Don't Bother to Knock

Year: 1952
Genre: Drama
Directed: Roy Ward Baker
Stars: Richard Widmark, Marilyn Monroe, Anne Bancroft, Donna Corcoran, Jeanne Cagney, Lurene Tuttle, Elisha Cook Jr., Jim Backus, Verna Felton, Willis Bouchey, Don Beddoe
Production: 20th Century Fox

Don't Bother to Knock starts with airline pilot Jed Towers (Widmark) conversing with his soon to be ex Lyn (Bancroft) at the bar of a swanky New York hotel. Six months into the relationship, Lyn has decided that the looming problems of Jed's complacency and cynical nature are enough to warrant an end to their relationship. "You lack an understanding heart," says Lyn before getting back on the stage of the hotel's lounge for another set. She leaves; Jed is devastated, "How About You" plays in the background. Jed walks upstairs to his room and immediately gravitates towards a mysterious blonde who occupies the room across. He wants to get to know her; he picks up the phone...she answers. The woman on the other end is of course the sultry Marilyn Monroe who is working as a babysitter for a wealthy family. She's starry eyed, possesses pinup girl good looks, is magnificently poured into another woman's garments and is mentally unstable.

I need not expand on Marilyn Monroe the legend but it's important to realize that throughout her career she had a surprising amount of control over her image. She leaned into the idea of becoming the "blonde bombshell" sex symbol that made her a star, all the while trying to shout down critics who claimed she couldn't act. Don't Bother to Knock is a minor piece in her filmography for this very reason. It was sold as the movie to debut Monroe as leading lady talent but only succeeds in making look silly. Her characterization of the shy and mentally unstable babysitter Nell Forbes is at times embarrassingly broad; like what a teenager would think a bereaved and psychotic young lady acts like.

Yet at certain key moments (especially in the beginning), Monroe ably coasts on her waif-like innocence to engineer some pretty masterful moments. Her brief interactions with Elisha Cook Jr. who plays her uncle and the hotel's elevator operator exudes paternal tenderness. Her moments with Bunny (Corcoran) the child she babysits, erupt in bratty tartness. However inconsistent, when she was on the ball she really was on the ball.

...and always blocking that vent for some reason

Sometimes she carried a movie to near greatness through sheer sex appeal. How to Marry a Millionaire (1953) the very next year proved Monroe a real driving force in box office returns. Don't Bother to Knock however shows an actress unable to find her voice amid a tempest of wrought melodrama. It's evident Monroe's very real immaturity was more of a trap than an act. Co-star Richard Widmark remarked on the making of the film that "we had a hell of a time getting her out of the dressing room...she was scared to death of acting."

The real star of Don't Bother to Knock (if one had to choose), is its provocative screenplay written by Daniel Taradash (adapted by the Charlotte Armstrong novel). While almost distractedly modest in scale and scope, the film nevertheless crackles with spurious dialogue. Given the film's common appeal and limited location settings one could see a entertaining if disposable stage play being made out of it. Sure it's not Shakespeare but as far as Marilyn Monroe vehicles go, it rivals Bus Stop (1956) in its ability to dilute the budding star to whatever essence she allows herself to reveal.

Don't Bother to Knock is a wholly disposable film that inconsistently glimmers under the glam of its star. While not quite as awkward as River of No Return (1954), the film can't help but feel minuscule and trivial thanks to average acting, director Roy Ward Baker's meandering direction and a fundamental misunderstanding of psychology. Don't Bother to Knock? I'd simply say don't bother.

Final Grade: D

Mr. Turner

Year: 2014
Genre: Drama
Directed: Mike Leigh
Stars: Timothy Spall, Paul Jesson, Dorothy Atkinson, Marion Bailey, Karl Johnson, Ruth Sheen, Sandy Foster, Amy Dawson, Lesley Manville, Richard Bremmer, Martin Savage, Fred Pearson
Production: Focus Features

Mike Leigh is arguably one of Britain's foremost humanist filmmakers to come out of the last quarter century. In a career percolating since the seventies, Leigh has done everything from fanciful period dramas to low-key domestic dramedy; all the while focusing mightily on the subtle character arcs that we're meant to see ourselves in. Sometimes it works, other times his serenity through the mundane can seem tedious. Unfortunately tedious is exactly how I would describe Mr. Turner.

Mr. Turner concerns the last years of J.M.W. Turner (Spall) an English  Romanticist painter whose life was filled with controversy and whose gallery was always full of momentous landscapes. He never married although he refused paternity to his two daughters birthed by Sarah Danby (Sheen). He carries on affairs with, among others, Hannah (Atkinson) his housekeeper and a landlady named Sophia Booh (Bailey). Despite his lechery, Turner was known as a "painter of light" and his techniques were shadowed and improved upon by a burgeoning group of European painters known as the Impressionists.

Within the plot there is a lot to consider about Turner the man. He carries himself like a beast of burden yet he's readily accepted by the high society including the Royal Academy of Arts where he teaches. He's a lout to his mistress, yet he openly entertains and mentors childhood friend Mary Somerville (Manville) who broke British social norms by studying the sciences. He's dismissive of his daughters and their mother yet he honors and respects his father (Jesson). He was antagonistic to his colleagues yet fond of his friends.

What we have in Mr. Turner is an exploration of humanity through a film that at once seems to be inspired by some of Turner's paintings. Through its singular protagonist it ambles around the frames of Turner's life, discovering every wort, every wrinkle, every discolored hair follicle; trying incredibly hard to prod meaning from the old curmudgeon.

Yet while Leigh's mis en scene is inspirational and gorgeous, and while his themes are surmountable; I am sorry to say that Mr. Turner suffers mightily under the pressure of it's own stodginess. The film's textures can't help but feel bereft from life; it's filigree listless under the pageantry that defines Victorian era films. There is a reason why Turner's late work is viewed by art historians as proto-impressionistic; the feelings evoked from his "Helvoetsluys, Ships Going Out to Sea" are anarchistic, "Burning of the Houses of Parliament" antagonistic; yet with Mr. Turner we get the sense that the filmmaker and the subject are looking past each other. Perhaps instead of meticulously mimicking Turner's visuals, Leigh and cinematographer Dick Pope could have done well to meticulously mimic his ardor and passion.

That said the film is very beautiful. Its depictions of sweeping vistas and sea drenched coastal villages lends the movie to be a little more than just your average costume drama like The Danish Girl (2015). Timothy Spall to his credit mimics Charles Laughton's Rembrandt (1932) only with the timber of a soggy old sea goat. Still even at his most crass, Spall's Turner still shines as an example of a character fully realized and sympathetic.

There are worse ways to spend two and a half hours though there are certainly better ones as well. Mr. Turner is a gorgeous film that unfortunately rings hallow. No one is to blame for it. Mike Leigh is still a master of humanism and Timothy Spall still one of the most underrated character actors to ever exist. J.M.W. Turner is still a master of landscapes and his place in history is still undisputed. The globe rotates, the seas ebb and the world will undoubtedly forget Mr. Turner.

Final Grade: D+

The Legend of Tarzan

Year: 2016
Genre: Action Adventure
Directed: David Yates
Stars: Alexander Skarsgard, Margot Robbie, Samuel L. Jackson, Christoph Waltz, Djimon Hounsou, Jim Broadbent, John Hurt, Hadley Fraser, Casper Crump, Osy Ikhile, Sidney Ralitsoele, Mens-Sana Tamakloe
Production: Warner Bros.

Tarzan, for better or worse has been around in one form or another since 1912. If one's counting, Alexander Skarsgard is the 20th actor to bring the loincloth donning Ape Man to the big screen; a list that includes everyone from the instantly memorable Johnny Weissmuller to the embarrassingly campy Casper Van Dien. The initial appeal of Tarzan stems from author Edgar Rice Burrough's ability to gauge his audience. Broad and formulaic, the tales of Tarzan fed into the eternal mystery of Africa that galvanized readers who saw the dark continent as the last frontier. Burrough's book series fits comfortably amid Haggard's "King Solomon's Mines" and Kipling's "The White Man's Burden" as a piece of fiction that seems at times excruciatingly antiquated.

Like this kind of antiquated...

Yet the legend endures as each generation adds its own little spin. The Weissmuller films brought nuclear family normalcy to the jungle; Christopher Lambert injected 1980's machismo; Van Dien was 90's environmentalism and now we have the aught 10's and our obsession with franchises that implant post-modern wink-winks. The Legend of Tarzan is a soft reboot with an emphasis on the word soft. The film begins with our villain Leon Rom (Waltz) making a deal with the menacing Chief Mbonga (Hounsou). Mbonga promises Rom a pile of diamonds in exchange for bringing Tarzan back from England so he may personally slay him for a slight done years ago. Rom hopes to use the diamonds to fund an army of mercenaries hired on behalf of the Belgian crown. Then, after finishing the railroads through the jungle, Rom, with the full support of Belgium will personally bring the Congo aka the heart of Africa to its knees. Meanwhile back in England, John aka Tarzan (Skarsgard) has fully adjusted to life in Britain and refuses to return to Africa "because it's hot." He's convinced to return only after American emissary George Washington Williams (Jackson) announces his suspicion that the Belgian crown is up to no good. Also Jane (Robbie) comes.

Wait, so I'm just the audiences' thoughts? Well damn!

The main issue with The Legend of Tarzan is it's trying to create a franchise from the middle out. It stretches its story from all sides, trying to cover new ground and generate new themes; basically announcing to the audience that this isn't the Tarzan you've seen in the past. Problem is, the film doesn't seem to have faith in its audience so it rehashes the origin story anyway. The film then hedges its bets further by dedicating time and an arc to Samuel L. Jackson's character, insuring we have an audience conduit to have story elements explained to. He gets a few deserved laughs for voicing shock and wonderment but his involvement just seems like a distraction to the main impetus of the story.

Johnny Sheffield, Maureen O'Sullivan and Johnny Weissmuller
in Tarzan Finds a Son (1939) 

And despite all the film's bells, whistles and clunky special-effects, the impetus is still Tarzan saving Jane. The supposed characterization of Jane (told in flashback of course) is done with such triteness that it conjures memories of Audrey Hepburn in Green Mansions (1959); and not in a good way. The film can make light of the fact that Margot Robbie is the damsel in distress all it wants but that doesn't excuse the fact that her only function in the film is to be a reward for Tarzan and be leered at by Rom.

Christoph Waltz, for his efforts does a fine job as the villain doing his best to channel the subtle mannerisms and intense mania of Klaus Kinski. Yet the film's wanting script pigeonholes him as a snake; a menace really only good for a few quick and venomous attacks before he slithers away. He surreptitiously tinkers with a rosary made of Madagascar spider silk which not only serves as his weapon of choice but sends a loud message that Rom is a big proponent of Europe's three C's to justify subjugation: Colonize, Culture and Christianize. It's this that saves The Legend of Tarzan from being a complete waste of time. The very true and very vile atrocities committed in the Congo during the period of Belgian colonization is not only present but is given a real (if repetitious) heft. Even if the reasons for incorporating such mass enslavement, injustice and cultural genocide is to halfheartedly appeal to a wider international audience, I applaud Warner Bros. efforts.

Yet given the, let's say malleability of the Tarzan ethos, there should have been much more to The Legend of Tarzan. As it is, the film is a cardboard placeholder for Warner Bros. to hold on to the live-action film rights of the Edgar Rice Burroughs, Inc. property. The action is generic, the story is almost insultingly pedestrian and the faith the film has in its audience is dismaying. Do yourself a favor if you're really Jonesing for your fix of the Ape Man; go watch Disney's Tarzan (1999) again instead.

Final Grade: D

Kinky Boots

Year: 2005
Genre: Comedy
Directed: Julian Jarrold
Stars: Joel Edgerton, Chiwetel Ejiofor, Sarah-Jane Potts, Nick Frost, Linda Bassett, Jemima Rooper, Robert Pugh, Ewan Hooper, Stephen Marcus, Mona Hammond, Kellie Bright, Joanna Scanlan
Production: Miramax

Kinky Boots's narrative is deceptively and remarkably pedestrian. That's not meant as an insult. While delving into the splashy world of England's trans-gendered community, this film is comfortably predictable; courageously lucid and effortlessly absorbing. It's a film that conjures comparison to the safe and simple moralistic fables and old-wives tales that color our youth. It's a Grimm fairy-tale wrapped in a frock.

Much like the Grimm's most famous tale, Kinky Boots concerns the travails of an insolvent shoemaker. As heir to the Price & Sons men's shoe factory, Charlie (Edgerton) has his work cut out for him. His father left the business with outdated orders and no prospects for continuation. While trying unsuccessfully to put things back together, Charlie meets the sultry and vivacious Lola (Ejiofor) a drag queen with a fledgling night club in downtown London. Inspired by Lola and longtime employee Lauren (Potts), Charlie devises a plan to sell niche market pumps to cross-dressing men and trans-gendered women thus saving the shoe-factory from bankruptcy. The question is will the rest of his provincial staff go along with the plan?

As our embattled hero, Joel Edgerton is serviceable. His ability to portray glints of inspiration halts his character from pulling apart at the seems yet with such a commanding physical presence he's really not the kind of guy who should be playing this kind of role. A brief rundown of the character's resume which includes a major in marketing and a lack of fortitude around his fiancee Nicola (Rooper) conjures images of a nebbish prig, not Brendan from Warrior (2011). Yet if anything holds this film together it's Chiwetel Ejiofor as Lola. The man is a stunningly beautiful vision of femininity and a sensitive portrayal of a self-proclaimed drag queen. When he enters the room, everyone perks up and when he doesn't we feel the void. In addition his resounding baritone is put to excellent use in a host of Cabaret (1972)-like club performances.

Part of the film's charm lays with its wholesome rumination on manhood. A portion of the story is centered on Lola becoming an accepted member of Price & Sons' business as a shoe designer. Opposition at first is fierce with Nick Frost's Don being the most stringent sectarian. Lola and Don connect through a round of competitive challenges meant to put in question each other's masculinity. Charlie, who lives in the shadow of is father, likewise faces challenges to his manhood, questioning everything from his relationship with fiancee to his decision to make women's shoes for "blokes". In the end, the film concludes that the traditional views of masculinity aren't incongruous with modern mores but rather enhanced by themes of bravery, tenacity and sensitivity.

Kinky Boots is based on the true-ish story of the Divine Footwear brand released by WJ Brookes. The real story is a little more bittersweet but why ruminate on the slow demise of Britain's shoe industry or the slightly troubling realization that if the film took place in a hat factory it wouldn't change the film one iota. Yet Kinky Boot's embrace of the true-life hit job cliches that made Dangerous Minds (1995) so disposable is ironically its best feature. By resting on tried and true story beats and bending over backwards to create safe PG-13 fanfare Kinky Boots is not simply cashing in on LGBTQ shock-value but normalizing the LGBTQ community; or at the very least normalizing transvestism.

In today's political climate where otherwise fully functioning adults aren't allowed to use the potty anymore, Kinky Boots the film, and its recent adaptation to the stage is not just a triumph but a much needed piece of entertainment. Sure it doesn't have the gutter realism of Tangerine (2015) or the emotional complexity of Hedwig and the Angry Inch (2001) but it really doesn't have to. It's light, it's airy, it's fluff but by being so charming it's also good, wholesome entertainment about the value of being different.

Perhaps it's the reductive hysteria surrounding contemporary politics, or perhaps it's the stupor of having to sit through films that casually link transvestism to perversion, pedophilia, sex trafficking and/or cold-blooded killing. I'm just glad there's a movie out there about a vibrant songbird who design stylish shoes that become the toast of Britain's fashion world. Plus the movie has some catchy tunes to boot.

Final Grade: B

Designing Woman

Year: 1957
Genre: Romantic Comedy
Directed: Vincente Minnelli
Stars: Gregory Peck, Lauren Bacall, Dolores Gray, Sam Levene, Tom Helmore, Mickey Shaughnessy, Jesse White, Chuck Connors, Edward Platt, Alvy Moore, Carol Veazie, Jack Cole
Production: MGM

Designing Woman is seemingly one of the most retrograde pieces of apple pie and baseball Americana ever to come out of Hollywood. Told with earnest by Gregory Peck, Lauren Bacall and director Vincente Minnelli of all people, the movie could be on the short list of Phyllis Schlafly's favorite films. Yet underneath it's sentimental 1950's quaintness, there's a tiny bit worth its nearly two-hour run time.

Gregory Peck plays Mike Hagen, a working class, poker playing sports writer who meets the dainty and erudite Marilla who is taking a short vacation from the fashion designing world. They fall in love in the fanciful way movie couples often did in the those days. Then they get married; quickly and without much actual forethought. As the two head back to their homes in Manhattan they suddenly realize they have very little in common and must wrestle with old insecurities and jealousies as well as new high drama when Mike becomes a sought after man.

This film thinks it's pulling a Rashomon (1950) but it really isn't

The film piques the interest of the viewer with an interesting narrative trick. The film is told past-tense with a litany of narrators all coloring in their versions of the story. Most of the narration is filled in by Mike and Marilla who assure the viewer they haven't argued in months now and when they do they make it through. While this tact is an interesting little ploy, it doesn't really change anything. Sure a coy little aside here and there gives audiences the impression of humor but since the events and their relation to one another are not disputed by unreliable narrators, the whole exercise seems pointless.

Oh Cary Grant, you were such a class act.

Peck encapsulates a role first written with Cary Grant in mind. It's easy to tell as Mike is a bit of a cad; goodnatured but still very much the kind of urban illiberal rascal that Grant was famous for. Perhaps it's the fallout of Peck's iconic roll in To Kill a Mockingbird (1962) clouding my judgment, but here he just doesn't transcend. His Mike Hagen is broad, pedestrian and seemingly not made of whole cloth but rather an amalgam of earlier snippy leading men like Spencer Tracy's Adam Bonner or Clark Gable's Peter Warne. Lauren Bacall likewise has trouble fitting into her role as the refined Marilla. Part of Bacall's appeal is her earthy sensuousness which is, in a way the opposite of the fussiness required of a woman who is troubled by her beau walking around the apartment shoe-less. Granted, Bacall's early past as a fashion model could have served her well to overcome such superficiality. Unfortunately at the time, her husband Humphrey Bogart was succumbing to cancer of the esophagus.

This man will end you!

Despite two ill-cast leads, Designing Woman still manages to be marginal entertainment thanks to the supporting characters Maxie Stultz (Shaughnessy) and Randy (Cole). Shaughnessy's punchy sidekick is brimming with the theatrical idiosyncrasies that would give any character actor the urge to stand in front of a mirror and say "yeah I can do this!" Is Maxie a cartoonishly broad Guys and Dolls (1955) knockoff? Sure; but unlike the leads, we don't mind so much. the other real showstopper is famed Choreographer Jack Cole who despite less than ten lines, devises a fight sequence so corporeal, you'd swear Jackie Chan had seen it as a kid in Hong Kong and got ideas.

Yet Jack Cole's splashy and spirited brawl is too-little-too-late for this studio-system dud. Designing Woman does little to mix-up the battle of the sexes premise that danced around the Hays Code during the screwball craze of the 1930's. In-fact, in comparison to those films, Designing Woman is rather tame, throwing its matrimonial agenda at the feet of a public that either didn't care or, in today's world are repulsed by its outmoded-ness. Ultimately, it's flat, featureless, dull and doesn't provide anything other than the reliable star power of two Hollywood icons slumming it.

Final Grade: D

The Big Chill

Year: 1983
Genre: Drama
Directed: Lawrence Kasdan
Stars: Tom Berenger, Glenn Close, William Hurt, Kevin Kline, Jeff Goldblum, Mary Kay Place, Meg Tilly, JoBeth Williams, Don Galloway
Production: Columbia Pictures

"No one ever said it would be fun. At least they never said it to me," says Richard (Galloway) the outsider of a group of college buddies now in their thirties. He talks about adulthood as if it's a rueful inevitability; less a right of passage than a chore. The rest of the ensemble cast of The Big Chill seem to be fighting what Richard has accepted. For better or worse, they all seem to be stuck; trying desperately to keep the torch of youth lit.

The Big Chill starts with Harold (Kline) and Sarah Cooper (Close) preparing for bed in their idyllic South Carolina home. Sarah answers a phone call and is informed that their friend Alex killed himself in the bathtub of their vacation home. At the funeral, the couple's old University of Michigan friends reunite and decide to spend the weekend reminiscing. Among them is Sam (Berenger), a notable TV actor; Michael (Goldblum), a magazine journalist; Meg (Place), a single real estate attorney; Nick (Hurt), a war veteran with a cocaine addiction; Chloe (Tilly), Alex's much younger girlfriend and finally Karen (Williams) and Richard, an unhappily married couple. A lot has happened since the group had graduated and a lot can happen over the course of a weekend.

While thematically very different than director Lawrence Kasdan's freshman effort Body Heat (1981), The Big Chill does show a similar affinity to character over story structure and pat resolutions. All the friends are brought to life by a stellar ensemble cast of talented actors. Mind you, there are no showy performances that demand Academy attention (though Glenn Close was nominated for Best Supporting Actress). Each player does their part to populate a delicate and bittersweet nostalgia trip that drifts like a raft down a rolling river. These are people you know, or at the very least, still images of who those people you know, used to be.

Beneath the grieving, the sexual tension, the retrospect and the admittedly catchy jukebox soundtrack there's a deep sense of existential ennui that dominates the frame like a heavy fog. Today audiences will likely appreciate the characterizations but audiences at the time knew very well that these distinctive personalities are not just lamenting the death of their friend but the spirit of the 60's. Let's not forget that their alma mater was a counter-cultural Mecca that hosted the writers of the Port Huron Statement, the entourage of John Sinclair and free Sunday concerts at West Park. As time passed the hippies of the 60's became the yuppies of the 80's with the characters of The Big Chill are at once reminded that they bought in and the never seen Alex checked out.

All that said however, The Big Chill for all it's understated emotion still collects the mephitis of popular American nostalgia. It's the kind of nostalgia that can simultaneously give Norman Rockwell paintings their cumulative heft yet give the most troublesome spots of Forrest Gump (1994) their chintzy glibness. You can't help but think by the time the credits roll, the characters have settled comfortably back into lives of quiet desperation yet self-congratulating themselves for "maturing". Only Nick seems to be bending in anyway towards the dulling flicker of dying idealism. But instead of the bitterness that was honestly realized in Return of the Secaucus 7 (1979) we get the upbeat vibes of "Jeremiah was a Bullfrog".

Return of the Secaucus 7 (1979)

All-in-all, The Big Chill is a decent film with fully realized characters worth following for an hour or two. While watching I wondered what would be my generation's Woodstock? Do we have any political organizations that explode with the controversial fervor of the SDS (Students for a Democratic Society) or any musical idols that compare to Bob Dylan or Jimi Hendrix? Will our desire to create a more just and verdant world be fully realized or will we fall inattentive, indignant and distracted by new shoes and a few fond memories.

Final Grade: C

It Follows

Year: 2014
Genre: Horror
Directed: David Robert Mitchell
Stars: Maika Monroe, Keir Gilchrist, Olivia Luccardi, Lili Sepe, Daniel Zovatto, Jake Weary, Baily Spry, Debbie Williams, Ruby Harris, Leisa Pulido, Ele Bardha
Production: Northern Lights Films

The first thing you notice about the world created by It Follows is its chilling sense of timelessness. Characters watch old black and white films on cathode tube television sets, drive old Plymouths and read Dostoyevsky off of clamshell e-readers. No one owns a cellphone yet everyone wears jeans; their are fallen leaves on the ground, yet the kids make a day at the beach. Nothing makes sense.

The "It" in It Follows is a ghostly entity that's glacially paces towards its victim in a never stopping march; taking the shape of random people to trick its prey. The young Jay (Monroe) is only the latest target of the entity, receiving it from her latest date, the resident bad boy Hugh (Weary). Only those who were stalked by the entity can see it and the only way to get rid of it is to simply pass it along through sexual intercourse. Jay's only allies are her friends Paul (Gilchrist), Greg (Zovatto) and Yara (Luccardi) and sister Kelly (Sepe) all of which can't see the demon but to varying degrees start to believe she can see something the others can't.

Life's a b***h, and then you get herpes

With a cursory glance of It Follows many (and have) written off the film's demon as a representation of STIs. The promotional campaign for the film even sells it as a sleazy retro throwback to the Halloween (1978) era. Yet beneath the coy insinuations and remarkably modest displays of teenage sexuality, the film seems to be belaying a deeper message that goes beyond horror movie archetypes and backseat nooky. Could the demon perhaps represent something much larger and infinitely scarier?

The denizens of the film seem to be a lost generation of unsure and interminably bored youths. Apart from a few brief moments, no adult seems to be guiding our protagonists in any meaningful way. Hugh at one point longs to "trade places" with a five-year-old whose waddling along in front of doting parents. "He's got his entire life ahead of him," he says bleakly. Through the subjective lens of Jay, her sexual awakening is akin to experiencing this regret; a burden passed on to her by an older man that may just ruin her life.

The horror of It Follows horror is not provided by schlocky gore or cheap scare tactics but brought to the surface by an impending doom. The loss of innocence felt by nearly all the characters forces them to think critically about the problem of the monster which can come at anytime and in any form. This nebulous idea has allowed many to mark the monster as a symbol for everything from STIs, corruption, depleting resources, addiction, corruption to even fiscal irresponsibility. The demon will follow you and follow you until you pass it on or die from it.

Speaking of fiscal irresponsibility; the entirety of the film is shot in the State of Michigan on the outskirts of Detroit. To instill a sense of gloom and doom, nearly all the homes are eerily empty bungalows and all other structures reek of industrial decay. Even the idyllic cabin by the lake where the teens escape has a faded quality that heightens the sense that the characters are lost in an ever crumbling nightmare.  It's a world of a hundred indecisions and squandered opportunities and as a former resident of the Mitten State, I immediately responded to the mis en scene.

It Follows is a superb horror film whose nebulous ambiguity may frustrate those not attune to director David Robert Mitchell's peculiar machinations. It's a waking dream of ruin, decay and the broken promises of youth. Even if you go in insisting the film is about a walking, zombified STI, you'll still find lot to like. The beauty of It Follows is it's like an inkblot test for horror aficionados and popular audiences; it only gives answers to those who seek them.

Final Grade: B

Action Jackson

Year: 1988

Genre: Action

Directed: Craig R. Baxley

Stars: Cal Weathers, Craig T. Nelson, Vanity, Sharon Stone, Thomas F. Wilson, Bill Duke, Robert Davi, Jack Thibeau, Roger Aaron Brown, Bob Minor, Ed O'Ross, Dennis Hayden, Al Leong

Production: Warner Bros.

If one were to take all the ridiculously over-the-top action parodies from Family Guy (1999-Present), The Simpsons (1989-Present) and South Park (1997-Present) and put them into a blender, you might frappe something resembling the 1988 police action turned post-modernist parody of itself Action Jackson. The 1980's was a weird decade in film. Yet the one thing all popular genre flicks had in common is when they went for it, they really went for it, giving the audiences gobs of what they wanted; in this case, explosions, nudity, bloodsport and homoerotic muscle flexing. Now granted they couldn't get Arnold Schwarzenegger to make it to the carnival that is Action Jackson, so instead we got Apollo Creed himself to play the titular hero. Pardon me if my jubilation seems muted.

Because all action heroes are named 'Jericho'

Sgt. Jericho 'Action' Jackson (Weathers) is a no-nonsense cop from the tough streets of Detroit. who has become notorious for putting the law into his own hands to get results. Jackson investigates a bloody corporate murder spree all pointing to car magnate and psychopath Peter Dellaplane (Nelson). The nefarious Dellaplane has not been a fan of Jackson since his sexually violent son was nearly beaten to death by the infamous cop. Thus he conspires to frame Jackson for murder and cobble together a political empire based on corruption and probably Kung-Fu.

Starting with the good; the action in Action Jackson is too ridiculous to not recommend. Director Craig R. Baxley started his film career as a stuntman and it's easy to see. The tactile voracity of the stunts and the cavalcade of completely unnecessary self-created mayhem gives the film a dumbfounding glee. One could get completely wasted playing a drinking game revolving around redemptive cop cliches, derivative car chases and things that go boom; to say nothing of Sharon Stone's constant need to parade her jiggly bits. In addition, the dated soundtrack provided by The Pointer Sisters, Bernadette Cooper and Vanity (who also plays Jackson's love interest) are sure to leave those who sniffed the Colombian dancing powder in the 80's in a cold sweat.

Next time on: We Love the 80s!

Unfortunately despite it's inspired campyness and ironic offerings, Action Jackson looses so much steam in-between points of action hero machismo. When actors are required to, you know, act, the camera stays frustratingly static and sucks the life out of all the performances. Bill Duke, who plays the overused gruff Captain cliche gets off worst of all often shot like a guy doing a Skype interview. Then their's Thomas F. Wilson who seems like he walked off the set of Police Academy (1984).

This guy is awesome!

Yet for every bad supporting performance there's an inspired take, like Bob Minor's perma-smirked henchman and Al Leong as Dellaplane's obedient chauffeur. As for Carl Weathers; well there are some decent moments of pool cue-breaking tomfoolery that makes his action star credentials beyond reproach. Unfortunately as an overstated force of nature; let's just say there's a reason Weathers wasn't retained for The Expendables (2010-2013).

As a movie, Action Jackson is a boring, atmosphere-less trifle that is on par with lesser brain-dead muscle epics like Only the Strong (1993) or Double Impact (1991). Yet as a super-dated 80's throwback, Carl Weathers's best chance at action hero stardom is the kind of entertainment that can give anyone the giggles. Check it out only if you must.

No stew for you!

Final Grade: D

The Neon Demon

Year: 2016
Genre: Horror
Directed: Nicolas Winding Refn
Stars: Elle Fanning, Abbey Lee, Jena Malone, Bella Heathcote, Karl Glusman, Keanu Reeves, Christina Hendricks, Jamie Clayton, Alessandro Nivola, Desmond Harrington, Taylor Marie Hill
Production: Bold Films

"She's a diamond among a sea of glass," says Alessandro Nivola's unnamed fashion designer. He says this to describe the virginal, Bambi-esque Jesse (Fanning) whose arrival in Los Angeles has turned many, many heads. Before her entrance, Nivola and a few models sit idly on the leather backs of a upscale restaurant booth. He's reciting passages of Macbeth and waxing poetically about how "beauty isn't the most important thing, it's the only thing."

The Neon Demon is a Russ Meyer-inspired Hollywood sleaze fable if it were told from the dour sets of the Grand Guignol. Jesse comes to Tinseltown to become a model and despite being only 16, she lands a deal of a lifetime with a major agency. In-between shoots she lives in a trashy motel headed by the irredeemable Hank (Keanu). Seemingly her only allies are kinda-sorta boyfriend Dean (Glusman) and makeup artist Ruby (Malone) who first ferries her to her first professional shoot. Everyone else seems to either want to be her or want to eat her alive.

Due in large part by reexamination of director Nicolas Winding Refn's Only God Forgives (2013), critics seem to be pulling their punches concerning this nasty little fairy-tale. It seems that everyone (including yours truly) is trying to look for deeper meaning under the grotesque giallo horror set-pieces and delirious fretwork. After all, Refn keen eye was once heralded as comparable to that of Stanley Kubrick.

Kubrick however never sacrificed narrative for the sake of a nice shot. His frames always has an economy of style that balanced strong cinematography, thematically salient storytelling and unbridled experimentation. Refn's Neon Demon on the other hand is much like it's protagonist, pretty and rather shallow. There's nothing thematically that you can't pry away from the film that isn't already skin deep. It's about vanity; it's about pride and the literate references to Shakespeare, Elizabeth Bathory and Kubrick himself are but filler.

Gotta love them Borowczyk flicks!

Of course what is on the screen is pretty breathtaking; recreating the same gloss and sheen that covers high-end fashion magazines. The hallucinatory horror that dominates Jesse's warped and lonely world conjures comparisons to the sexual cavalcade of Walerian Borowczyk's oeuvre. Then there's the lateral tracking shots which accomplish the same uneasiness captured by a Kubrickian zoom only drawing less attention to itself.

Yet every attempt at technical subtlety is completely pulled apart at the seems by Refn's on-the-nose symbolism. Within the first fifteen minutes of the film, models discuss at length the meaning behind the names of lipstick contrasting the fractured female identity with the blunted phrase "are you food or sex?" The consistent use of the color red and the triangle as an emblem of the fairer sex are so painfully, abstrusely obvious that the film honestly would have been better served if Jesse spontaneously grew Icarus wings.

It's a shame that Refn couldn't give the same nuance deconstruction of femininity he gave to masculinity in Drive (2011) and to a lesser extent, every other film he's ever done. I admire his temerity but I question his choice to use the same narrative pacing and visceral bloodletting we've seen in his other works. While exploring new themes he makes no attempt to bend in their direction. He doesn't create a new world, he simply adds a wing to his old ones and expects you not to notice. Despite a visual sophistication, every frame is loaded with the judgment of a five-year-old trying broccoli for the first time. It's a movie that's less of an exploration than a house of horrors; Refn being the carnival barker that yells "Isn't this gross, isn't that gross, aren't you gross for enjoying it?"

Yes, this movie is far more excessive than this!

In an interview discussing her role for the film, Elle Fanning compared the themes of the film with the idle hands of a generation ensnared by Instagram. "If you think of dead, altered images as beautiful, how do you relate to a real person?" It's an idea worth exploring; are we really more in love with images than people? With the hilarity of Popstar (2016) and the arrival of Nerve (2016) later this year, it's good to see the movie industry is willing to skewer self-absorption. In the case of Neon Demon, I ask why we need to retch while doing so? Frankly I was expecting something more than a monstrous and excessive retooling of Zardoz (1974).

Final Grade: F

An Honest Liar

Year: 2014
Genre: Documentary
Directed: Tyler Measom & Justin Weinstein
Stars: James Randi, Deyvi Pena, Penn Jillette, Teller, Jamy Ian Swiss, Richard Wiseman, Ray Hyman, Adam Savage, Alice Cooper, Banachek, Alexander Jason, Bill Nye, Uri Geller
Production: Left Turn Films

In the words of Robert Houdin, the father of modern illusion, "A magician is just an actor playing the part of a magician." If that be the case then James Randi is among the most prolific actors that has ever lived. The Canadian-born self-described charlatan has played a variety of roles over an 87-year life, from talented stage magician, daring escape artist, paranormal debunker, dedicated skeptic and doting husband. Yet recording a partial list of his accomplishments does very little in getting to the meat of a life that's beyond extraordinary. For that you have to see An Honest Liar, an unassuming biographical documentary that is arguably the best personal profile ever put on screen.

The first act opens quite as you would expect; a run-down of who James Randi is, where he's from (Toronto, Canada) and how he got involved in magic (Houdini and Harry Blackstone naturally). The film then follows the rabbit trails of every interview which are informed by the likes of fellow magicians Penn & Teller and Alice Cooper among others. Yet lest you think the perfunctory limitations of a biographical documentary are boring, you clearly don't know much about Randi the Great. He carved up a living in magic early on after dropping out of high school to join the Canadian National Exhibition. At the height of his career he was a popular escape artist who would exeunt prison cells, safes and submerged water coffins. In his 30's he became well known as a mentalist though he soured to the idea after other mentalists, showboating evangelists and other "occultists" began using their illusions to fool their audiences. "Magicians are the most honest people in the world. They tell you they're going to fool you, and then they do it," He says while discussing the differences between himself and those who claim supernatural powers.

Uri Geller trying to bend a spoon with his mind.

It was in the 60's that Randi began a second career as a professional skeptic to prevent con artists from exploiting their audiences. Thanks to frequent appearances on television he single-handedly destroyed the reputations of faith healer Peter Popoff and Israeli psychic Uri Geller. It is these rivalries along with Randi punk-ing academia on a regular basis that provide the film with much of its high-drama. Randi would often work with fakes, embark in deep-cover magician espionage and even perpetuate hoaxes in attempts to keep everyone honest. His crusade to expose the fakes not only garnered the attention of cultural icons like Johnny Carson but of Venezuelan performance artist Jose Alvarez who would later become Randi's husband in 2013.

Told with sensitivity and an eye for conflict, An Honest Liar stands as a perfect example of a documentary taking on the personality of its subject. The film digs ever deeper into the motivations of the bristled Randi who by 2014 still had a mind sharper than a German steak knife. Thanks in part to serendipity, the filmmakers are awarded by their persistence with some truly revealing moments. There are some narrative fumbles thanks in part to some truly unexpected revelations. That said, the high-stakes emotions of the last act can't help but feel genuine, even if echos of F for Fake (1973) make it nearly impossible for audiences to suspect foul-play.

Like a diamond in the rough, An Honest Liar is a film that enlivens the documentary film genre while telling the highly entertaining story of an extraordinary life. Meticulously deceitful, playfully intelligent and magically engaging, An Honest Liar shines the light on the dangers of fraud and does so through the granular life of "Randi the Great".

Final Grade: A-