Should Dario Argento just stop making films already? It’s sad, really, that the guy who once made gems such as Suspiria and Deep Red has devolved into somebody who, just today, was referred to as a “bad Uwe Boll” by an Ain’t It Cool News contributor. Which, essentially, is equivalent to saying “shitty feces.” Glimmers of hope that Argento could bumrush skepticism and deliver another balls-out murder mystery poked through when word came that his next one, the no-frills-titled Giallo, would be in the vein of his past gore-shows, and even star an Academy Award nominee (Adrien Brody). It may not be a slam dunk, but surely it’d be better in actual quality than his last, the awful-yet-tough-to-look-away-from Mother of Tears. If not, somebody please take the man’s camera away from him.
Well, as that “bad Uwe Boll” comment alludes to, word on Giallo is that its a steaming pile. Laughable for all the wrong reasons. Full of poor acting and overall ineptitude. The film recently screened at Frightfest out in TKTK, and the bad reviews are trickling in at a growing clip. What a shame, because at one time (way before MY time, mind you, though I can revisit it thanks to DVD) Argento was one of the most exciting horror filmmakers around. Last week, I gave his 1971 “lost movie” 4 mosche di velluto grigio (Four Flies on Grey Velvet) another spin—-certainly not his best film, but definitely one of his most overlooked. It’s part of the Brooklyn Academy of Music’s upcoming Agrento retrospective series, and since I won’t be able to attend I set up my own personal viewing.
Four Flies on Grey Velvet has everything you’d want from vintage Argento—drawn-out, elaborate kill sequences that erupt in geysers of visually-stunning, almost radiant bloodshed; random occurrences and small touches that make no sense yet work due to their sheer insanity (a baby-faced mask and usage of flies as jewelry-dressing here); and classic Argento murder setpieces, including one great offing that employs a backward tracking shot down a flight of stairs that’s pure Psycho/Arbogast. There’s also a final “killer reveal” that is obvious all along, but is resolved so crazily that the laziness of the twist is forgiven. That last point leads to today’s Scene of Mine: the final shot of this film, which you’ll find at the end of the Spoiler-Heavy Youtube clip linked here. Out of context, the five minutes leading up the last shot will be an utter mess of confusion and overdone melodrama, I’m sure, but bare with it. The way that Argento sends off the killer in such a out-of-left-field manner is worth the time spent watching the entire film alone. Especially the unnecessarily-slow-and-long You’re About To Die POV he uses, which—I’m guessing—was an inspiration for Quentin Tarantino’s four-perspective crash sequence in Death Proof.
Here it is, the final shot of Four Flies on Grey Velvet. Check it out while mourning the once-unbeatable anarchy that was a Dario Argento-staged on-screen death: Youtube — Four Flies on Grey Velvet (Final Seven Minutes)
Paramount, in an attempt to deliver a gut-punch to yours truly using a battering ram instead of a mere fist, has just announced that they’ve moved Martin Scorcese‘s adaptation of Dennis Lehane’s Shutter Island (a favorite book of mine, read it three times now, the third concluding this afternoon) to February 19, 2010—-a whole four fucking months after its original, seemingly-set-in-stone date of October 2. Which had been marked on my mind’s calendar in permanent, dark-as-night Sharpie; Shutter Island has been my number one must-see film of 2009 since late 2008. Its opening was rapidly upon us. More specifically, though, me. Now, I’m feeling like Teddy Daniels around the page-340 mark.
The recent word on this one has been mostly negative, with talk of last minute reshoots and endless release date pushbacks leading folks to believe that it’s a misfire being readied for the clip. But after watching this first official trailer, though, I’m still as excited for The Wolfman (starring Benicio Del Toro, Anthony Hopkins and Emily Blunt) as I was on day one. There’s certainly causes for concern, most notably that there’s an unfortunate sense of Van Helsing’s period-film-with-actors-that-look-very-out-of-place in its air. Jeffrey Wells (Hollywood-Elsewhere.com) said it best, with, “[Del Toro] plays an American but let’s face it — he looks like a dressed-up Tijuana narcotics detective.” The man-to-wolf transformation shots look quite slick, though, yet still nothing in comparison to that of 198’s An American Werewolf in London, the measuring stick upon all future lycanthropic changes shall be judged. I’m sticking to the assumption that this will rip through the preceding skepticism and emerge as a winner.
My Son, My Son, What Have Ye Done is about a deranged guy who acts out a Sophocles play in his head and slaughters his mother with a sword. Sophocles was a writer of Greek tragedies, notably the “Oedipus” tale, where the son kills his father in order to marry his mother. With David Lynch producing and Werner Herzog directing, it’ll be much more than that, naturally, but that’s the gist. Now, ask yourself…..who’d be an ideal actor to play the son. Who exudes creepiness and instability just by simply staring at you, yet is one hell of an actor? I’m guessing that Michael Shannon isn’t your first suggestion, though he should be; just watch Bug or Revolutionary Road for definitive evidence. You can’t ever take your eyes off off him, even though you’re not sure whether you’re totally comfortable watching him do what he does.
An intermission…. A quick respite amidst an ongoing film-focused initiative. Over at the actual “job,” XXL, I’m handling the weekly staff blog duties this week; a different staffer writes all five of the between-weekend-stretch’s posts, topics completely left to one’s own imagination.
Today’s entry—my first-ever XXL blog entry—is a quick trip into nostalgia, shortened for the site’s sake. If written here for Theater of Mine, it would’ve been at least three times longer, I’m sure. Self-Editing 101. It’s basically me turning the interrogation-table’s light toward myself, asking yours truly, “What’s your most personal ‘hip-hop’ moment?” The answer came instantly. Bringing me back to a much more innocent time in my life, when Playstation and Maxell cassette had yet to allow bills and adult responsibilities to fuck the party up.
Earlier this week, I caught an advance screening of what’s sure to be an awards season heavy, Lone Scherfig’s An Education. The plan is to go more in-depth on the film next week, so I’ll reserve all reactions and the such for that. But know that An Education is the definition of “delightful,” funny and effective, breezy and layered. There are some parallels I could make to Juno right now, but I’ll save those for next week. It’s definitely a must-see when it hits in early September.
What dumbass logic. A) I could sit down in Borders and/or Barnes & Noble and read them without dropping coin, and B) I’m busy, yes, but I’m no Obama. Time is readily available if I so choose to utilize. So, you bet, I’m on the verge of making an extended visit to my local chain bookstore to dive into Robert Kirkman’s The Walking Dead. I’d be lying, however, if I said that general interest is the true catalyst here. The credit should be fully awarded to news wires, all reporting today that the great Frank Darabont will soon be writing and directing a miniseries for cable TV based on The Walking Dead, most likely for the AMC Network. 
If you paid me to come up with any filmmaker better suited for such material, I’d have to chin-check you and then run off with the money, without working for it. Darabont is without a doubt this material’s best life-giver; he’s shown how amazingly he handles human interest pieces (see The Shawshank Redemption), but most importantly he’s great at bringing genuine horror and brutality that’s both effectively creepy and non-exploitative (the still-unappreciated-and-that-pisses-me-off The Mist). I’m not a betting man, but I’d be willing to place a $-heavy wager that his The Walking Dead will own the airwaves, whenever it’s ready to play.
As for what director Jon Favreau and company have been so generous to bestow, the footage is cool enough. Takes a while to get going, loaded with an extended trial scene that’ll be much more interesting within the film’s whole context. The money-shots, however, are just that: money (right, Mr. Favreau?). Mickey Rourke wrecks shop as Whiplash, despite looking like a homeless version of He-Man; those whips promise some destruction, and it’s downright awesome to see Rourke in this kind of popcorn fare. Sam Rockwell looks perfect as the snaky arms dealer “Justin Hammer,” and that ending glimpse of War Machine (the Iron Man-like hero that Don Cheadle will become) is a crowd-massager. 
Sorority Row lands squarely in the sector of blah horror films that I, against my better judgment, spend earnings on at some point during opening weekend. Little expectation, just an unshakeable attraction to low-end slashers full of vapid beauties and predictable kills. And the film’s current viral marketing ploy, shooting quick confessionals from each actress in character (which can all be found on Youtube, if you feel so inclined), is cheap and easy. Nothing to pay attention to, until I came across Jamie Chung’s, as “Claire.” Now I want to shake marketing-department hands. Buy drinks to place in said five-digits. Drive a knife through said hand if said hand won’t give up the Chung-phone-number goods. I just said that out loud, didn’t I? 
I’d be curious to know if I’m in the minority on this next though…..Anna Paquin sucks as Sookie. Annoying, overly-emotive. Delivers every line like a hammer to my cranium. Should be ripped in half by animalistic sex-goddess Maryann; Bill, however, is cool with me, so I’d then want him to shack up with the show’s sexiest female Deborah Ann Woll, who plays the virginal vamp “Jessica.” Hands down the finest thing moving on True Blood, Woll is practically begging for more screen time, a beefed-up character arch; at least she is every Sunday in my head, where she resides throughout the week. Leaving me to plead, “Somebody please cast this girl in a film.”
Darren Lynn Bousman, one of the bigger driving forces behind the Saw sequels, apparently feels the same. It was announced this morning that Deborah Ann Woll is the first to sign on to the director’s remake of the 198o horror-sleaze cult staple Mother’s Day, a critically-loathed mess that’s beloved by horror mavens for whatever reasons, reasons I’ll hopefully agree with once the DVD arrives next week courtesy of Netflix. Woll will have a starring role as the sister portion of a sibling crew of killers that return to their childhood home and proceed to hack and slash through the family living there in their wake. The plot slightly remixes the original’s, which centered on a sadistic pair of brothers who have their bloody way with three unsuspecting female campers. 
THEATER OF MINE 