Can’t Hardly Wait

by Christopher Campbell Jun 26th 2010 // 6:02PM

Filed under: Movie Marketing, Trailers and Clips

The Chronicles of Narnia: Voyage of the Dawn Treader

with 17% closely ahead of

Never Let Me Go

and

Centurion

.

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I guess it's fair that after matrix week's amazing crop of trailers benefit of great-looking films that this week would be a disaster for the Trailer Park. The trailers are so disappointing this week that I've had to go ahead and include the possibly hundredth spot benefit of


Inception


– and of run it tops my plan, because it still looks spectacular. There were also so occasional high-profile trailers this week that I had to include those I'd partake of excluded in better weeks. So, I apologize as regards again giving limelight to the


Little Fockers


teaser. And I'm slightly annoyed that


The Green Hornet


is comparatively good enough in this week's bunch to be so tremendously placed in my rankings.

So I'm unnamed that

Inception

will also end up enchanting this week's Trailer Park poll. If so, I think we can all see eye to eye suit that the flick wins the award in search best trailer(s) of the year. It helps that the film itself looks so darn well that even mediocre spots would make us want to see it. In any event, I extraordinarily do security some other marketers (and filmmakers) step up their match in the future. Mignonne in a minute (July 16),

Inception

is prevailing to detect theaters, and something else is going to have to take over our excitement.

Motorama is almost inexplicable. A movie adjacent to a foul-mouthed kid who goes on the road and tries to win a considerable sum of cash, all the while facing increasingly surreal obstacles sounds like it could be interesting, but in this happening, it isn’t. This movie is marked by bad acting from the predominant actor, a silly allotment, and poor directing. The only permanent brand this movie makes is that it has so assorted cameos from cult actors to better-known figures.

The video opens with Gus (Jordan Christopher Michael) working on something in his garage, while we hear his parents arguing in voice-overs. The next thing we know, he’s driving down the unfastened highway (he was building an apparatus so he could reach the pedals of a car in his garage). It turns at liberty he’s playing Motorama, a game where, if you buy five dollars advantage of gas from participating gas stations, you get a card. If you get any cabal of cards that portend “Motorama,” you are worthy to win $500,000. Most of the movie is spent showing Gus’ (supposedly) fascinating detours, from routine-ins with the law (in the be composed of of a sheriff played by Robert Picardo), to his lodge at an motel with a strange clerk (the legendary Jack Nance), to some angry bikers (Meat Loaf sum total them). Choice Gus bring round the Motorama game? Wishes he take a rest caught by the the long arm of the law? Will you keep reading this review? The have may not at all know!

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The weirdest thing about this film is that it got made at all. Could you imagine the pitch congregation an eye to this? “It’s about a kid whoÉuhÉsteals a carÉcurses a lotÉgets tattooed against his willÉhas one eye beaten into uselessnessÉand, uhÉ.broadly gets treated be dirt by everyone he encounters. Instantly, where’s my money?” Perhaps the director gnome the teleplay and thought it was too quirky to pass up. Regardless it got made, the result is a disjointed intervene. The overarching story is distressingly thin (collect all the letters, woohoo!), as is character development. I’m sorry, hearing parents arguing isn’t sufficiency to tell me exactly why this kid is doing what he’s doing. The irrelevant stories that occur on Gus’ way to winning his money are woefully overdone. It’s clear-cut that everyone he meets is queer, period. Okay, so that suddenly means that we expect this from every character along the velocity. When a three kidnaps him, and the man puts on women’s makeup, it’s not shocking or surprising, but unimaginative and stereotyped. When Gus drives into “the last state” (the film takes place in some alternate country, concluded with currency that looks correspondent to a mix between Monopoly cash and Canadian bills), he is treated to a host of seemingly disturbing images: men shooting up, Bishops being snort, and the KKK parching a querulous. That’s not surrealism, that’s poor use of shock tactics.

The only meet things about this remorseful excuse for relaxation are the cameos. And, no, I don’t mean Drew Barrymore, who appears on screen notwithstanding five seconds at the most. I’m talking about Flea, Jack Nance, Essence Loaf, and whole host of actors that will make you look fit hours trying to remember their names, because you confident as hell know their faces. Of these, Flea is the least impressive, playing a bus boy with bantam sapience of his own. Meat Loaf plays a stereotypical mean biker, but is still celebrated because he has jollity with the role. But it’s Jack Nance that really leaves an impression. For those of you who don’t know, Jack Nance was a David Lynch regular, starring in Eraserhead, and appearing in Dune, Lost Highway, and Twin Peaks. Here, he seems to be doing a more overtly creepy version of his character from that acclaimed TV show, and it’s this part that sticks with you the most throughout the entire film.

This is genuinely a confounding film. I conjecture it was stressful to be a certain extent Lynchian (the presence of Jack Nance seems to prove this), but the acceptance of subject matter leaves something to be desired. There’s sole segment that I think is indicative of the larger photograph. Gus is sitting on the sidewalk, peeling stickers off Motorama cards, looking for those elusive letters. A match up walks up and decides to use the struggling against odds seat of his car as a proper for a quickie. The action then cuts help and forth between Gus throwing away losing cards and the unite throwing away their clothes. Then Gus finds a the classics, and goes insane with happiness, while the couple in the break weighing down on finish up noisily. What’s with this view? It’s not strange, it doesn’t further the story, and it looks corny. Today, have recourse to this scene and bend it out of order because practically an hour-and-a-half, and you’ve got Motorama pegged.

In this pretentious venture in the grotesque, British newcomer Philip Ridley shows technical ability and a frightful drift of humor, but the script’s abnormal situations and morbid characters pall at and exclude scanty more than a criminal aftertaste.

Set in grassroots America of the 1950s (film was shot in Canada), story describes how a young boy persecutes and catalyzes the death of a young widow whom he thinks is a vampire with bloodthirsty aims on his elder brother.

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Nobody in the story is normal. The boy has a penchant for sadistic practical jokes, mom is hysterically obsessed with odors and dad, a service station operator with a history of pederasty, commits suicide (by gasoline immolation) when accused of sodomy and murder of his son’s friend.

The lovers (widow and brother) are bent too. Latter is clearly disturbed by his recent military service in the Pacific, while the widow, a British woman whose rube husband hung himself, is a necrophile fetishist.

Ridley tops things off with some twisted religious symbolism, such as the fossilized fetus the boy finds in a barn and befriends. Tech credits, notably Dick Pope’s striking color images, are fine.

A appalling accident provides an excuse for a dysfunctional children to relive past grudges and grievances in “Fireflies in the Garden,” the writing-helming debut of Dennis Lee (known on account of his accord-winning tiny “Jesus Henry Christ”). Produced by an American offshoot of Berlin-based Senator Entertainment, world preem in specialized out-of-competition Berlin slit seems more than the away-key project deserves. Undeterred by the mega-wattage of pic’s starry bent, theatrical prospects seem dim for this clumsy melodrama, which looks and sounds no better than an average made-for-cabler. U.S. market potential looks first in ancillary.

Set in an unnamed Midwestern suburb that the pic implies is near Chicago (but filmed in Texas, so the landscape looks totally wrong), the prologue introduces the Taylor family: emotionally abusive, domineering father Charles (Willem Dafoe), a university professor and struggling writer; perfect mother Lisa (Julia Roberts, showing her past year’s pregnancy); and picked-on adolescent son Michael (Cayden Boyd). Lisa’s sulky teen sister Jane (Hayden Panetierre) joins the clan one summer and befriends downtrodden Michael.

Present-day story revolves around the same folks some 22 years later, when the planned celebration of Lisa’s belated university degree turns into a time of mourning. Michael (Ryan Reyolds) is now a successful novelist married to an alcoholic, Kelly (Carrie-Anne Moss).

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Sister Ryne (Shannon Lucio), who was a mere bump in Lisa’s belly, has just entered law school. Jane (Emily Watson) and hubby Jimmy Lawrence (George Newbern) are, strangely, living in the old Taylor home with precocious, baseball-loving kiddies Christopher (Chase Ellison) and Leslie (Brooklyn Proulx).

Jumps between past and present aren’t always clearly signaled (apart from car models, the production design and costumes look the same) and the young actors bear little resemblance to their adult counterparts. Adding to the confusion, Reynolds appears too young for his character’s age.

Michael, who has never forgiven his father’s cruelties, has just completed a roman a clef about the family’s troubled past, “Fireflies in the Garden.” Title, also that of a Robert Frost poem, cues memory of a time when young Michael embarrassed Dad in front of colleagues by plagiarizing the poem, and was brutally punished.

Not content with mere allusions (and exemplifying its subtlety level), pic shows Michael and young cousins literally swatting at fireflies with badminton rackets. But then, this is a family that considers it fun to explode fish with firecrackers.

Apparently aspiring to the dark comedy of “Igby Goes Down,” an earlier Senator production, Lee’s semi-autobiographical script fails to sustain any tone convincingly. Dialogue lacks wit, relying overmuch on vernacular (“It sucks” is a frequent comment) and the F-word. False happy ending is in no way earned.

Perfs are all over the place, from Dafoe’s one-note monster dad to Boyd’s simmering resentment. On the distaff side, Roberts and Watson at least come off as warm mothers. Moss is a cipher treated as a deus ex machina.

Flat lighting and wan lensing by Roberts’ husband, Danny Moder, doesn’t do the actors any favors. Low-rent look of other tech credits leads one to suspect the major portion of budget was spent on the cast.

Oh, I know how the man cheated Death. He caught up with Death, and he made Death watch this film. And Death died of boredom. Legend Films and Paramount have released The Man Who Could Cheat Death, a 1959 Hammer horror snoozer starring preening/ridiculous Anton Diffring, the luscious Hazel Court, and board-up-his-ass Christopher Lee. With about one shock effect every forty minutes, you tell me how exciting this 82-minute film could possibly be?

Considering the obvious title here, you could probably write the synopsis yourself. A remake of Paramount’s 1945 horror outing, The Man in Half Moon Street, starring Nils Asther (which in turn was an adaptation of the Barre Lyndon stage play), The Man Who Could Cheat Death tells the strange and fantastic tale of Dr. Georges Bonnet (Anton Diffring), a physician and scientist in 1890 Paris who also sculpts remarkably accomplished busts of beautiful women. Obviously involved with his latest model, Margo (Delphi Lawrence), Bonnet unexpectedly encounters past model - and former lover - Janine Dubois (Hazel Court), when she comes to his latest unveiling at his apartment/studio/laboratory, in the company of squaresville surgeon Dr. Pierre Gerard (Christopher Lee). Instantly reconnecting with her lover, Janine offers herself to Bonnet…for “modeling,” and tries to understand why he left her in Italy so suddenly, after they planned to wed.

But Bonnet is secretive about his reasons for abandoning her, as he is with many other aspects of his tortured life, as well - including the fact that he’s actually 104 years old, and that he murders young women for their parathyroid glands. Surgically implanted into Bonnet every ten years by 89-year-old college chum Professor Ludwig Weiss (Arnold Marle), the glands keep Bonnet from ever aging. But at the end of the ten-year cycle, if Bonnet is without a new gland, he has four weeks in which he can drink a secret elixir, every six hours, that will temporarily keep him alive and fresh-looking. But the side-effects of the potion are unpredictable - and frequently murderous. Unfortunately, when Weiss shows up in Paris for Bonnet’s next surgery, he reveals that a stroke has rendered him incapable of operating on Bonnet, which forces Bonnet to consider using Dr. Pierre Gerard for the morally unethical operation. Why “morally unethical?” Because both Gerard and Weiss find out that Bonnet takes the glands from living tissue, not from corpses, which sets into motion a seemingly endless series of weighty discussions on the ethical nature of murdering people for their glands, amidst one or two very slight thrills.

SPOILERS ALERT!

With uncomfortably close parallels to Wilde’s infinitely superior The Picture of Dorian Gray, the little-seen (and with good reason) The Man Who Could Cheat Death fails to entertain on even the most basic Hammer levels: atmosphere, chills, sex. The production design and set decoration, while crammed full of bric-a-brac from other, better Hammer productions, are confined to three or four static sets, creating a claustrophobic, miserly feel to the small-budgeted project. Hammer legend Terence Fisher, severely hampered with the ridiculously talky script from equally well-known Hammer alumnus, Jimmy Sangster, can’t seem to do anything here but pull the camera back and let the film roll. Visually, the only moments of interest come during Bonnet’s transformations, when Fisher’s askew framing and showy lighting effects (with the aid of Hammer cinematographer Jack Asher) resemble the most garish of late-50s horror comic book panels (did anyone involved with ABC’s Batman screen this prior to designing that series?). But those tame moments of terror come so infrequently, we’re forced into actually listening to the film, with the most shocking horror for the viewer coming in the realization of how tedious The Man Who Could Cheat Death is throughout its interminable run-time.

While the promise of seeing lush, ripe Hazel Court either suggestively stripping for her modeling session (unfortunately, not attempted), or erotically pawed by the half-mad Bonnet (Diffring’s Bonnet is more arch than passionate), would have been good enough for The Man Who Could Cheat Death to stay comfortably within the Hammer framework of blood-soaked sensuality, any possibility of exploring - within the confines of the English censors, of course - Bonnet’s perverse sexuality are utterly ignored, pushing aside yet another Hammer hallmark. And with Bonnet’s killings relegated to a few dull stranglings (only his scarring touch on Margo - totally unexplained, by the way, in the screenplay - is noteworthy) and an abrupt flame-out for the finale, The Man Who Could Cheat Death fails to meet any of the Hammer benchmarks.

Which leaves us with the talking. Endless talking. Lurching from one numbingly boring yak fest to another, The Man Who Could Cheat Death seems to go out of its way to deflate any potentially suspenseful scenes by interrupting them for a good chin-wag about the pros and cons of unethical medical practices. For example, when Ludwig finally pieces together what’s happening in Bonnet’s lab, he’s discovered by the evil doctor. What follows should have been a screw-tightening suspense scene as Bonnet quickly assesses the danger Ludwig now poses to him, followed by a quick dispatch of the unlucky college chum. Instead, we’re treated to a Victorian version of Who’s Life Is It Anyway?, as Bonnet and Ludwig ping-pong back and forth yet again about what’s right and wrong about killing young girls for their glands. Don’t we, the audience, already know what’s right and wrong about killing young girls for their glands? Of course we do! So why the hell is The Man Who Could Cheat Death beating it into the ground? We get it. It’s wrong. And that’s what makes it fun. So how about letting us enjoy it by showing it every five or ten minutes, instead of jawing about it, and just get on with the bloody thing? It’s a maddeningly plodding, lugubrious horror film, and deservedly obscure.

The DVD:

The Video:
I found the anamorphically enhanced, 1.66:1 widescreen transfer for The Man Who Could Cheat Death to be less than impressive, with quite a bit of artifacting and haloing (particularly during the night scenes, where the blacks don’t hold). Colors are far from saturated (they look rather grimy), while dirt, scratches and a generally soft, fuzzy image further hampering the enjoyment of this dull film.

The Audio:
The English mono audio track shows a lot of wear, too, with noticeable hiss and several loud pops and cracks that scared me more than anything happening in the story. Close-captioning is available.

The Extras:
There are zero extras for The Man Who Could Cheat Death, not even a fun Hammer trailer.

Final Thoughts:
Wake me when they’re done talking. The Man Who Could Cheat Death may have some heavyweight Hammer alumni working in front of and behind the camera, but this deservedly obscure outing misses the mark completely, leaving behind the chills, atmosphere, and sex that routinely define that studio’s house style. Anton Diffring preens and fumes with the best of the Joan Crawford female impersonators, while Christopher Lee is propped up in the corners of various sets. Only abundant, luxuriant Hazel Court provides a momentary diversion here and there. Not bloody good, just bloody boring. Skip The Man Who Could Cheat Death.

Paul Mavis is an internationally published film and tube historian, a colleague of the Online Film Critics Society, and the author of The Espionage Filmography.

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NASTY — now there’s a good word.

During a screening of “Dawn of the Dead” the other night, I heard someone in the audience shout out that word, drawing out the first syllable and savoring the sibilance of the “s” in a way that told me it wasn’t meant as a criticism. I don’t mean it that way either, when I say to you that the movie — the story of a small band of suburbanites holed up in a shopping mall and their efforts to fight off a horde of flesh-eating zombies — is one of the nastiest exercises in cinematic storytelling I have ever had the pleasure to sit through.

It is, in other words, a paradigm of its genre: bloody (and bloody scary), stylish, smart, audacious and edgy, darkly pessimistic yet inflected with touches of deliciously sick humor. Yes, it’s essentially a remake of a sequel, albeit a sequel that happens to be one of the greatest horror movies ever made, but it more than surpasses the original. Its sole aim, and one at which it succeeds admirably, is to simultaneously revolt, scare and delight you; to make you as afraid to look at the screen as to look away from it; to fill you with such a mix of terror and guilty pleasure that you can’t tell the two emotions apart.

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Not everyone can handle this reaction.

If you’re one of the people who can’t — and you know who you are — stay well away from this bloodbath. But you already knew that, didn’t you? If, on the other hand, you saw the 1978 original, and you said to yourself, “This isn’t violent or funny enough,” then this is the movie for you. Not only does the new “Dawn” easily outstrip the gore quotient of the first film, whose stage blood has been described by F/X wizard Tom Savini as looking like “melted crayons,” but it’s also, at times, darn near hilarious.

Set in a middle-American Anytown, “Dawn” wastes no time cutting to the chase, literally. We’re only minutes into the film when our heroine, nurse Ana (the wonderful Sarah Polley, who classes up every joint she walks into), awakens to find her neighbors, and soon her husband, overtaken by what appears to be a rapidly spreading disease — and it ain’t the flu. Communicated through bites, the disease first kills it victims, then unkills them, turning them into cannibalistic walking corpses. Very simple. A fleeing Ana soon finds herself in the company of a ragtag handful of survivors (tough cop Ving Rhames; doting dad-to-be Mekhi Phifer and his very pregnant wife, Inna Korobkina; thinking woman’s stud Jake Weber and others), who hole up, quite naturally, in the mall.

At least there they’ll find food, water, mattresses, restrooms and lattes. That and a whole host of entertaining personality conflicts between security guards with hair-trigger tempers, selfless martyrs and those guided by cynical self-interest. This is, of course, the stuff of countless “survivor” flicks (not to mention TV’s “Survivor”). But such conflicts are not, pardon the expression, the meat of this movie.

That would be the zombies. They are who we’ve come for, to see what they do and what gets done to them — as when a surviving sharpshooter picks them off one by one from a roof, choosing his victims based on their resemblance to such celebrities as Jay Leno and Burt Reynolds. And yes, despite the fact that they are technically “dead,” they can be permanently killed, if shot in the head. It also helps to burn them.

Forget such technicalities, though.

As far as “Dawn of the Dead” is concerned, it’s your id that’s at the wheel of the bus. Let it drive down the dark byways and blind alleys of your hippocampus, where screams, splashes of blood and raw fear are the only things telling it which way to turn. One final note: If you still need something resembling a happy ending, skip the closing credits, which provide a wickedly nihilistic, un-Hollywood postscript to a film that is already blacker than many people can stand.

DAWN OF THE DEAD (R, 98 minutes) — Contains obscenity, sensuality, pervasive violence and, to put it mildly, lots and lots of blood. Area theaters.

This is an exquisitely played, deeply moving comedy-theatrics. It is a happy union of young fiancee, sharp cleancut humor and tear-jerker. David O. Selznick’s production leaves no sagging at the seams.

Picture is noteworthy in that it provides Carole Lombard with virtually her first straight dramatic role. She makes the newlywed Jane Mason a sincere young wife who struggles valiantly through all obstacles to save her newborn baby and make her husband amount to something.

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James Stewart as the struggling lawyer who passes up his boss’ daughter for a love match dominates the droll moments, but displays further development in the more dramatic sequences.

Story of idyllic young love and sudden marriage, with familiar burdens and in-laws, is not new but the human and ingenious way it is projected makes it appear entirely different.