife. Even the candlesticks in the couple’s home are tinted lavender instead of the typical white, just to squeeze more color into the frame. It is, without question, the most gorgeous, surreal episode of Cheaters in the history of the show; and yes I am including the one where Joey Greco got stabbed on a boat.

-Brandon Ledet

Universal Language (2025)

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Matthew Rankin makes great movies, but I’m not yet fully sure what makes a Matthew Rankin movie specific to Matthew Rankin. His first film The Twentieth Century is one of the best debut features of this decade, and yet the most accurate way to recommend it to the uninitiated is as the best Guy Maddin movie not directed by Guy Maddin. I found myself reaching for similar hypotheticals while watching Rankin’s latest picture, the low-key absurdist comedy Universal Language. What if Wes Anderson directed My Winnipeg? What if Roy Andersson directed True Stories? What if Quentin Dupieux directed Where is the Friend’s House? Thankfully, Matthew Rankin is quickly becoming a distinct enough directorial voice that I won’t have to come up with these lazy rhetorical scenarios for much longer, but there just isn’t enough material out there to fully pinpoint what makes his work unique, at least not yet. For now, its greatness is still familiar to its most glaring reference points.

Set in a parallel-universe version of Winnipeg that’s just as influenced by Iranian culture as Canadian, Universal Language casually slips between Persian & French dialogue & text as a mirror reflection of its characters’ liminal cultural identities. We start at a French immersion school, with Persian students anxious to break away from their eccentric teacher’s disciplinary shouting so they can have wholesome adventures in the Canadian snow. Outside, their small-scale schemes intertwine with the daily toils of a Winnipeg tour guide and a stranger (Matthew Rankin, essentially playing himself) who’s returning to town to visit his ill mother after years of estrangement. In stage-comedy tradition, their stories converge in a single apartment at the story’s climax, but much of the film leaves them traveling & plotting in isolated vignettes. The tour guide is the most solid narrative anchor in that respect, providing the audience a sense of place as he shows off the many uninspiring wonders of Winnipeg’s cultural monuments: an endless tangle of grey interstate highways, a Beige District of nondescript brick buildings, a briefcase that was abandoned on a park bench in the 1970s and left undisturbed due to general Canadian politeness, etc.

Universal Language lounges in a calm, unrushed mood, warming its frozen hands with a hot glass of tea in avoidance of the harsh winter outside. It’s quietly hilarious, though, with an excess of absurdist gags about turkey beauty pageants, sentient Christmas trees, local TV-commercial celebrities, and schoolboy Groucho Marx impersonators that each land with a warm chuckle rather than a full-bellied laugh. Its visual trickery is similarly subdued, especially in comparison with the German Expressionist fantasia of The Twentieth Century. There are two scenes in which a shot-reverse-shot sequence triggers a harshly mundane psychedelia: one that maps out the cubicle-walled limbo of a government bureaucrat’s office and one that swaps two characters’ personae mid-film, recalling Lynch’s Lost Highway. Another isolated sequence of low-key surrealism makes the audience dizzy with double-exposure images of a figure skater dressed in silver like a spinning disco ball. It’s all purposefully underplayed deadpan, so its merits as Great Cinema are much less obvious than they were in Rankin’s previous picture. It’s also much sweeter & more communal, though, suggesting that Rankin is investing more heart into his characters than his production design as he hones his directorial voice. Although many immediate comparisons come to mind while describing what he’s achieved so far, I still can’t fully predict where his mind is going next. He’s an exciting Artist To Watch as a result, even as someone who’s not yet making fully distinct art.

-Brandon Ledet

Working Girl (1988)

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I’ve been thinking a lot about Harrison Ford lately, mostly by happenstance. He’s in TV commercials promoting a new Captain America film as a tomato-red variation of The Hulk transformed by the magic of CGI. He’s lurking in the background of Awards Season ceremonies, disrupting live broadcasts with his signature geriatric-stoner aloofness. When I last went to the theater, he unexpectedly appeared against-type as a young, stone-faced villain in Francis Ford Coppola’s The Conversation. Harrison Ford is everywhere, as long as you happen to be making the exact programming choices I am. So, when I was flipping through my stack of unwatched DVD purchases, I had to follow the pattern and watch the first movie that featured Ford’s handsome face on the cover: Mike Nichols’s late-80s romcom Working Girl, where Harrison Ford plays the lead romantic interest for star Melanie Griffith. Despite Ford’s lengthy screentime and central importance to the plot, it turned out to not be an especially great watch if you’re looking for pure Harrison Ford content. He’s mostly used as a sex-symbol prop, an object to be ogled. Like in my recent everyday life, he’s just kind of . . . there.

Besides the film being a star-vehicle for Melanie Griffith, the reason Harrison Ford doesn’t make much of a strong impression in Working Girl is that the cast is overflowing with a surplus of supporting players, of which he just happens to play the primary hunk. Alec Baldwin plays Hunk #2, a perfectly cast meathead himbo. Sigourney Weaver gives a hilariously broad performance as Griffith’s boss & romantic rival. Joan Cusack plays her even more eccentric bestie. Oliver Platt appears as her workplace enemy, a Wall Street slimeball. Kevin Spacey plays an even slimier Wall Street slimeball. David Duchovny shows up as a background player at her surprise birthday party. Working Girl has the kind of stacked cast of character actors that has you shouting “Holy shit, look who it is!” all the way until the final minute. The last one that got me was Suzanne “Big Ethel” Shepherd from A Dirty Shame delivering exactly one line as an unnamed receptionist in the final few minutes, one of two single-scene appearances from John Waters players, including an earlier appearance from Ricki Lake. Casting director Juliet Taylor was a real over-achiever, as evidenced by roping in someone as classically charismatic as Harrison Ford to just stand around and look handsome.

Working Girl is essentially a fish-out-of-water comedy about a Staten Island party girl (Griffith) who struggles to be taken seriously in the Big Business world of Manhattan across the bay. She rides the ferry to work every morning in her stockings & tennis shoes, switches to the sensible heels stored under her desk, and struggles to keep her hairspray-sculpted lioness mane vertical while battling sexist stereotypes in the lion’s den of stock trading. Her big break arrives in the form of a broken leg, when her much more refined Manhattanite boss (Weaver) injures herself skiing and is briefly taken out of the picture. Our titular working girl makes a power move by taking over her boss’s life & wardrobe, Single White Female-style, and attempting to broker a major corporate-buyout deal with a hotshot fuckboy broker (Ford) before she’s discovered to be a fraud. After the movie comes dangerously close to kicking things off with a date-rape meet cute, they genuinely fall in love and a series of silly deceits & misunderstandings ensue. The entire two-hour runtime is dedicated to the contract negotiations of their singular business deal together, but that doesn’t really matter. What matters is Griffith’s self-described persona of having “a head for business and a body for sin,” a line so perfectly written it belonged on the poster instead of in the dialogue.

Griffith’s sinful body is frequently put on display here, as lacy, overly complicated lingerie appears to be just as much of her Big Business uniform as her pencil skirt; she even vacuums in it. Harrison Ford is tasked to strip too, for a sense of balance, at one point taking a whore’s bath during a phone call in his glass-walled office while his female coworkers gawk & applaud. As a Reaganite cultural clash between the small-town vulgarity of Staten Island and the big-city sophistication of Manhattan, Working Girl is a little conceptually vague. As a collection of always-welcome faces, however, it’s exceedingly charming from start to end (Spacey excluded). You can tell it’s charming just by clocking that there are two overlapping cast members from Moonstruck featured here (Cher’s mom & Cher’s hairdresser), which is the undisputable masterpiece of this 80s NYC romcom subgenre. Harrison Ford is just one handsome face among many. He hadn’t yet learned how to be a dazed, scene-stealing agent of chaos, but thankfully there were plenty of other over-the-top performers around to pick up the slack (with Weaver & Cusack doing most of the heavy lifting in that respect).

-Brandon Ledet

No Other Land (2025)

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I saw No Other Land about a week before its Oscar win for Best Documentary Feature. I’ve been sitting on it and digesting it in the time since, thinking about what (or even if) I should write about it. As a document, it speaks for itself. 

Basel Adra opens the film with a voiceover, narrating footage taken of him at the tender age of nine. It is the first (but certainly not the last) time that Basel and his family are captured on film being forced to leave their home in Palestine under invading colonial forces. He tells us about how his father’s activism inspired his own. Through no fault of his own, his entire existence has been one spent on the edge of the knife and in the intersection between two barrels: the gun that seeks to push him out and the camera lens which documents his and others’ lives under apartheid. Masafer Yatta is the place in question, a region in the occupied West Bank, which has been declared (by the Israeli high court) to be annexed for use as a military training ground. Throughout the footage, taken over years, people are forced out of their homes by men and women in uniform who have only one refrain: “It is the law,” they say. “It is the law; it is the law.” And with each time they repeat it one can’t help but hear what they are actually saying, in the present as it was said in the past: “We are only following orders.” It is no defense. 

In many ways, No Other Land documents much less outright violence than one would expect. We’ve all spent an unbelievable length of time bearing witness to much more depraved acts of violence against the people of Palestine than are recorded here, although this film is not without horror, of course. During one protest we see Israeli soldiers open fire on a group of civilians, paralyzing one of them. The same man later dies after his home (a tent) is destroyed and the inhabitants of Masafer Yatta are forced to scatter to a series of caves for refuge; he succumbs to infection there. It is this man’s mother who gives the film its title, speaking of the fact that there is nowhere else to go. We also see Basel’s father shot at another point later in the film, and Basel is forced to give up on his activism for a time so that he can operate the area’s only gasoline dispensary, his father’s business, as its operation is vital for the area, at least until further settler invasion forces the forfeiture of all vehicles as the vice grip of their organized terrorism continues to tighten around the peoples of Palestine. 

The other primary lens through which we see the activities other than Basel’s is that of Israeli journalist Yuval Abraham, who is able to come and go freely from the ravaged area, and although he develops a deep and abiding friendship with Basel, the privilege of movement that he enjoys remains a sharp dividing line between the men. Yuval also comes face to face with people who appreciate his mission but doubt his ability to make any real changes, and when Yuval’s missives fail to reach larger audiences, he loses hope quickly while Basel and his people understand that this is an effort that could (and likely will) consume their lives and their lifetimes. 

One thing that particularly struck me was how this documentary works in conversation with Ernest Cole: Lost and Found. In particular, when watching Basel’s friend be shot and become quadriplegic, I remembered the segment of Lost and Found wherein the voiceover explained the monetary compensation that the apartheid regime enforced on the native South Africans. A specific dollar amount was assigned for the loss of a limb, or for total loss of one’s ability to work in the mines. Even under what we now recognize unilaterally as a genocidal and evil colonial practice, there were more protections (measly and inhumane ones, to be sure) for the people who were crushed under the heel of colonization. Lost and Found also featured many photographs of Cole and his community’s homes being demolished as well as images of the cookie cutter housing put up on their former land to be occupied by settlers. No Other Land features almost the exact same imagery, except that instead of photographs, it’s video of tractors and bulldozers demolishing the homes of the disenfranchised. Together, the two films tell a story about generational evil, the methods of control that are enacted across decades through violence and intimidation, and the way that world leaders are largely indifferent to suffering. What that conversation between them does positively is give me hope. Ernest Cole, like Moses, was exiled and never allowed to see the Promised Land, as he died within weeks of Mandela’s release, but South African apartheid did end, even if he never got to enjoy the fruits of his activism. If South Africa could be freed, then so too can Palestine.

-Mark “Boomer” Redmond

The Monkey (2025)

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I was looking forward to The Monkey with great anticipation. Longlegs was one of my favorite movies of last year, and although I’m colder on The Blackcoat’s Daughter than Brandon is, I’m mostly positive about Osgood Perkins’s overall body of work, so it’s unfortunate that The Monkey didn’t live up to my expectations. Extrapolated from a Stephen King short story about a toy monkey who visits unexplained and supernatural death whenever he clangs his cymbals together, Perkins has reworked the story into one about twin brothers (Christian Convery in the past and Theo James in the present) who find among their long-disappeared father’s belongings a “like life” toy organ grinder monkey. All too quickly, they learn that winding the monkey up by turning its key sets in motion its little drum routine (the cymbal monkey is now under copyright to Disney, for Toy Story reasons), and when it plays its final drumbeat, someone dies. When their mother dies as a result of the monkey’s machinations, they resolve to get rid of it by throwing it down an abandoned well, only for it to resurface twenty-five years later and start to kill the innocent again. 

There’s a lot to like here. This is the first of Perkins’s works to fully commit to being funny for most of its run time, and when it is funny, it’s hilarious. The deaths here are as comically over the top as they come, and not without a bit of Final Destination-esque Rube Goldbergian overdesign that lends them even more humor. The death of Sarah Levy’s character Aunt Ida is a particularly gratuitous one, as she first falls through the basement stairs and gets a face full of fishing hooks for her trouble; but after she painstakingly removes the tackle and sanitizes the wounds with rubbing alcohol, she accidentally lights her face on fire, which sends her running screaming into the night and impaling her head on the real estate post outside of her house. It’s slapstick horror comedy at its best, and when the film focuses on comedic violence, it shines. A woman dives into a swimming pool that has been electrified by a fallen air conditioning unit and, instead of simply being shocked or fried by the current, completely explodes like a water balloon full of human viscera; Uncle Chip gets reduced to little more than ground meat when he’s trampled to death in his sleeping bed by a stampede while out camping. And it’s a delight! 

What doesn’t work and what ends up dragging the film down is the semblance of narrative consistency that it tries to maintain. Adult Hal (the nerdy one) is now divorced and working in a supermarket, and he only sees his son once a year on the kid’s birthday. Upon arriving at the home of his ex-wife’s much more successful new husband, parenthood advice author Ted (Elijah Wood), he learns that Ted plans to adopt Hal’s son Petey (Colin O’Brien) outright, and Hal will lose all custody and visitation rites. His attempts to give his son one last fond memory by taking him to a horror theme park go awry when he learns of the death of his Aunt Ida, who took the boys in as children when their mother (Tatiana Maslany) was killed by the monkey. Believing that the monkey has returned, he goes back to the home and tries to find the monkey so that he can keep it out of the hands of anyone who would use it maliciously, and hilarity ensues as people continue to die—gloriously and gorily—all around him, while he works to keep his son safe from what he believes to be the family’s curse. Elsewhere, Adult Bill (who was the worst kind of piece of shit as a kid) is up to his own schemes, which include seeking the monkey through his own means, including a longstanding reward on the thing, which is claimed by local punk Ricky (Rohan Campbell), who develops his own fascination with the object. 

This is a film that’s front-loaded with all of the best parts, as its opening, set in 1999, follows Bill and Hal as kids and their relationship with their single mother. In the prologue, we learn that their father (Adam Scott) had attempted to return the monkey to a pawn shop, only for the monkey to start its drumbeat, with disastrous results. He does see a flamethrower in the store, however, and uses it on the monkey; this is the last that we see of him, and when the kids ask about their father, their mother reveals that he literally went out for the proverbial pack of smokes and never returned. The relationship between the boys and their mother is a fun one, and while Theo James is a fine enough actor, he cannot help but be unfavorably compared to Maslany, who imbues every one of her Act I scenes with enough charisma, charm, and comedic timing to fill most films. She’s a delight here, especially playing off of Convery, who effectively conveys two very different boys who happened to have shared a womb. Even with a general lack of comedic violence in that opening, there’s still a warmth and a charm that Maslany brings to life (her constant reference to Annie the babysitter as “Babysitter Annie” as if that were her full name is particularly cute). Young Bill is effective as an unrepentant bully who makes Hal’s life hell at home and in school, as he shares embarrassing details about Hal with a gaggle of mean girls that leads to them stealing his pants and pelting him with bananas (because of the monkey). 

Once we move into the present day, things get off to a pretty strong start. I mentioned Aunt Ida’s ignominious death above, and it turns out that the monkey is currently working overtime as the residents of his old hometown are dropping left and right in horrible accidents: real estate agents blown to bolognese bits by poorly maintained firearms, guys falling victim to their own lawn mowers (a possible reference to King’s Maximum Overdrive, as the film is peppered with others, like the fact that Babysitter Annie’s full name is Annie Wilkes), that sort of thing. Where the whole thing falls apart is when it attempts to be sincere, or (more charitably) when its mockery of sincerity is insufficiently dissimilar from the real thing. The relationship between Hal and Petey is one that we have very little investment in, as it’s clear that Hal is all but completely absent from his son’s life, and although it’s made clear that Ted is a strange man, there’s no reason to think that this change in the legal structure of Petey’s family will have much of an impact on him (or Hal) at all. Hal’s constant monologued fears about the potential for the monkey to be a curse on his bloodline didn’t stop him from getting married and having a son in the first place, and that even further precludes us from thinking that he cares about Petey all that much. I’m even less invested in the relationship between the estranged adults Bill and Hal, especially as the more antagonistic of the pair is played much more broadly than the other; it should be either campier or reined in a bit to better match Hal’s energy. Even if the film is trying to mock these relationships, the way that it attempts to rationalize and figure out rules for how the monkey works ground everything to a halt for me, after I was riding pretty high on the comedy of the first half. It’s not that the back half is without its fun moments. An earlier reference to skydiving weddings pays off hilariously and gruesomely in the climax, and the last minute before the credits roll provides another fun payoff that feels like something out of the VHS horror comedy era, and I got a kick out of both. It’s just too uneven and the back half too dull to live up to my expectations. When it’s funny, it’s wickedly funny, but when it’s not, it drags. 

-Mark “Boomer” Redmond

Video Violence (1987)

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I wonder how true film snobs feel about the current moment in restoration & distribution. In past decades, Janus Films & The Criterion Collection were the standard-bearers for cinephilic home media, putting a heavy emphasis on getting classic art films into customers’ living rooms before they were lost to time. Nowadays, that effort has been overrun by a gang of boutique distribution labels that produce high-gloss prints of low-class genre schlock, best represented by Vinegar Syndrome’s dozens of genre-specific sublabels and its pornographic sister company Mélusine. Instead of collecting the cleanest scans possible of masterworks by the likes of Bresson, Godard, and Buñuel, modern cinephiles spend hundreds of dollars hunting down pristine copies of bargain-bin martial arts novelties, shot-on-video slashers, and vintage narrative pornos. I am not complaining. Personally, I love that there’s a Blu-ray company that specializes in every disreputable subgenre you can name, catering to an increasingly niche clientele of antisocial freaks (myself included), but I also imagine there’s a silent class of classic film snobs out there distraught by the sordid state of things.

To see some of that old-fashioned film snobbery in action, I recommend returning to its roots in retro video store culture, as represented in the 1987 cult curio Video Violence. It’s a shot-on-video horror film about a video store owner who’s disgusted with his gorehound clientele, directed by a real-life video store clerk who was disgusted with his gorehound clientele. For classic film snobs, it’s a cathartic screed against the scumbag schlock gobblers who overrepresent low-brow genre trash in the all-important Film Canon of great works. For the horror nerds  actually likely to watch it, it’s the filmic equivalent of getting smacked on the snout with a rolled-up newspaper. For the vast majority of us who fall somewhere between those polar extremes, it’s a documentary relic of 80s video store culture, with lengthy explanations of video-return drop boxes, membership cards, late fees, and the democratizing nature of the display shelf (wherein when a customer requests “that chainsaw movie” they’re handed a copy of Pieces, not the more obvious Tobe Hooper classic). At a time when retro hipster video stores like L.A.’s Vidiots (or, locally, Future Shock) are making headlines and Alex Ross Perry is constructing feature-length essay films entirely out of video store representation in pre-existing films (Videoheaven), that temporal snapshot of 80s video stores in their prime is just as essential as documenting the film nerd-culture bickering that terrorized their aisles.

Gary Schwartz stars as director Gary Cohen’s onscreen surrogate, a disgruntled cinephile who used to program art cinema in an New York City repertory theater and now finds himself renting out video tapes to local yokels with no discerning taste. He’s trapped in small-town America, where everyone is an anti-social loner with a VCR, frustrated that his customers would rather watch cheap-o horror movies or “the occasional triple X’r” in the privacy of their own homes than chat about “the Woody Allen or a classic Abbot & Costello” with the knowledgeable store clerk. Hosting a podcast would have fixed him. Instead, he grows increasingly disgusted with the mouthbreathing ghouls he peddles tapes to, especially once they start returning home-made tapes to the store instead of the professional movies they rented. Several mysterious blank tapes land on the poor movie buff’s counter, which he soon discovers are real-life snuff films made by the gorehound townies, torturing & dismembering outsiders who don’t fit in with the local culture. Of course, he foolishly investigates these horrific deaths on a vigilante mission and eventually becomes a videotaped victim himself, with his humble video store ultimately run as a co-op by the bloodthirsty freaks who used to come to him for their gore flicks before they started making their own.

The only thing Video Violence hates more than its audience is itself. While describing the mysterious snuff tapes to his incredulous wife, our video-store-clerk-in-peril explains that he knows the violence in them is real because it’s all shot on video, likening the production values of that format to soap operas & TV commercials, not a proper film. Its most hateful “fuck you” to its audience is a scene in which a customer asks whether a horror film titled Blood Cult is rated R for violence or for nudity, since she’s only willing to show it to her young children if there’s no nudity. So, when the staged snuff footage then lingers on grotesque shot-on-video violence—like a human arm being processed by a deli slicer or a basement sadist giving his screaming stab victim a bloody kiss—it feels like being potty trained by having your face shoved into your own piss. You can absolutely feel the difference between this self-hating, “Is this what you sick fucks want?” approach to video gore vs. the more self-indulgent, guilty-pleasure gore of Lucio Fulci’s Cat in the Brain, which delivers the same goods with introspection rather than revulsion. Video Violence is a movie made by a classic cinephile who’s disgusted with what’s been done to his artform of choice, and I imagine that sentiment is still lurking out there somewhere in the ether now that the vintage-schlock lunatics are running the boutique-label asylum.

-Brandon Ledet

Grand Theft Hamlet (2025)

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Making art is hard work, even when you’re just goofing off with your friends. No matter how silly a collaborative art project is on a conceptual level—a novelty punk band, an amateur movie blog, a Mardi Gras costuming krewe (to name the few I have personal experience with)—the practicalities of seeing it through gets mired down in the general bullshit drudgery of modern life. Between everyone’s duties to work, to family, and to personal health and well-being, real-life circumstances are always stacked against your success, which can make you question why you’re working so hard for something so silly as, say, organizing a meet-up for a small group of friends to dress as Divine on Mardi Gras day. It does feel great when everything clicks in to place, though. There are few victories sweeter than defying the odds or our modern capitalist hellscape by making something sublimely stupid with your friends.

Even by my personal standards, the communal art project documented in Grand Theft Hamlet is exceedingly inane. “Filmed” entirely inside the video game Grand Theft Auto Online during the early lockdown years of COVID-19 (in the style of We Met in Virtual Reality), Grand Theft Hamlet documents the efforts of two goofball British blokes to organize a staging of Shakespeare’s Hamlet entirely within the gaming platform. It’s an absurdly specific novelty project that quickly leads to a broader story about how hard it is to complete any piece of collaborative art. All the usual roadblocks of squeezing in rehearsals around work schedules, balancing personal obsession with familial obligation, and navigating contributors’ differing excitement levels to distribute labor according to enthusiasm all apply to meeting online to recite Shakespeare while digitally represented as archetypal sex workers & thugs. Only, the video game platform literalizes those obstacles in the form of outside players firing bullets & rockets in your direction while you’re just trying to goof off with your friends.

The tradition of adapting Shakespeare in a novelty setting is long & storied. Even the modern specificity of Grand Theft Auto can’t make this staging a total anomaly, since a digital office-building setting will instantly recall Hamlet (2000) or a burst of neon-lit gunfire will recall Romeo+Juliet (1996). I’m sure there have also been unpermitted guerilla productions of Shakespeare plays periodically shut down by the cops, even if those cops are usually not algorithmically generated NPCs. It’s the effort that Sam Crane & Mark Oosterveen (along with central documentarian Pinny Grylls) put into working around the intended purpose of GTA Online that affords the project its true uniqueness. The triumphant perseverance of a player shouting their lines over machine gunfire during rehearsal while fellow collaborators play defense against disruptive trolls & “griefers” adds a new obstacle to the usual “Let’s put on a show!” artistic sprit. The defiance of carrying on in those chaotic circumstances is energizing, inspiring an actor to shout “You can’t stop art, motherfuckers!” into the digital void.

Hamlet proves to be an apt play to stage for this ludicrous project, not least of all because its tragic Shakespearean violence fits right in with the basic control functions of GTA. The actual themes of the play are genuinely felt in the final edit, especially in scenes where Crane & Oosterveen slip into suicidal ideation thanks to the isolation of COVID-19 lockdowns or when GTA‘s in-universe superhero franchise Impotent Rage is advertised in block letters on billboards & slot machines. The most critical Shakespeare quote repeated in this particular staging, however, isn’t from Hamlet at all. It’s the Macbeth line about how life is “a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.” That pretty much sums up the whole project, from the proudly idiotic premise to the meaningless displays of violence to the general, persistent emptiness of being alive. It’s also a succinct explanation of why it’s so important to make dumb art projects with your friends despite the effort required to pull it off. Nothing matters anyway; you might as well have a little fun while you’re here.

-Brandon Ledet

Chocolate Babies (1996)

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Would it be too redundant to call a movie “the ACT UP version of Born in Flames“? Born in Flames was already a pro-queer, pro-safe-sex, pro-sex-worker activism piece made in New York City when ACT UP was at its most loudly active — so radical in its politics that it climaxes with a celebratory act of terrorism blowing up the World Trade Center. Still, the political themes of Lizzie Borden’s D.I.Y. No Wave provocation was more focused on feminist issues than the AIDS crisis in particular, as it was made early in the still-worsening epidemic. Over a decade later, another microbudget NYC indie picked up where Born in Flames left off, redirecting its exact brand of political fury at the smiling politicians who left AIDS-suffering citizens to die in droves without lifting a systemic finger to help. Stephen Winter’s 1996 rabblerouser Chocolate Babies may have been made well after ACT UP’s loudest, headline-earning protests, but it’s directly informed by those political actions, exaggerated for shock value & be-gay-do-crimes inspo. It opens with a closeted Councilman being confronted on the front steps of his NYC apartment by a group of protestors, who cut themselves with a switchblade and smear HIV+ blood on the shocked man’s face, who then likens the act to “murder” in the press. Nothing is said of the mass murder he is committing by downplaying & exacerbating the AIDS crisis among his local constituents, of course, which is exactly why that kind of violent public confrontation was necessary to save lives.

The taboo of exposing the public to HIV+ blood becomes a core shock-value tactic for Chocolate Babies, which climaxes with a living-room surgery in a cramped apartment wherein a group of friends dislodge a bullet from their star protestor’s shoulder with bloody tweezers. It’s an excruciatingly long, drawn-out scene shot as if it were a live birth, complete with moaning screams of pain. Between all that bloody violence & shouting, you might miss that the movie is structurally a low-budget romcom. Like Born in Flames, Chocolate Babies is a collection of standalone vignettes musing on a core political theme, loosely stitched together by a propulsive, repetitive soundtrack (in this case, abrasive tribal drums). The story that holds that scatterbrained edit together is an unlikely love triangle between an HIV+ political activist (Max, Claude E. Sloan), the closeted homophobe politician he most often targets (Councilman Melvin Freeman, Bryan Webster), and that politician’s naively idealistic staff member (Sam, Jon Kit Lee). The youngest of the three is caught between two worlds, acting as a subversive employee of the exact government official his friends are protesting, while accidentally falling in love with the men in charge on both sides of that divide. The drag queens, rooftop hedonists, and political dissidents who escalate that conflict to a bloody climax are all lovely people and his closest friends. It’s all very wholesome & sweet, even if it’s politically furious.

The dramatic themes of Chocolate Babies can be sincerely heavy, touching on the loneliness, addiction, and familial bigotry that weigh down its queer community. However, the overall tone of the film is flippantly joyous, with characters complaining that their political actions aren’t accomplishing enough in quips like “I have better things to do with my time. I could be sucking dick!” They self-describe as “raging, atheist, meat-eating, HIV+, colored terrorists,” or “Black faggots with a political agenda” for short. Their politics are shouted in the horrified faces of politicians & businessmen who’d rather peacefully ignore the AIDS epidemic on NYC streets, but they’re just as often delivered as open-mic standup in out-of-context interstitials. The movie ultimately ends on a calming note, with crashing waves and familial love eroding the nonstop barrage of belligerent shouting that preceded. The moment is earned, given the film’s tender love-triangle conflict and sincere internal wrestling with loving someone who’s already given up on surviving their illness. The majority of the runtime is loud, celebratory, and energizing, though, mostly working as a political catalyst for the audience to get in their representatives’ faces instead of just getting high to manage the pain of living.

Chocolate Babies has been available to stream for free on director Stephen Winter’s Vimeo page for years now, seemingly ripped directly from a 1990s VHS tape. Recently, however, the local repertory series Gap Tooth Cinema screened the film at The Broadside in a much nicer, cleaner digital scan that suggests a better future for the film’s home presentation. It belongs to a company of low-budget, queer communal provocations that have finally gotten their full due in cinephile circles over the past decade — titles like Tongues Untied, Fresh Kill, Buddies, Paris is Burning, The Watermelon Woman and, of course, Born in Flames. The only thing it’s missing is a spiffy new Blu-ray release with a crisp, collectible slipcover to cement that status.

-Brandon Ledet