C'mon now, folks.

You know me.  I've long said that -- while I'm willing every now and then to wander into some of the usual controversies -- I make a concerted effort to avoid an awful lot of what fuels most entertainment websites these days.  I don't mind sounding off on a topic here and there because it's quite fun to take a stand and maybe even ruffle a few feathers.  Still, I'm also quick to point out that not only making but also maintaining a multi-billion dollar entertainment franchise is no easy thing, especially in the modern era wherein practically everything a creator does gets second-guessed in the public square that is social media.  While pundits are quick to pile on, I'd much rather take my time and actually have something interesting to observe in this space, and that's why I rarely rush to review every single thing that comes down the pike.  Wisdom takes time, and I'd rather pony up an important observation when asked; pardon me if I just don't 'think' as fast on my feet as do others.

​However, enough of you have been contacting me via other means, wanting to know my thoughts on some of the latest and greatest Star Wars happenings.  Yes, I've seen the rumors of Kathleen Kennedy's impending demise (need I remind you that these blurbs have been around long before?), and, yes, I saw the news this morning about Damon Lindelof exiting -- apparently of his own decision -- the Star Wars project he began.  And, yes, I'm probably just as unimpressed with Season 3 of The Mandalorian as are some, but I'd suggest that it's likely for some different reasons than the majority are Tweeting and/or blogging and/or vlogging about these days.  Quality can't be rushed, and I can't help but wonder if the lackluster reception might be owed to a combination of elements rather than any single factor ... or maybe that's just me.

​In any event, because I'm getting asked, I'll put up a few random observations just off the top of my head this morning.
​

Kathleen Kennedy

Honestly, folks: if she's fired, then she's fired.  That's a bout I really don't have any dog in.  Yes, I'd agree that she's largely mismanaged the property in some interestingly creative ways, but let's not forget that many of Star Wars' most ardent fans even took issue (for a time) with George Lucas allegedly surrounding himself with folks who wouldn't tell him no.  The man behind that galaxy far, far away endured an awful lot of criticism over the Prequel Trilogy -- so much so that there's a contingent out there who to this day insist the only way for him to fully clean up the mess he made (their words, not mine) is to remake the Original Trilogy.  Need I say yet again that that's never going to happen?

So ... yeah, Kennedy has probably surrounded herself with a veritable Skeleton Crew of social justice warriors who thought pushing SW hardcore into the world of -- cough cough -- equity storytelling was the way of the future.  And to some degree ... who could blame them?  All of the Hollywood studios are doing this, and the reasons do vary.  A great deal of it is owed to it being, largely, what they're investors demands are; and anyone who's been in an environment wherein the guy who signs the paychecks sitting across from you knows that when he/she speaks you pretty much do what you're told.  Granted, KK may've demanded much of this, but I've no way to know the true facts and figures so I stay outta that territory generally.

​As for Kennedy's -- cough cough -- legacy?  Well, again: I've written reviews of a few items that have come along while she's been in the high chair, and I'll let those words speak for themselves.  I doubt she had an awful lot to do with finished stories on any of the films and/or shows, but as the prime motivator behind these visual adventures she likely gave plenty of notes about what she wanted and what was ultimately expected.  I've read online that Grogu's return to the wider Mandalorian saga was a demand -- Favreau planned to leave that bugger with Luke Skywalker and depart for other pursuits -- and I get why that made business sense.  Sometimes what makes for good business makes for poodoo storytelling, so maybe there's something to all of this scuttlebutt after all.
​

Damon Lindelof

Sigh.  Quick answer?  Not a fan.  Long answer?

Well ... let's just agree that Lindelof was most likely a suggestion from JJ Abrams to KK, and that likely comes on the heels of JJ and Damon's creative relationship going back over a decade or more now.  Lindelof rather famously wound down TV's Lost to its bitter/bittersweet finale, and even that produced more than a little bit of controversy.  While I'll admit to pretty much hating all of that show's last season, I was honestly a bit more put off by Lindelof's 'take' on the show when he stated that fans weren't really watching Lost for all of those mysteries but rather because they loved the characters.

Cough cough.

I watched it for the mysteries.  Characters come and go.  Story endures.  A good story, in fact, transcends characters; and that's largely why Hollywood keeps going back to certain properties again and again and again with reboots, remakes, and revisitations.  The story matters.  Sure, you have to have characters in there somewhere, but even bad characters can ruin a good story.  It's hard to find a bad story made better to good characters.  At least, that's my argument, and I'm sticking with it.

But given that perhaps what's being said in the marketplace about KK, is it any wonder that perhaps Lindelof's script wasn't perhaps strong enough to keep him around?  The news sounds like he walked away, and I can't help but wonder if some of that might be owed to his own lackluster reputation (my opinion, not yours) and the rather obvious change in management being so openly discussed.  Would you want to hang around in that shop right now?  I'm not so sure I would, so if he walked, then he walked.  'Nuff said.
​

​The Mandalorian: Season 3

Argh.  This one hurts a bit, and it hurts for personal reasons that might get too deep to explain quickly and easily, but I'm going to give it a shot.

Yesterday, I praised Shazam! Fury Of The Gods (review here).  I watched it over the weekend, and I thought it was a pretty terrific comic book movie.  (Mind you: I never said it was a great f-i-l-m, and, yes, there's a difference.)  Later in the day, I got a email from a random reader (clearly not a regular) who kinda/sorta took me to task for liking something that so many in the online entertainment community trashed.  I responded (politely) by saying I don't base my thoughts on movies on the consensus of opinion, and I never have.  I like what I like.  'Round these parts, I encourage you to like what you like.  If I hate on anything, it's usually actors and the like who allow politics to get in the way, but I never disparage anyone for liking anything I may dislike.  That's really my only Golden Rule, and I stick to it.

My ultimate point with Shazam 2 is that -- being as old as I am -- it was a rare theatrical experience that made me feel -- as a viewer -- an awful lot like I did when I was young and watched Superman: The Movie on the silver screen.  While I don't think Batman (1989) was perfect, there were parts of it that achieved that same result.  1994's The Crow lit a fire in my soul.  2011's Captain America: The First Avenger is really the only one of the Marvel films that had that same feeling, but I'll admit to not having seen each and every one of the flicks in their library.  2012's Dredd is a breathtakingly brilliant comics-to-film experience.  But if any picture -- especially one evolving from a comic book property -- can hit me so squarely in the feels, then yeah I'm probably always gonna lead with my heart than with my mind.  It's just how I'm wired.

And that is exactly where I'm at with The Mandalorian at present.

​Season 1 made me feel like this was Star Wars again -- the same experience I had in the dark theater watching the very first film -- and I cherished that.  Season 2?  Well, it was pretty damn close as well, though there were some issues here and there with some rather obvious long-form tinkering.  And now ... Season 3?  Well, like a lot of you, I'm lost.  I won't say that the show is directionless, but I will say that I'm not all that impressed with its first three episodes for various reasons.  In fact, I found this third episode -- the one so many YouTubers have been proclaming "the best episode ever" -- to be downright boring and damn near inconsequential.  I realize that take may be controversial, but -- like you -- I gotta call it like I see it.

​-- EZ

It was the 1970’s, and terrorism – it would seem – was no longer a phenomenon that happened in only in countries around the world far away from American shores.  Those who practiced this dark form of political influence had set their sights on the great fruited plains, and U.S. citizens more and more were opening their eyes to the stark reality that a well-plotted attack could inflict great damage on them and their neighbors for the first time in history.  This was well before September 11, 2001 would truly change the face of possibilities – and it was well after the events of December 7, 1941 – but the dangers of terrorism was truly starting to seep into the wider American consciousness.
 
So it was certainly understandable why Thomas Harris’ 1975 debut novel Black Sunday turned some heads.  Depicting a full-blown terrorist attack on the stadium hosting the Superbowl – that great American celebration of all things football – brought the scope of international terrorism to the West’s biggest doorstep, a place where television cameras would already be rolling to capture each and every moment of the big game.  It goes without saying that Hollywood knew a good thing when they saw it (or read it, I should say), so the rights were purchased by the Robert Evans Company, and a screenplay was commissioned.  Renowned director John Frankenheimer was inevitably attached, and an international cast was round up to give the work the required authenticity.
 
Despite having an awful lot of positive attributes going for it, Black Sunday was not the blockbuster all involved probably thought it would be.  Wikipedia.org reports that it grossed just under $16 million on a budget of $8 million, and that’s not quite the kind of return producers likely anticipated.  In the postmortem of its lackluster performance, a number of causes – including a like-minded thriller being released only months earlier – could be said to have kept it from achieving box office glory … but I’m inclined to think that perhaps the American ticket-buying public wasn’t really ready to face the prospects of so many innocent civilians being placed in so deadly a predicament.
 
(NOTE: The following review will contain minor spoilers necessary solely for the discussion of plot and/or characters.  If you’re the type of reader who prefers a review entirely spoiler-free, then I’d encourage you to skip down to the last few paragraphs for the final assessment.  If, however, you’re accepting of a few modest hints at ‘things to come,’ then read on …)
 
From the film’s IMDB.com page citation:
“Black Sunday is the powerful story of a Black September terrorist group attempting to blow up a Goodyear blimp hovering over the Super Bowl stadium with 80,000 people and the President of the United States in attendance.”
​

My whole life I’ve been a huge fan of classic hard-boiled novels.
 
In them, there’s always a somewhat knighted main character – a private eye, a police detective, some professional errand runner – whose willing to both match wits and muscles with characters often twice his size.  Why?  Well, some would say that it’s because this main player coddles a secret death wish, but I’ve always argued that it’s only because our hero understands full well that the only way to vanquish his or her foes is to match the level of ruthlessness the villains bring to each and every equation.  If he doesn’t – if he shows any signs of weakness or misgivings – then he only opens the door to more bloodshed, setting in motion yet one more campaign of suffering to scar his already guilty conscience.
 
In that regard, a case could be made that it’s Major David Kabakov (played by Robert Shaw) who sets in motion this series of events depicted in against the backdrop of Black Sunday.  In the opening vignette when he and his Israeli commandos are quietly taking out the Palestinian terrorist group known as Black September, Kabakov breaks open a bathroom door only to come across a woman cowering against the back wall.  She’s frightened and defenseless.  In that moment, the major takes pity on her; when orders were to shoot to kill everyone on the premises, he opts to let her be … and this is the mistake that just might haunt him more than any bloody assassination he’s ever committed.
 
The lady wasn’t some terrorist’s lover.  She is Dahlia Iyad (Marthe Keller), the group’s mastermind.  And she’s now committed – more than ever – to inflict maximum damage on the United States and its global allies.
 
This is exactly the kind of premise hard-boiled prose relies on, and Black Sunday works efficiently within this territory.  The bulk of the movie is a tense cat-and-mouse chase between Kabakov and Iyad, all of it playing out like a visual chess match wherein the stakes are the lives of countless thousands.  Much of Iyad’s success is owed to the fact that she’s actually well on the way toward orchestrating an incredible attack already: as a ‘honey pot,’ she’s brainwashed Michael Lander (Bruce Dern) – a veteran POW of the Vietnam War returning home in disgrace – into aiding and abetting her plot to deliver carnage at the American Superbowl.  As one of the few pilots assigned to the Goodyear Blimp – the famed aircraft that hovers relentless over the big game – he grants her the level of access required to deliver on her dark crusade.
 
At nearly two-and-one-half hours, Black Sunday is a meaty picture, and it’s an experience not to be trifled with.  While I’ve read some suggestion that the film is too long to effectively deliver on its payoff, I’d disagree mostly because Sunday requires a modicum of set-up in order to be functionally believable.  The security for such a public event as the Superbowl is astoundingly complex already, and the fact that the President of the United States decides to be in attendance at the affair only raised the bar considerably higher.  The plot as conceived and translated from the Harris novel requires more than a small amount of finagling.  Also, given the fact that Iyad is being actively pursued by Kabakov and his American counterparts all while she’s trying to achieve an unimaginable attack also grants the story some added dimension that can’t simply unfold quickly.  This story takes time, so kudos to Frankenheimer and his talented cast and crew for achieving what they did.
​

Shaw is a great choice as the film’s commanding lead, and he rather compelling makes the most of every moment, even if it’s something as simple as standing in wait while others hit their marks.  He always was a bit bigger-than-life on screen, and his presence makes this picture the kind of theatrical experience audiences appreciate.  As the picture’s femme fatale, Keller delivers a fabulous counterpoint to Shaw: like him (but for different reasons), she’s occasionally conflicted about her mission but is eager to stay the course once the visibly broken Lander reminds her of the human cost to choosing a side in any international affair.  If there’s any player here who might be a narrative weakness, then it is Dern: this disillusioned outsider is a role he’s played before, so seeing him in so similar a part is a bit laughable early on.  Like Iyad, he manages to stay on track, but I can’t help wonder if audiences of the day passed on seeing the picture thinking that they’d already ‘been there, done that’ with Dern as the chief adversary.
 
Also, I’d be remiss if I failed to point out that the great American football game – the Superbowl – truly becomes one of the film’s big stars.  (Like Shaw, even football is bigger than life!)  The fact that Frankenheimer was able to capture live footage of Superbowl X between the Pittsburgh Steelers and the Dallas Cowboys with his stars in attendance on the sidelines and throughout the stadium gives Black Sunday an unquestioned realism, especially for its big impending showdown between the forces of good and evil.  While the ultimate act of terror is brought to the screen via some rather obvious (and dated) special effects trickery, it’s very clear that no holds were barred in delivering this theatrical spectacle as best they could at the time.
 
Black Sunday (1977) was produced by the Robert Evans Company.  DVD distribution (for this particular release) is being coordinated by the folks at Arrow Films.  As for the technical specifications?  While I’m no trained video expert, I found the sights and sounds to be – for the most part – exceptionally good: there are a few sequences with some obviously dated special effects work in the big finish, and it’d be a crime if I didn’t point out that they were a bit limited.  Lastly, if you’re looking for special effects, then you do have a bit to get excited about.  I was provided a proof copy from the distributor, so I can’t speak to any of the advertised packaging materials (artwork, essay, etc.), but there’s a solid audio commentary from film producer Josh Nelson, a visual essay discussing the merits of the feature, and a documentary exploring the career of Frankenheimer.  It’s an impressive assortment, though I did find the commentary a bit slow in spots.
 
Highly recommended.
 
Black Sunday feels like the kind of theatrical experience that began life as a best-selling novel, an experience so big that – naturally – Hollywood wanted to adapt it on film.  Alas, the shortcomings of the whole book-to-film process occasionally rear their ugly head (not all characters get fleshed out the way they usually do in the novel; the effects work of the era might not exactly have been seamlessly up to the task of bringing it all to convincing glory; etc.), but the flick rather deftly incorporates headline-making events into a compelling yarn for audiences to enjoy again and again.  I thought Shaw’s work was good – a bit too reserved in a few spots – but Dern was the obvious choice as he’d done this kind of thing several times before already.
 
In the interests of fairness, I’m pleased to disclose that the fine folks at Arrow Films provided me with a complimentary copy of Black Sunday (1977) by request for the expressed purposes of completing this review; and their contribution to me in no way, shape, or form influenced my opinion of it.

​-- EZ

Over the years, I’ve made no secret about the fact that – as comic book characters go – I’ve always leaned more towards DC Comics than I ever did Marvel’s slate of heroes.
 
Now – again, folks, for those who accuse me of being a hater – I don’t hold a grudge against any of the Marvel line-up.  Iron Man?  He’s just fine.  Spider-Man?  A bit whiney, I think.  The Hulk?  Well, he’s got anger issues.  (Snicker snicker!)  But seriously, to each his own when it comes to the wide, wide world of superheroes because – ultimately – each of us likes what we like, critics be damned.  When pushed to come up with something substantive on the topic, it just boils down (for me) to the fact that I read much more DC growing up than I ever did Marvel, and that’s because those characters simply made more sense to me.  That’s why I don’t begrudge anyone leaning the other way: for whatever reasons, those folks connected elsewhere, and there’s absolutely nothing wrong with that.  It’s just the spice of life.
 
So, yes, I do welcome a new DC film with open arms, much more than I’ve ever gotten excited about Marvel’s properties.
 
Naturally – over the weekend – the wifey and I took in a screening of Shazam! Fury Of The Gods (2023), so I wanted to show up today to offer a few words in defense of the movie.  Yes: I am defending it, mostly because I think it’s received a helluva lot of negative press in the marketplace of ideas, and I think I have an explanation for why.  As can happen any time I open my big mouth, I might be wrong: I have been before, I could be now, and I’ll likely be wrong about something tomorrow.  Such is life.  But I’d still argue that this sequel is getting dragged by a whole lot of folks for all the wrong reasons.
 
For starters, I see Fury Of The Gods much more of an authentic comic book movie than most of what the Marvel company has rolled with for some time.  While each of their respective entries might have that original kernel or spark of an idea that heartily ties it back to some graphic sensibilities, their films seem to have gone in the direction of either pushing an agenda or serving as only one piece of an evolving storyline.  (Please, don’t get me started on the whole Phase Two, Phase Three, and Phase Four crud, because it’s tiring, I don’t have the energy, and – frankly – I wouldn’t want to look uninformed as I’ve already said Marvel just ain’t my thing.)  But things like diversity being so openly pushed tend to always have me looking elsewhere only because I don’t go to movies to be educated and/or indoctrinated.  Like you, I’m free to think what I like.  Layering a story with lesser political messages waters down a character and maybe even that hero’s central motivations: it can be done organically, but more often than not it’s used like a club to beat an unsuspecting audience over the head and that just doesn’t appeal to me.
 
In contrast, Shazam 2 just focuses on – here it comes – family.
 
Imagine that?
 
Instead of spending twenty or thirty or forty minutes trying to both define what a family is and isn’t, the script rather naturally shows it to you with – gasp – a family actually working together.  It doesn’t shy away from the good, the bad, and the occasionally ugly about arguing, either: this cast – both young and in their superhero identities – are allowed to be who they are – without being judged by anyone else – and it feels part and parcel of this mini-universe.  They laugh together.  They cry together.  They poke fun together.  And – ultimately – they triumph together, rising up against whatever adversity the universe throws at them.  They didn’t need a law to succeed.  They didn’t need public opinion on their side.  They stayed true to one another – even sacrificed for one another – and that worked.
 
Lesser directors and/or producers would have more likely gone to great pains to show just how the Shazam family isn’t the traditional family to begin with.  They’re white, black, and other all thrown together under the same roof.  They don’t look at one another as anything other than brother, sister, father, and mother.  This is how regular folks live their lives in defiance of governmental regulation, social posturing, and media messaging.  Merely, they exist … and they do it damn fine without having to rise up and proclaim anything other than being true to themselves.
 
This reality flies in the face of everything our cultural betters have been telling us for years.  According to them, you can’t have equality (or even “equity,” the new watchword) without some kind of rule being passed or having Uncle Sam require something via legislation.  Given that structure, all of this family – the Vasquez clan – should be mired in gloom.  Instead, young Billy Batson finds himself consumed with what’s going to happen to him once he turns eighteen.  Will he be shunned by those who’ve loved him over the years because he’s a foster child, or will he still be loved?  Such a simple narrative focus shouldn’t be allowed in Hollywood, much less delivered to the masses, so it’s only natural that the media drag the picture as outdated garbage messaging.  Give Shazam access to the girl’s bathroom.  Isn’t that what he’d really want?
 
Furthermore, Shazam 2 doesn’t shy away from confronting the difficulty of being in a family, extended or otherwise.
 
Without getting too deeply into the plot (and, folks, it ain’t all that complicated, which is another reason why critics tend to hate it), the villains are sisters in that they descend from the same god.  Springing from the same loins doesn’t always mean that the children are going to get along, as it quickly becomes clear that each kinda/sorta operates from their own respective agendas.  One seeks a kind of peaceful unity with mankind, while another seeks total supremacy over what she sees as an inferior species.  While they might occasionally join forces (when it serves them), they’re otherwise at odds, disagreeing over their place in our world as well as what to do about adversaries they come up against.  Suffice it to say, this family is probably more in line with Hollywood’s contemporary position – no good can come of blood relations – and the fact that they don’t inevitably win the day likely doesn’t sit well with so obvious a failure.
 
But look … at the end of the day I’m the kind of guy who goes to a comic book movie to be entertained – not preached to – and, on that front, Shazam 2 is fabulous.  It might drag in a few spots, and, sure, the prevalence of CGI over practical effects has never quite sat well with this old dog.  (I am really, really, really trying hard to learn new tricks, folks.)  Postproduction trickery does work against some otherwise impressive visuals here and there.  And still the message at the heart of the film – that of sometimes sacrificing what might otherwise come fast and easy in defense of the family – resonates whenever it’s given some appreciable mileage.
 
So the Shazam family might not be hoping through time to save the universe as we know it, and yet they do a damn fine job reminding me why sometimes it’s OK to save your own … mostly because you might save a whole lot more in the process.
 
Highly recommended.

-- EZ

In my youth, a new RoboCop movie was exactly the kind of release I would rush to on the first night it was available to the public-at-large.
 
Why?
 
Well, I just knew it had the kind of big-budget goodness that was best preserved in my memory by viewing it with a crowd.  Big laughs always mean more when shared with an audience.  Exciting, frenetic, mind-blowing action sequences usually draw collective astonishment from the onlookers.  And who doesn’t love applauding the hero when others are present and actively listening?  Now that I’m a bit older (if not a bit more jaded or cynical), I tend to take a week or two before watching such theatrical releases.  These days, I do try to get to a showing that’s fairly light on people.  It isn’t as if I’m anti-social; I’d just rather not risk any undue influence in order to serve up what I feel is a much more honest and more clinical valuation of the film, definitely one not inspired by what the yucksters sitting next to me thought.
 
Sigh.
 
I guess I’m gettin’ old, fans.  But if I can age as nicely as the RoboCop franchise can, then I’m in good company.
 
(NOTE: The following review will contain minor spoilers necessary solely for the discussion of plot and/or characters.  If you’re the type of reader who prefers a review entirely spoiler-free, then I’d encourage you to skip down to the last two paragraphs for my final assessment.  If, however, you’re accepting of a few modest hints at ‘things to come,’ then read on …)
 
From the film’s publicity materials:
“In the city of Detroit circa 2028 (seriously?  Detroit is still around after its financial collapse?), police detective Alex Murphy (played with conviction by Joel Kinnaman) uncovers a criminal conspiracy that looks to implicate some high-ranking officers on his squad.  At the same time, the multinational, war-mongering conglomerate OmniCorp is seeking the right candidate to put inside one of their latest creations – an urban combat suit – in order to expand their domestic sales and corner the market on profits.  When those in Detroit decide Murphy needs to go, billionaire businessman Raymond Sellars (a greedy Michael Keaton) seizes the opportunity to put a part-man, part-robot police officer on the streets.  But what happens when the former cop turned machine decides to investigate his own attempted murder?”
 
Where the original RoboCop (1987) was smart, smart, and smart, this new version is dumb, dumb, and – mostly -- dumb.
 
It comes compliments of director Jose Padilha, relatively still fresh from acclaim rightful earned from his 2010’s Elite Squad 2: The Enemy Within (which, incidentally, is a vastly better film than this is).  1987’s RoboCop script – penned by Edward Neumeier and Michael Miner – was crafted almost with a winking acknowledgement to the audience: don’t take any of this any more seriously as you need to, and you’re likely to have a helluva lotta fun with it.  The violence was gory and (I’ll admit it) gloriously gratuitous because that kind of visual flair lent itself nicely to their intended aesthetic of the picture.  Structurally, it had similarities to the great American Western – a lone gunman seeks to clean up a corrupt town – though there were some obvious swipes at capitalism, the ultimate ‘bad guy’ in anything churned out by Hollyweird in the past half century.
 
While still being vastly superior to the RoboCop sequels that followed in the footsteps of the original, this 2014 reboot suffers largely from the singular distinction of being completely unnecessary.
 
It echoes back most of the major talking points of the original film – OmniCorp’s suits are still villainous, though with vastly bloated emphasis on corporate villainy, while Murphy’s family (Abbie Cornish as Clara Murphy, along with young John Paul Ruttan as son David) get real screen time in order to ground the film in what serviced as a stronger ‘humanity’ for audiences.  However, gone is that constantly winking eye; in its place is some forced histrionics dished out by everyone’s favorite foul-mouthed screamer Samuel L. Jackson as some futuristic Fox News wannabe talking head who rarely makes logical arguments.  (He does get a great laugh, though, by casting the U.S. Senate as “pro-crime.”)  I’m guessing filmmakers thought they were aping longtime Fox correspondent Bill O’Reilly, but Jackson comes off more like watered down and occasionally cocaine-fueled Stephen Colbert of Comedy Central fame.
 
Also, the first RoboCop distinguished itself with clever moments of newsroom satire, peppering the screen with visually exciting news stories and interviews that helped lampoon the crime-ridden world of tomorrow.  Unfortunately, scripter Joshua Zetumer’s story never quite figured out how to contemporize that aspect; instead, the screenwriter begins throwing things at the proverbial narrative wall, desperately hoping something might strike the same chord with audiences.  At one point, he even crafts a narrator describing the action taking place on the screen (a device that goes on for far too long and desperately needed a better sound mix than the one provided if producers wanted it to be understood); instead of complementing the film, it ends up creating probably one of the most alarming ‘WTF?’ moments in recent film memory.
 
The new RoboCop isn’t a total failure.  Rather, I see it as a reboot missing more than a few upgrades.
 
Mildly recommended.
 
Like most critics, I suspect the overwhelming question – “Was RoboCop really in need of such a flavorless reboot?” – truly kept me from enjoying this version as a legitimate SciFi offering when director Jose Padilha served up only a competent, CGI-laden action film, one largely intended for our video-game-friendly culture.  Performances work only so far as they’re needed for a video game (doting wife, loyal partner, crooked cop, corporate sleaze, etc.), and the real weakness here was a terminally flawed script that could’ve quite figure out what it wanted to be when it grew up.

​-- EZ

There is absolutely nothing P.C. (that being “politically correct”) about Rock Jocks!
 
Yes, you need to know that going in – or, at least, I think it helps – otherwise you’re liable to turn it off once the real fun starts.  Sure, it’s somewhat pottymouthed.  Maybe somewhat unconventional.  But mark my words: this is exactly the kind of motion picture your teenage son or daughter is likely watching once mom & dad turn off the lights and go to bed.  No, it isn’t pornographic, though certain acts will certainly be alluded to on more than one occasion.  And, yes, it’s a bit rowdy … and bawdy … and raucous … and even downright obnoxious at times.  Heck, this is probably the kind of flick that finds a solid audience at film festivals, comic book conventions, or other SciFi retreats where a good time is had by all because no one is concerned about the ‘appropriateness’ or ‘inappropriateness’ of the subject matter and performances.
 
It’s just movie fun.
 
(NOTE: The following review will contain minor spoilers necessary solely for the discussion of plot and characters.  If you’re the kind of reader who prefers a review entirely spoiler-free, then I’d encourage you to skip down to the last three paragraphs for my final assessment.  If, however, you’re accepting of a few modest hints at ‘things to come,’ then read on …)
 
In a top secret location, the U.S. government has been secretly saving the planet since the 1960’s when a downed UFO and its curiously Jesus-looking alien occupant gifted Uncle Sam with the technology to deflect meteors from bombarding our planet.  These heroes are dubbed “Rock Jocks,” and their graveyard shift team is made up of one malcontent after another – the female perfectionist (played by the immeasurably perky Felicia Day); the can’t-get-it-together single dad (Andrew Bowen); the foul-mouthed know-it-all (Justin Chon); the racist foreigner (Gerry Bednob); and the son of the ‘company’ hero (Kevin Wu).  Through in cult film favorites Jason Mewes and Robert Picardo, and you’ve got a nerd’s dream cast to end all dream casts!  Together, they spend the night at odds with one another and the judgmental government bureaucrat sent to shut them down forever … while the grand-daddy of all meteors gets closer and closer!
 
Stop right now …
 
Regular folks?  You probably ain’t gonna like this one.  Rock Jocks is a geek’s comedy, through and through.  A nerdboy’s flick.  A fanboy’s diversion.  It’s exactly the kind of small picture that lights a fire under a very specific community of film lovers and/or pre-pubescent and/or post-pubescent boys (and girls) interested in SciFi, general nerd-dom, video games, and – cough cough – Felicia Day.  If you find yourself fitting comfortably into that unique sub-segment of the general population, then I’d honestly be surprised if you sat through this harmless flick and didn’t at least have as much fun with it as I did.  No, it’ll never change your world; instead, it’ll show you how the disenfranchised of our clique will save it (being “save the world”) as only we could.
 
If you understand half of what I’ve written thus far, then Rock Jocks is for you.  I’m not gonna tell you it’s perfect because it’s not.  Justin Chon’s vile shtick goes on for far too long.  Gerry Bednob is increasingly difficult to understand.  Some of the characters could’ve been fleshed out a bit more, and some of the incessantly clever and/or quirky dialogue could’ve been dialed back just a bit.  Still, this is a pretty smart film – a debut, in fact, written and directed by Paul Seetachitt – and I’ll keep my eyes peeled for more like it.
 
It’s not quite what the doctor ordered, but it’s pretty close all the same.
 
Rock Jocks (2012) is produced by Bright Penny Productions and Intelligent Life Media in association with Dog & Rooster Productions.  DVD distribution is being handled through Cinedigm.  As for the technical specifications, the film looks and sounds fairly solid, though I’ll have to admit that I had some real difficulty in understanding Gerry Bednob when he spoke – it’s a very thick dialect that seriously could’ve been poked fun at with subtitles, but maybe that’s just me.  Lastly, the disc does offer up three very short behind-the-scenes interview segments, spread out across the ensemble cast, and they’re harmless fluff but definitely worth watching if you enjoyed the film as much as I did.
 
Strongly recommended … especially for those of you (like me) who considered yourself card-carrying geeks, nerds, and/or other social misfits.  While some of the performances and/or dialogue is unnecessarily over-the-top, there’s still even more about Rock Jocks to like.  Picking up on an idea started years ago in The Last Starfighter (1984), the hiring entity this time is Uncle Sam!  Only the best and brightest will be recruited to save the planet from being pulverized routinely by space rocks … just don’t look for this group of the best and brightest to always look, dress, think, and behave like the best and brightest.
 
In the interests of fairness, I’m pleased to disclose that the fine folks at Cinedigm provided me with a DVD copy of Rock Jocks by request for the expressed purposes of completing this review.

​-- EZ

Though some would tell you otherwise, I’ve long maintained that there’s a certain kind of film made chiefly for a certain type of audience.
 
In many respects, flicks that dominate the schedules of film festivals around the world typically qualify for this definition.  This isn’t to suggest in any way that the makers of these productions and the cast and crews associated don’t wish to be seen by wider audiences; instead, it’s just to clarify that – when all is said and done – the finished product isn’t always the kind of thing that gets embraced outside the festival marketplace.  No one wants to throw away good money on assembling these didactic goodies; it’s just that the audiences who want to watch and wax on about its messages, techniques, and performances are usually the festival-goers.  Though their reach is finite, these viewers still hungry to discover ‘the next big thing’ for our cultural betters, so what better place is there to look than amongst their own?
 
For what it’s worth, I’ve had this sentiment privately agreed to by a small handful of independent filmmakers, the kind of which who have frequented that circuit on a few occasions.  While that may not exactly prove my point, I think it still does imply that festival entries may have an uphill climb when it comes to impressing those who aren’t plunking down a few hundred bucks for the whole weekend engagement.  John Q. Public may not have the same requirements to meet his (or her) entertainment threshold, and he’s a bit more discriminating about throwing cash away on something that may be a waste of his time.  After all, he (or she) works hard for the money …
 
This sentiment – that of a project being conceived and executed entirely for a very specific mindset – overwhelmed me with my time watching A Wounded Fawn.  Everything about it – its premise, its construction, its aesthetic, and damn well its very title – leans decidedly highbrow if not downright scholarly.  While a heavy part of its ninety-minute runtime feels like an intellectual exercise, there’s just not enough meat on them bones (but there is buckets and buckets of blood) to satisfy someone just looking for a visceral escape from reality in the open arms of a traditional Horror haunt.  It does have the right pieces, but it’s packaged in such a way as to demand subservience to ideas not inevitably might prove much too elusive for a knuckle-dragger like me.
 
(NOTE: The following review will contain minor spoilers necessary solely for the discussion of plot and/or characters.  If you’re the type of reader who prefers a review entirely spoiler-free, then I’d encourage you to skip down to the last few paragraphs for my final assessment.  If, however, you’re accepting of a few modest hints at ‘things to come,’ then read on …)
 
From the film’s IMDB.com page citation:
“A serial killer brings an unsuspecting new victim on a weekend getaway to add another body to his ever-growing count.  She’s buying into his faux charms, and he’s eagerly lusting for blood.  What could possibly go wrong?”

Back in 2021, I had the good fortune of watching and review Jakob’s Wife (link) for my friends at RLJE Films.  This modern-day twist on the classic vampire tale starred Horror queen Barbara Crampton as a small-town minister’s wife who succumbs to the dark side, thus creating a hunger within herself that defied satiation.  The wonderful twist to the picture (so far as I saw it) was the fact that her decidedly religious husband Jakob (Larry Fessenden) adheres to the very old school definition of marriage – that being until death do us part – so he finds himself trapped into this descent into evil.  He loves her without question (I mean, have you seen Barbara Crampton?), and he authentically practices what the Bible has him preaching … so ultimately he has no choice but to continue loving her – warts, murder, and all – even at the cost of his immortal soul.  Though the film wasn’t perfect, I found it was perfectly told, and it left the audience wanting more.
 
So I was thrilled at the prospect to watch and review A Wounded Fawn, the latest feature from that same writer/director Travis Stevens.
 
Alas, the outcome this time was far from the same.
 
There’s an awful lot of good in Fawn.  Essentially, it’s a film told with a preamble and two acts.
 
The preamble rather aptly sets up this world, and it’s populated by artists, art enthusiasts, and those employed in related circles.  This set-up introduces us to Bruce Ernst (Josh Ruben), a closet sociopath with a penchant for fine things and bloody murder.  He’s a man that will stop at nothing to possess that which touches his deepest soul – items he describes at beautiful – and, yes, that means he’ll stoop to killing anyone who robs him of that opportunity.   We watch as this smart-dressed man follows home a fellow art auction attendee, concocts a scenario to have her let him into her home, and then kills her in cold blood, all to recover The Wrath Of The Erinyes, a sculpture depicting three Furies from Greek mythology attacking a lone man.
 
What this intro also suggests is that Ernst may or may not be off his rocker.  In the back corridor of the lady’s house, he sees a costumed figure – like something out of an ancient museum piece – bathed in red light.  Is this character truly there, or is this something like a vision in the tortured mind of a depraved man?  Could it be some supernatural spirit drawn mysteriously to this statue he covets, or is it nothing more than the machinations of a broken psyche?  At this point, we don’t know for sure, but – as is always the case with stories of this sort – we proceed with the promise of discovery lying in wait.
 
Act One brings Meredith Tanning (Sarah Lind) into the fold.
 
An art enthusiast and (apparently) museum curator of some kind, she confesses to her pair of friends that she’s finally going away for a long weekend in hopes of a romantic tryst with a new fellow.  At home, she packs her bag – complete with freshly-purchased and deliciously revealing undergarments – and privately celebrates her beau’s arrival.  Lo and behold, we rather quickly learn that the homicidal Ernst is her latest paramour, and the reveal clearly amps up the tension with what now looks to be a weekend of ceremonial bloodletting, though the lady is most definitely unaware.
​

It's here that this new Fawn’s wounds begin to show.
 
For reasons that honestly escape me, Stevens begins to pepper the film with some rather curious developments.  Tanning begins to see things – an angry dog crossing her path on the way to car, the fleeting look at a tortured woman’s face in Ernst’s trunk, shadows suggesting movement in the forest surrounding their secluded cabin – all of which begin to suggest that either the universe is delivering signs that she’s in mounting danger or something else otherworldly is taking place.  It isn’t all that long before Ernst as well is swept up in these somewhat supernatural happenings – lights turning on-and-off of their own accord, even more shadows of movement outside – which only further indicates that these two are far from alone in the wilderness.  Has his gory sacrifices unleashed some esoteric beast into our universe, or is all of this little more than cosmic coincidence?
 
Well, we’re never really given any answers, and – before you know it – Ernst has responded both to the voices in his head and the mysterious figure he’s either summoned or shows up conveniently when he’s feeling violent.  In his demented state, he kills Meredith – or has he? – and sets the stage for the befuddling Act Two.
 
Fawn is a flick that’s hard to talk about without spoiling some of the surprises, but – suffice it to say – Meredith’s “death” isn’t the last we see of her.  It would seem that her demise opens the door to real ‘Twin Peaks’ territory as now Ernst’s three victims – all female – embody the three Furies of his coveted statue while he becomes the fallen male.  (As fate – or a bad script – would have it, we learn rather clumsily in Act One that Meredith was one of the museum workers who ‘valued’ the piece before it could be sent to auction.  Whether or not this truly plays into why Ernst found himself attracted to her – much less how he would’ve known of her association to it – is never clearly spelled out.  It’s just one of Fawn’s rather awkward coincidences.  And there are more.)  Whatever the truth may be, Meredith and her angry sisters in death are back; and, as a consequence, Act Two ends up unspooling as a series of set pieces – staged dialogues between Ernst and these three entities, all with the killer’s increasingly agitated state – giving Fawn the feeling of obvious construction and not an authentic Horror experience.
 
As designed by Stevens and his talented cast and crew, the line between reality and fantasy blurs, but this doesn’t quite serve Fawn the way I think was beneficially intended.
 
Instead of making for a vivid nightmare, it instead confuses the audience which, ultimately, wants to know – in Horror, especially – what’s real and what isn’t.  Frights work best when we know from where they descend; phantasmagoric sequences tend to bog chills down to the detriment of the ride.  While color schemes and clever dialogue and symbolism might be important, viewers aren’t often keen on watching films that require study guides; but Fawn soldiers on, even to the point of occasionally being unwatchable … such is the case with Ernst’s inevitable demise at his own hand – or is it? – playing out over the closing credits … a time when most folks have finished their popcorn and are heading for the exits.  This isn’t ‘thinking for thinking’s sake’ so much as it is continuing to make a point well after one’s already been agreed upon, and it produces the effect of warping an otherwise interesting death over to obvious intellectual bloating.
 
And no one likes bloating.

​A Wounded Fawn (2022) was produced by BarBHouse, Genco Pictures, HorrorHound Films, and Snowfort Pictures.  The film is presently available for streaming on a variety of major platforms including The Roku Channel, Spectrum TV, and Shudder.  As for the technical specifications?  Wow.  The film looks pretty damn glorious; a good deal of it takes place at night (inside and outside), so be prepared for a few short sequences that could’ve been a bit better lit, but it’s nothing significantly distracting.  Lastly, as I watched this via streaming, there are no special features to rate and/or review.
 
(Mildly) Recommended, but …
 
I suspect that A Wounded Fawn will, ultimately, be fairly divisive.  Up to a certain point in its narrative, the plot is relatively conventional – a serial killer may or may not be manipulated by dark, supernatural forces – but once the second half begins the experience requires a fair amount of brainwork.  Is it real?  Is it madness?  Is this literal?  Or have we ventured into the territory of pure symbolism?  What exactly is and is not taking place becomes an oddly personal choice – I’m never a fan of make-your-own-adventure pacing, and I don’t think a lot of regular viewers are – boiling down the whole, bloody affair to a creative exercise that may or may not have been worth the price of admission.  Smartly filmed?  Yes!  Well performed?  Absolutely!  Satisfying conclusion?  Well … you be the judge.
 
In the interests of fairness, the kind folks at Shudder provided me with complimentary streaming access to A Wounded Fawn (2022) by request for the expressed purposes of completing this review; and their contribution to me in no way, shape, or form influenced my opinion of it.

​-- EZ

There was a time when the name of Neil Marshall had a wealth of promise.
 
The director kinda/sorta roared onto the genre scene back with the 2002 release of Dog Soldiers.  This tale of werewolves in the Scotland wilderness clearly sunk its teeth into audiences and held firm.  Though I found it a bit untrained, I, too, became a convert to Marshall’s talent with The Descent (2005), a tense subterranean thriller that pitted four female spelunkers against a tribe of inner-Earth cannibals.  But 2008’s Doomsday had me again questioning whether the director had the right stuff to truly compete in the cinematic marketplace: the Dystopian actioner starring the terrific Rhona Mitra felt entirely derivative and half-baked, populating what was left of Earth with a bunch of Mad Max extras in a story promising salvation but delivering stagnation.  Indeed, things looked grim … both on and off camera.
 
To his benefit, Marshall found his career somewhat reinvigorated with an entry into the world of television production.  Solid genre properties like Black Sails, HBO’s Game Of Thrones, and NBC’s short-lived Constantine showed that he still had his mojo; and episodes of Timeless, Westworld, and Netflix’s Lost In Space reboot followed.  But the return to the silver screen with 2019’s box office disaster of Hellboy was a huge step backward … apparently in more ways than one.
 
If one is interested, then one can Google into the background of Marshall and his partner Charlotte Kirk.  I’ve read some of the reportage, and – without going into the particulars – I think it’s all more than a bit confusing.  Kirk – in her early career – has been linked to the dynamic fall from grace of an incredible handful of Hollywood heavyweights, perhaps so much so that it’s been suggested that she’s been blacklisted from several major studios as a consequence of her previous relationships.  (There has been the suggestions of extortion, but – again – I haven’t seen anything proven.)  Apparently, it was at this point in their respective careers that these two creative souls found one another and pledged a commitment to work together on projects.
 
Their first film – The Reckoning (2020) – came and went with little fanfare.  (I’ve seen it, and interested readers can find my review right here.)  Essentially, it’s a period piece set in the 17th century exploring the story of Grace, a young widow who gets accused of witchcraft once she rejects an elder’s advances (perhaps reflecting Kirk’s alleged Hollywood life?).  Marketed as a bodice-ripper, it was everything but, and I imagine that didn’t help box office receipts.  The Lair (2022) is their second attempt at fortune and glory; while I’ll say – in short – that it isn’t exactly a step in the right direction, the film still possesses the kind of B-movie charm that just might find an audience given a lot of blood, sweat, and tears … of which the film offers plenty.
​
​​(NOTE: The following review will contain minor spoilers necessary solely for the discussion of plot and/or characters.  If you’re the type of reader who prefers a review entirely spoiler-free, then I’d encourage you to skip down to the last few paragraphs for the final assessment.  If, however, you’re accepting of a few modest hints at ‘things to come,’ then read on …)
 

From the film’s IMDB.com page citation:
“When Royal Air Force pilot Lt. Kate Sinclair is shot down over Afghanistan, she finds refuge in an abandoned underground bunker where deadly man-made biological weapons – half human, half alien – are awakened.”
 
The Lair is the kind of film I’ve often said is ‘perfectly imperfect.’
 
The central story – involving the downed RAF pilot Sinclair (played by the fetching Charlotte Kirk) – is really only the set-up for the main course, that being her discovery of a clandestine Russian bunker in the Nangahar Province of Afghanistan wherein some dastardly Soviet Era scientists performed some gruesome experiments augmenting human DNA with strands of alien.  For it’s in this miasma of B-movie tropes that this Lair has enough muscle, moxie, and military might that could effective in giving it a second life on home video.  Certainly, such cinematic realities did wonders for a whole library of features from the 1980’s, and if the film gods are willing then The Lair will suffer a similar fate.
 
At the risk of sounding like the resident misogynist, I will say that it’s a good thing that Sinclair did her make-up before getting into her jet that morning.  She looks good throughout the film, no matter the amount of sweat and blood they add to her complexion as the story unfolds.  As gruesome as these human/alien hybrids appear, she’s a fabulous counterpoint; given the fact that she’s constantly spouting lines that were likely rejected from the shooting script of The Dirty Dozen (1967) only serves to underscore that – so far as film country goes – we’re not in Kansas any more … which is an especially touching sentiment given Jamie Bamber’s laughably bad Southern drawl.  As the grizzled U.S. major in charge of his own particular band of military rejects, he’s only missing the token fat stogie of a cigar to truly sell the 1950’s era stereotype.
 
Still, what works – for the most part – is Kirk’s presence in the picture.
 
She almost swaggers through every scene with the kind of screen confidence often reserved for a John Wayne, Sylvester Stallone, or Steve McQueen.  In fact, in The Lair she’s part John McClane – that quintessential action star whose chief narrative characteristic is being in the wrong place at the wrong time – and her and Marshall’s script (they co-wrote this schlock) has her standing toe-to-toe with hardened soldiers not quite twice her size but pretty darn close.  When not even bullets can pierce these lumbering monsters’ hides, merely a headbutt from her dazes them just enough to save the day!  (Well, maybe not the day, but it at least gives them pause.)  When everyone else continues uselessly unloading their weapons at the enemies, she’ll rush headfirst – across the field of fire, no doubt, without receiving so much as a nick or a scratch (when others are getting their faces bitten off) – only to mix it up in hand-to-hand combat with these alien bastards.

If that’s the kind of logic you’re looking for, then The Lair is a veritable repository of unintended laughs.  While the Kirk/Marshall script clearly spells out that the United States’ military is not sending their best and brightest to the Afghanistan countryside (they’re all misfits who’ve chosen to escape prosecution in essence by taking this detail at the ass-end of the world), Sinclair remains a righteously moral and physical specimen all of her own.  Why, it’s almost as if this woman could do no wrong, and – if you read my opening – then perhaps that’s a message intended from this creative pair back to Hollywood.  Let’s hope the suits are watching, though I suspect they’ve chosen the latest Scorsese over this.
​

About the time that the screen features high-jumping lizard men and slow-motion walking into combat sequences, it becomes very clear – or it should – that we’ve left all reality behind, and The Lair becomes one of those pictures that defies conventional and – at times –unconventional wisdom.  Even though the fallen Soviet Empire was behind this DNA mix-up, the script naturally indicts America because the U.S. top brass knew all about it and did nothing to stop it.  (The U.S. is what’s wrong with the world, don’t you know?)  You might have to hold your laughs once the surviving soldiers opt to ‘hole up’ inside a weapons locker that opens outward, but you’d best simply release it.  Trust me when I say, “there more where that came from,” and this one continues its descent until the last gag.
 
Still, as I’ve tried to be absolutely clear, there’s nothing wrong with the frenetic chaos, logical failures, and plot holes that populate so much of these 90+ minutes.  As a B-movie, The Lair functions reasonably well: though a bit long in a few spots, I’d argue it’s a no-brainer, the kind I and my friends would’ve happily sat through back in my college days of the great 1980’s probably once, twice, or maybe thrice.  It moves fast enough that – at first blush – some might not even notice its trash effects, sloppy writing, and hammy acting.  A less attentive audience – one fueled by pizza, popcorn, and beer – might not even question why the hybrids didn’t use those face tentacles more often, especially given the fact that they often made victory achievable with much greater loss.  See it as cognitive dissonance caught on camera, and it functions like a carnival attraction.  What’s so wrong with that?
 
The Lair (2022) was produced by Rather Good Films, Scarlett Productions Ltd., Ashland Hill Media Finance, and a few other participants.  (A full accounting is found on IMDB.com.)  The film is currently available for streaming on a wide variety of platforms.  As for the technical specifications?  For the most part, I found the sights and sounds very impressive: there are a few sequences – particularly those shot at night – that were a bit difficult to fully see the documented action.  While not entirely distracting, it’s a bit disappointing.  As I watched the film via streaming, there were no special features to review.
 
Recommended chiefly for fans of B-movie actions (especially those with a SciFi/Horror angle), but most likely everyone else will find this one far too undercooked …
 
The Lair is the kind of film wherein it works best if (and only if) you turn your brain fully off.  Otherwise, you might find yourself reaching for pen and paper to make a list of the number of mistakes and/or plot holes big enough to drive a tank through.  In fact, if I were to sit down for a chat with writer/director Marshall, I’d be inclined to ask if he started out this project with the intent to make an action movie parody as the number of unintended laughs this one produced suggests he did.  But all of that doesn’t remove the insufferable campy charm that runs through the piece from start-to-finish … including the bad accents, the flawed logic, the inferior special effects, and even the perfectly placed Wilhelm scream.
 
In the interests of fairness, I’m pleased to disclose that the fine folks at Shudder provided me with complimentary streaming access to The Lair (2022) by request for the expressed purposes of completing this review; and their contribution to me in no way, shape, or form influenced my opinion of it.

​-- EZ

(NOTE: The following review will contain minor spoilers necessary solely for the discussion of plot and/or characters.  If you’re the type of reader who prefers a review entirely spoiler-free, then I’d encourage you to skip down to the last three paragraphs for my final assessment.  If, however, you’re accepting of a few modest hints at ‘things to come,’ then read on …)
 
From the product packaging:
“Two years ago, Mark Fisher disappeared from his home in rural Maine in a brilliant flash of otherworldly blue light.  His friend Seth Hampton was the last to see him alive.  Now, Seth is having disturbing premonitions that Mark has returned as something other than human …”
 
That’s really all you need to know about whether or not Almost Human falls within your sphere of influence.  Now – if it does – then you’re likely to find something worthwhile in all of its low budget schlock.  Will it change how you look at movies?  Probably not.  Will it force you to reexamine your life?  It definitely shouldn’t.  Will it earn a place alongside, say, Citizen Kane (1941) as rivaling the best movie ever made?  If you need to ask, then you’re too far gone for me to help!
 
Almost Human is an old-school-style thriller, which essentially means it was shot on-a-budget and won’t have any of the niceties of contemporary motion pictures more likely known to the masses at large.  The story revolves around the idea of alien abduction – there are plenty of flashbacks to support that something is definitely ‘out there’ – but, before it’s all over, it’ll end up raising more questions than it ever could answer on such a paltry sum.
 
Now, that doesn’t mean that it’s poor filmmaking, folks.
 
In fact, what it does mean is that it’s probably made by folks who have an unflinching fascination with indie thrills, and they wanted to get together for the sole purpose of producing something they believed could stand cheek-to-cheek with the slasher stuff of old.  It does work effectively on that level, but – as is so often the case these days when young auteurs sit in the catbird seat – writer/director/producer/cameraman Joe Begos was probably stretched so thin that he’d never uncover the narrative weaknesses of what he created, much less cared to go out and look for them.
 
For example, he’s overly concerned with throwing stuff at the wall (not only blood) as one character after another really shows up and audiences are expected to care about them.  There are hints provided to the established relationships, but the niceties of developing relationships or establishing ‘beats’ are little more than condiments barely covering the meat … meat that’ll be sliced, hacked, chainsawed, or space-raped (seriously, it happens!) before the lights come up and the credits roll.
 
What ended up happening for me is that I was constantly reminded of other pictures that had already explored these ideas – abduction, consciousness-swapping, body snatching, etc. – to far greater effect in the past; this has the unfortunate effect of pulling me out of Human and putting me back in, say, The Hidden (1987).  I don’t imagine this is what Begos desired; why would he make his own feature, after all, if all he wanted to do was remind me of other films?  Because so much of what’s here ends up feeling like it was culled from elsewhere, Human lacks any real conviction to the story it tries to tell independent of those influences.  It reminds me that what looks great isn’t necessarily filling; rather, it just looks good when all is said and done.
 
Lastly, it’s never a good thing when a motion picture fades to black and produces a laughable ‘that’s it’ moment.  True – for those who were watching closely – there is one of those handy post-credits sequences that adds a bit more to the story; but it doesn’t add to or reshape the narrative in any meaningful capacity, ultimately being an extraneous moment promising ‘more to come.’
 
I’ll probably ignore the sequel if it happens.
 
Almost Human (2013) is produced by Channel 83 Films and Ambrosino / Delmenico.  DVD distribution is being handled by MPI Media Group under the IFC Midnight label.  As for the technical specifications, there’s an awful lot of surprising grain in this indie chiller, but the sights and sounds work pretty well for the creative intent.  Lastly – if it’s special features you want – then you’re about to be thrilled by two audio commentaries, a too-expansive making-off documentary, other behind-the-scenes shorts, a short film, and more.  It’s a great assortment for those who might be interested in trying this at home.
 
Recommended.
 
Depending upon how closely you’re watching, you’re liable to find problems aplenty with Almost Human; but the truth is I suspect that the makers only intended you to have fun with such a visceral throwback to times when horror didn’t have to make an awful lot of narrative sense.  No, you won’t know where the aliens came from or what their purpose was.  No, you won’t really have all of the answers you want to who these characters are, why they were targeted, or what it all means.  But the schlock – glorious schlock! – is lean and mean enough to satisfy horror fans for the bulk of its 80 minutes.
 
In the interests of fairness, I’m pleased to disclose that the fine folks at MPI Media Group and IFC Midnight provided me a DVD copy of Almost Human by request for the expressed purposes of completing this review; and their contribution to me in no way, shape, or form influenced my opinion of it.

​-- EZ

First, there’s ‘low budget’ horror.
 
The dirty little secret of ‘low budget’ horror is that, despite the fact that some small studio or tiny group of investors ponied up a decent amount of cash to peddle the flick to audiences, there may (and I do mean “may”) be some redeeming qualities to it.  It might have some legitimate scares.  It could even have some spiffy but practical make-up and effects.  If you’re lucky, then it should be blessed with a modest amount of nice acting – nothing grand, but just enough to show that the actors and actresses really put their heart into it, knowing that you’d at least have the spirit to make it to the very end.
 
Then, there’s ‘no budget’ horror, and 4 Dead Girls: The Soul Taker falls (sadly) into that category.  No matter how much effort any of the ladies put into this affair, it’s just way too hard to ratchet up any real thrills, chills, or spills when you’re filming in a house with, basically, three rooms.
 
(NOTE: The following review will contain minor spoilers necessary solely for the discussion of plot and characters.  If you’re the kind of reader who prefers a review entirely spoiler-free, then I’d encourage you to skip down to the last three paragraphs for my final assessment.  If, however, you’re accepting of a few modest hints at ‘things to come,’ then read on …)
 
Lily (played with modest if not mousy conviction by Katherine Browning) and her three roomies are looking for a dream place: a fully-furnished off-campus house where they can go to eat, sleep, and (cough) bang.  What they don’t realize is that the man-of-their-dreams’ landlord is none other than a Nalusa Chito – a soul taker – who’s bent on munching on the very essence of all their beings before the first night together is over.
 
Had the writers and/or producers done even a modest amount of research, they would’ve realized that the name ‘Soultaker’ was already reserved for a no-budget stinker from the 80’s and maybe they would’ve gone in another direction so far as the film’s working name is concerned.  I mean … why would you want anyone to harken back to that film, wretched that it may be?  In fact, the original ‘Soultaker’ was lampooned by the likes of MST3K, so why would you even risk that association.  The best I can surmise is that perhaps they hoped in some bizarre way to piggyback on someone else’s success (or lack thereof), and they kept “The Soul Taker” as part of their name.
 
Also, how bad does a film have to be in order to pony up four beautiful girls on the product packaging … with none of them actually being in the flick?  Clearly, there’s more than a fair amount of subterfuge going on here, and if you don’t know the meaning of subterfuge then maybe 4 DEAD GIRLS is right up your alley.
 
Try as they might, these girls – they’re so generic I won’t trouble you with their specifics, and maybe they’ll be happy when this release is lost to history, too – can’t muster any real sense of dread; without that, horror films of the stalker variety are doomed to fail.  When your master villain delivers every line apparently under the influence of sleeping aids, you know something’s missing.  Still, the script tried to tweak each character just enough to give ‘em something more to do that scream and look pretty – for my tastes, they should’ve stuck with the former ‘cause they didn’t have much chance with the latter.
 
4 Dead Girls: The Soul Taker (aka The Rental) is produced by 3 Roses Entertainment.  DVD distribution is being handled by Breaking Glass Pictures.  As for the technical specifications, the best I can say is that both the audio and video are here; it’s certainly not an accomplished job because, in most cases, the girls’ screams are modulated louder than the soul taker’s menacing speeches, leaving the audience with little idea of what the man’s saying.  Must’ve been scary, though, if these girls are any indication.  To the disc’s credit, there are a handful of extras – cast interviews, some deleted scenes, and a short feature on the special effects – but I wasn’t all that interested in knowing more about this mess.
 
Not really recommended.
​
It’s hard to even give it a modest thumbs up.  Who knows?  Some might enjoy it more than I did, but, then again, I’ve heard some people like root canals, too.  I don’t.
 
In the interests of fairness, I’m pleased to disclose that the fine folks at Breaking Glass Pictures provided me with a DVD copy of 4 Dead Girls: The Soul Taker by request for the expressed purposes of completing this review.

​-- EZ

Horror films can be a tough sell.
 
There are so many of them produced under conventional means – i.e. follow the basic ‘scare’ formula – but every now and then one comes along with a flair all of its own, with a style all of its own, with a look all its own.  That’s a cause for celebration – however modest – because flair, freshness, and originality aren’t exactly available with every feature.  American Mary has some wonderful touches, and – on those points alone – I think it’s definitely worth seeing.  Will it be entirely satisfying?  I think that depends upon your personal tastes and expectations for character development.
 
(NOTE: The following review will contain minor spoilers necessary solely for the discussion of plot and characters.  If you’re the kind of reader who prefers a review entirely spoiler-free, this ain’t it!  Still, I’d encourage you to skip down to the last two paragraphs for my final assessment.  If, however, you’re accepting of a few modest hints at ‘things to come,’ then read on …)
 
Mary Mason (played by the comely Katharine Isabelle) is your typical med school student struggling to make ends meet.  She’s about to be kicked out of her classes for failing to keep up on her tuition payments when she answers an advertisement at a strip club for performing erotic massage.  Before the night is over, she’s swept into a world of underground surgery – fixing up a victim for the club’s owner – which only opens the door to an even stranger off-the-records business of body augmentation.  Suddenly, she’s up to her elbows in blood and stitches.  What’s an American Mary to do?
 
It’s easy to give kudos to American Mary for attempting something original because, largely, that’s what writer/director/sisters/stars Jen and Sylvia Soska did.  Unfortunately, that’s all they did, as they amped up the ‘weird for the sake of being weird’ factor but heavily scrimped on any (and I do mean ANY) emotional connection between these characters.  That’s what I found a shame to the picture – I wanted to not so much ‘like’ Mary Mason (I don’t believe filmmakers ever really intend for us to like their villainous creations) but I wanted to fully ‘appreciate’ the journey she was on.  However, Mary – as played by Katharine Isabelle – approaches the role pre- and post-catharsis (her rape and the subsequent descent into medical madness) absolutely devoid of any emotion.  In other words, before being awakened to this weird subculture, Mary behaves mostly passionless to all things; and, after being awakened to the same, she’s still pretty much passionless.  Before being raped by what must be the most downright evil portrayal of a college professor/surgeon, she’s passionless about life; and, after the assault, she’s still pretty much devoid of any feelings.
 
Now, maybe (and I do say maybe) that’s what the sisters Soska wanted – to show that Mary was always destined to be what she became, that she was never going to be a victim in her world – but, if that was the case, how is it she could still casually dismiss the only person in this world her ever cared about her – her ‘Nana’ – by simply deleting her telephone contact once she learned she died and THEN sit sulking in the dark?  If she wasn’t going to be a victim of her emotions, then why the one scene sulking?  If it was to convey “see, she’s only human after all,” then they’ve changed their message.  If it that wasn’t the intent, then why include such a trivial plot development at all?
 
That’s the thing about Mary – I never know how she thinks about anything.  As a character, she simply ‘does’ what she does.  At times, much of the film felt like what others call ‘torture porn,’ but I never got the sense as a viewer that Mary took any delight in torturing those that she did.  The only legitimate display of emotion I can recall in the entire piece was when she was almost discovered, was konked over the head by a security guard, and then got back up and beat the young man (presumably to death).  While her face showed little emotion, her body betrayed her, thumping and thumping and thumping away on the body the way she did.  That was the only real emotional development Mary suffered, so I’m still left wondering what it was all about.
 
American Mary (2012) is produced by IndustryWorks Pictures, 430 Productions, American Mary Productions, and Twisted Twins Productions.  DVD distribution is being handled through XLrator Media.  As for the technical specifications, the film looks and sounds mostly very solid, though there’s one really strangely miked club sequence wherein vocal levels clearly are out of whack (not a big deal, I just like mentioning these little things when I see ‘em).  The disc offers a making of short as well as a director’s commentary, if you’re so inclined.
 
Recommended.
 
American Mary is slow.  At 100-plus minutes and all the glowing praise I’ve read for the film, I was really expecting something more than just ‘weird for weird’s sake.’  I don’t know that this world – this bizarre body modification culture – is real (I suspect it is), but I kept wondering what the Soska Sisters were trying to say about it since it didn’t seem particularly ‘American,’ particularly ‘Mary’ (i.e. routine, predictable), or particularly anything other than the portrait of a really unconventional class of people bordering on torture porn.  When I don’t know what the message is, I don’t know what to take away from the experience; when I don’t know what to take away, then I’m left to my own devices … this time out, my devices haven’t a clue.

​-- EZ