Sunday, 17 May 2015

TAB HUNTER CONFIDENTIAL: 25th Anniversary Inside Out Toronto LGBT Film Festival 2015 - Review By Greg Klymkiw


Tab Hunter Confidential (2015)
Dir. Jeffrey Schwarz

Review By Greg Klymkiw

Jeffrey Schwarz is one of America's stellar documentary filmmakers. He's contributed an important body of work on cinema as well as gay pop culture. With a solid career generating superb specialty product for television and added value materials for home entertainment releases, he's become especially notable for his slickly produced feature documentaries Vito (a profoundly moving portrait of gay cinema historian Vito Russo) and I Am Divine (the lovely, entertaining biographical portrait of everyone's favourite 300 lb. transvestite and John Waters muse).

Based on the hugely successful and insightful autobiographical book Tab Hunter Confidential, Schwarz has another winner to add to his canon of essential work.


Tab Hunter was one of the biggest movie heartthrobs of the 50s, a huge music recording star and a damn fine actor to boot who was groomed by Warner Bros. to make them a lot of money, but seldom allowing him the opportunity to grow as an actor. Gorgeous, blonde, kind-hearted and affable in real life as he appeared on screen, Hunter was, like so many gay actors, forced to keep his sexuality deep in the closet in order to maintain his spot at the top of the box-office.

When he eventually changed agents to assist him with getting more challenging roles, his first talent rep released information to the scandal press about Hunter's brief brush with the law (which had been repressed quite ably) wherein he'd been found in the (gasp!) company of homosexuals. Hunter was so beloved by his studio - Jack Warner in particular - because of the oodles of substantial grosses he pulled in, that even this was reasonably covered over by the powerful studio so he could keep making them money.

Unfortunately, Hunter extricated himself from his Warner's contract to become independent so he could more ably dictate better roles for himself. Without the protection and regular cheques from the studio, he quickly became persona non grata in the industry and was relegated to working in even more slight product than ever before. He eventually stopped working altogether in the movies and became a stalwart on the dinner theatre circuit. It brought in steady money, but was also drudgery in terms of both the travel and non-stop demand of daily live performance in front of thousands of audiences slurping back globs of grotesque comestibles at the all-you-can-eat troughs of this horrendous circuit used to capitalize on actors who were "past their prime".

Eventually, Hunter was back on top as a film cult personality thanks to his great work in John Waters's Polyester and the gay-tinged spaghetti western spoof Lust in the Dust. Again though, he faced obscurity after this brief resurgence and Hunter turned to his first love, horses, and became a master of equestrian competition - something he continues with to this very day.

It's a great story and Schwarz juggles all the balls (as it were) at his disposal to create a significant document of the studio period in Hollywood and the burgeoning years of independent cinema. Perhaps even more meaningful is the frank look at what it meant to be gay in America and Hollywood when homosexuality was not merely frowned upon, but considered criminal deviant activity.

Using a star studded cast of interviewees and the best selection of film clips and archival materials money can buy, Schwarz is also granted unfettered access to Hunter himself. In a series of penetrating interviews, we learn about Hunter's abusive father, loving mother, his devotion to God and the Church, his heartbreaking experience with the nasty repression of Catholicism and, of course, his often scintillating, but secret love life.

On the surface, he was paired up by the studio with the gorgeous Natalie Wood and the two of them were "lovers" in the eyes of the world, accompanying each other to a myriad of events, parties, premieres and pretty much anywhere paparazzi were present to grab fodder for fan magazines. Hunter's recollection of these dates with Wood and other female stars provide deeply loving relationships, albeit of the purely platonic kind (though there is one "straight" story that offers us much in the way of genuine tears).

As for the fellas, we're privy to Hunter's secret relationships with other gay men in the industry, most notably Anthony Perkins; as intense and deep a love relationship one could imagine twixt anyone and yet one which crashed and burned when Hunter was betrayed professionally by Perkins.

Tab Hunter Confidential has anything any movie lover could want, but at the end of the day, it also offers an extremely crucial history of gay life from the 1950s and beyond. It's also worth noting that all the interviews with the celebrity experts are beautifully rendered by Schwarz and deliver a lineup of people who are both entertaining and magnanimous.

The one exception, however, is an interview with Clint Eastwood. I've always admired him as an actor and director, but frankly, he comes across as a complete asshole - at least that was my feeling. Schwarz only keeps this one bit with Eastwood in the film which, suggests to me that Eastwood must have been an even bigger asshole in material that found its way to the cutting room floor.

Then again, some might find Eastwood's remarks funny and the real reason he's represented as such. I don't know. You can be the judge. The movie was so moving, that Eastwood's bit just stuck out like a sore thumb to me.

THE FILM CORNER RATING: **** 4 Stars

Tab Hunter Confidential is playing at the Inside Out 2015 Toronto LGBT Film Festival. For further info, please visit the festival's website by clicking HERE.

Thursday, 14 May 2015

SPRING - Review By Greg Klymkiw - If "Before Sunrise" w/viscous fluids turns your crank… Limited platform theatrical release and extras-laden Blu-Ray/DVD on June 2/2015

When the moon hits your eye
Like a big pizza pie, that's amore
When the world seems to shine
Like you've had too much wine, that's amore
Spring (2014)
Dir. Justin Benson, Aaron Moorhead
Starring: Lou Taylor Pucci, Nadia Hilker

Review By Greg Klymkiw

Spring begins compellingly enough. Evan (Lou Taylor Pucci) is a young chef in a local California watering hole who has been tending to his mother's palliative home care whilst she slowly dies of cancer. Once she passes, the only child (his Dad pre-deceased Mom) is not only consumed with grief, but loneliness to boot. Armed with a backpack and small inheritance, he hops on the first outbound plane which takes him to Rome. He eventually makes his way to a small burgh within the watchful burble and huffing/puffing of the volcanic Mt. Vesuvius.

Lava, however, is not the only thing roiling in these parts.

Bells will ring ting-a-ling-a-ling
Ting-a-ling-a-ling and you'll sing, "Vita bella"
Hearts will play tippy-tippy-tay
Tippy-tippy-tay like a gay tarantella
The young man's loins are a stirring once he lays eyes upon Louise (Nadia Hilker), a babe-o-licious local lassie who also takes a liking to Evan. Given her charm, beauty and eccentricity, we're pretty sure she harbours some kind of secret.

But, no matter. We get to enjoy a fair bit of boinking (including some nice flashes o' flesh) and for all those romantics out there, there's a whole whack o' Before Sunrise-like lovey-dovey-wanderings around the gorgeous terrain.

Evan, however, doesn't get to see what we see. These delights include Louise biting the head off a cat, developing pus-oozing sores and eventually a leisurely sojourn with her pet bunny rabbits leads to a cave wherein she doffs her clothes and scarfs back her cute, furry Leporidae - a kind of Night of the Lepus in reverse.

Yup, something's not quite right in Vesuvius County. Hell is going to break loose.

Will their hearts become one?
Will she eat him well done? That's Amore!
But you know, it really doesn't. We're forced to suffer through a mind-numbing romance twixt attractive twenty-somethings babbling a whole lot of inane dialogue with bouts of viscous ooze exploding Vesuvius-like from the young lady's body and even when she shares her secret (something involving stem cells), young Evan still loves her and keeps moping around, hoping they'll become a real couple someday which, it's revealed, is quite possible, if . . .

"Whatever!" I thought as I kept suffering through this insufferably twee 110 minutes of love. Not once do we feel any real threat to our leading man and those she does kill (aside from cute fur balls) are scumbags anyway, but the only real stakes are whether or not these two will find normal love together.

Someone watching this, I suppose, could care, but not this fella.

THE FILM CORNER RATING: ** (Film), ***½ (DVD/Blu-Ray)

Spring is now playing theatrically via Raven Banner and will be released June 2, 2015 on Blu-Ray, DVD and Digital via Anchor Bay Entertainment Canada, then on August 11, 2015 on the same formats via Anchor Bay in the USA. Fans of the film will appreciate over three hours of added value bonus materials including Audio commentary with writer-producer-editor-director Justin Benson and producer-editor-cinematographer-director Aaron Moorhead, the feature-length "The Making of Spring", Deleted scenes, SFX case studies, Proof of Concept short, Alternate ending, The Talented Mr. Evan (Featurette), Angelo: The Worst Farmer (Featurette), Wankster Girlfriend Monologue (Featurette) and Evan Ti Odio (Featurette)

Monday, 11 May 2015

THE BAD SEED - Review By Greg Klymkiw - The Original Nasty Little Girl Who KILLS


The Bad Seed (1956)
dir. Mervyn LeRoy
Starring: Patty McCormack, Nancy Kelly, Henry Jones,
Eileen Heckart, Evelyn Varden, William Hopper, Gage Clarke, Joan Croydon

Review By Greg Klymkiw

"I thought I'd seen some mean little gals in my time, but you're the meanest." - Henry Jones as Leroy in THE BAD SEED

The Bad Seed has yielded a cornucopia of depraved little buggers who've sliced and diced their way through a variety of thrillers and horror films with all the requisite aplomb required to deliver maximum visceral impact.

Few will forget the shot of little Michael Myers in John Carpenter's Halloween, in the leafy suburban innocence of Haddonfield, Illinois, grasping a butcher knife, staring with the eyes of a shark and splattered with the fresh blood of his nubile teenage sister who was previously lolling about in post-coital bliss.

Damien, the pubescent Antichrist from Richard Donner's The Omen remains one of the more memorable killer children in movie history - especially the magnificent moment when he pedals furiously on his tricycle and knocks his pregnant Mom off her plant-watering perch and sends her crashing to the floor from the balcony.

Then there's my personal favourite of all kids-who-kill pictures, Alfred Sole's criminally neglected 70s thriller Alice Sweet Alice, which features some of the most repulsive killings imaginable and for most of the film's running time, we're convinced the killer is sexy tweener Paula E. Sheppard. Etched upon our minds will always be this lovely young miss, the most sickening smile plastered upon her face as she grabs a kitten by its neck and strangles it in front of its owner, the disgustingly corpulent, unwashed Mr. Alphonso, adorned in piss-and-shit-stained pants as he screams at her in his whining falsetto, "You little bitch! You killed my cat!"

The cinematic matriarch of this delightful genre is, without question, smarmy little Rhoda in Mervyn LeRoy's still-astounding film adaptation of William March's bestselling novel and Maxwell Anderson's hit play The Bad Seed.

When Daddy, Col. Penmark (William Hopper, "Paul Drake" from Perry Mason), departs for an extended business trip to Washington, we're immediately introduced to his beautiful, love-starved wife Christine (Nancy Kelly) and their insanely precious daughter Rhoda (the unforgettable Patty McCormack), adorned in a frilly white frock, tap-dancing delightfully into everyone's hearts, her blonde pigtails bobbing, her smiles ever-so warm, her language precise and formal and greeting all who enter the home with a curtsy.

Rhoda is the perfect child for the perfect All-American family.

Wrapping her arms around Daddy, she chirps: "What will you give me for a basket of kisses?"

Daddy responds, as he clearly does every time she asks: "Why, I'll give you a basket of hugs!"

Rhoda is perfection incarnate.

She's also spoiled, jealous and a sociopath.


With Dad out of town, Christine begins to notice a few oddities in Rhoda's behaviour (odder than usual). Her daughter expresses the most vitriolic banter about a schoolmate, little Claude Daigle who has won the penmanship medal at the exclusive private school she attends. Rhoda is convinced she deserved the medal and obsessively natters on about how Claude was singled out for favouritism - pure and simple.

There might be some truth to this.

Rhoda is almost insufferably aware of her perfection and Claude is an adorable young lad from a "lower-class" family who have sacrificed and scrimped to get their boy into a good school.

At a school picnic, the unthinkable happens. Claude drowns. Foul play isn't suspected, but there are some very odd crescent-shaped marks on his face. We eventually learn these quarter moons are identical to the steel plates affixed to the soles of Rhoda's tap shoes. As the tale progresses, Rhoda engages in behaviour that becomes ever-more nasty and self-centred. Christine discovers a few surprises in Rhoda's room and also learns how she herself was an adopted child - that her own birth mother was, in fact, a notorious serial killer.

Uh-oh!

Is Christine's own flesh and blood afflicted with the bad seed?

Was that previous accidental death in the town they used to live in, all that accidental? Was little Claude Daigle murdered? Who tossed lit matches into the basement storm shelter, locked it and listened to the blood curdling screams as the suspicious caretaker (Henry Jones) burned to a crisp?

Not much of this is presented as all that mysterious. We know pretty early on that all is not right with Rhoda and soon, her Mom knows it too. What we get is not so much a thriller, but a delicious melodrama. And who better to deliver the goods than the brilliant Mervyn LeRoy? Retaining much of the claustrophobic atmosphere of the play and its original Broadway cast, he lets the actors emote as if they were on stage and renders many of their key moments in closeup so that the melodrama is heightened further.


LeRoy, of course, delivered the goods on some truly great melodramas from his old studio days: the grand amnesia romance Random Harvest, the weepy orphanage tale Blossoms in the Dust and one of the finest tear-jerkers about the effect of war upon the women who are left behind in his great remake of Waterloo Bridge. He also presided over the nobility of Margaret O'Brien suffering in Little Women, the grand melodrama of Christians being led into the lions' den in Quo Vadis and, lest we forget, Edward G. Robinson croaking out his final words in Little Caesar, "Is this the end of Rico?"

With The Bad Seed, LeRoy acquits himself magnificently. There are a few tiny clunky moments, but they're easily forgiven. When the movie is working at the peak of its power, it has few equals. The subplot involving Claude's alcoholic mother is especially heart wrenching. Played by the brilliant Eileen Heckart, her handful of appearances in the film are accompanied by one of the most astonishing pieces of music from Alex North's score. (I highly recommend the soundtrack album - in particular, the piece referred to which is titled "No More Children".) Heckart's performance is bigger than big - she suffers and stumbles through her scenes with all the passion required AND a mordant wit. One of the movie's great lines is when the booze-soaked Heckart matter-of-factly quips, "It's a pleasure to stay drunk when your little boy's been killed."

Henry Jones as the demented, half-witted borderline pedophile caretaker is also a high point of the picture. Jones oozes creepiness and slime with such abandon, that he might well have rendered one of the greatest on-screen villains of all time. He recognizes the evil in Rhoda because he feels it within himself. It's implied that he might have even sexually assaulted Rhoda, so his death, while shocking, also feels strangely justifiable.

The movie's pace, at first deliberately slow, gradually amps itself up to a shattering climax and a very weird conclusion - tacked on by the Hays Code so that Rhoda doesn't get away with murder. Strangely enough, this censor-initiated coda seems even more horrific than what was there to begin with.

The Bad Seed is completely and utterly over-the-top. Some have suggested it's a product of the time it was made. I'd dispute this vigorously. The movie is a melodrama, and as such, is GREAT melodrama.

At one point, Eileen Heckart remarks: "Children can be nasty, don't you think?"

Indeed they can. And nasty children deliver first-rate entertainment value.

THE FILM CORNER RATING: ***½

The Bad Seed is available on Blu-Ray from Warner Home Entertainment. It's a great transfer and includes a terrific commentary track from Patty McCormack.

Sunday, 10 May 2015

CRIES AND WHISPERS - Review By Greg Klymkiw - Cancer, Bergman Style, on Criterion BD


Cries and Whispers (1972)
Dir. Ingmar Bergman
Starring: Harriet Andersson, Kari Sylwan,
Ingrid Thulin, Liv Ullmann, Erland Josephson

Review By Greg Klymkiw

Ingmar Bergman's Cries and Whispers is enclosed in a thick, deep red membrane; every frame splashed with a kind of sickeningly putrid menstrual blood which has been expunged from some horrific, barren place of hatred and regret, enveloping the pain of its three sisters Agnes (Harriet Andersson), Karin (Ingrid Thulin) and Maria (Liv Ullmann), never allowing the force of healing and relief to take over completely and allow the characters a greater sense of love and fulfillment.

The film's greatness cannot be denied. It has haunted me for 40+ years and at several points throughout my life, it's been there for me: casting shadows of darkness, revealing depths of despair, exuding feelings of longing and generously displaying its stunning cinematic virtuosity. Much like an old friend who remains just around the corner, or rather, not unlike a monkey upon our collective backs, the film exists to remind us how important it is to grasp whatever sliver-like shards of joy life affords us, lest we become wholly consumed by the sheer misery of it all.

At the film's centre is Anna (Kari Sylwan). She is the heart pumping with lifeblood as opposed to the putrescence of anguish, the expulsion of toxic poison, lying in wait to envelope life and upon discovering there's nothing there, it gushes and sticks to those bereft of kindness and caring.

Agnes has cancer. She's dying. Karin and Maria have come to the family's country estate to preside over the death-watch. Anna is the plump domestic who runs the household and takes care of Agnes. Bergman takes us through the stages of the final agony by deftly providing us with a series of flashbacks which inform the current situation. Childhood for the sisters was sheer joy. They were very close. Their mother (also played by Liv Ullman) is loving, but often seems distracted, if not distant. At one point we see her infused with such utter, quiet sorrow that it seems to inform everything in the film. We learn that Agnes was always the odd, ugly duckling and that she remained unmarried and alone, save for the loyal Anna (whose own child died tragically many years earlier, but to whose picture she examines everyday and prays to with deep devotion).

Karin married a petty diplomat. In spite of wealth and travel, she hates him - so much so, that one night, smelling (no doubt) of the greasy, rancid-looking fish he wolfed down over supper, her husband awaits Karin's conjugal visit, and she privately masturbates with a shard of crystal from a broken wine glass, only to present him with the sight of the blood gushing from between her legs and smearing it all over her almost cruelly lascivious face.

Maria, the most frivolous of the three sisters also married into wealth - a husband with such a weak, spineless demeanour that he seems born to be a cuckold and to be cuckolded. She does what she must and cuckolds him, but unlike his dalliances away from the conjugal bed, she chooses to soil it within their home. Even more sickening is that her primary love interest is the creepy local doctor (Erland Josephson) who coldly presides over Agnes's final days.

Bergman paints a portrait of a family united by blood, but not much else. Whatever love they had for each other in childhood has turned to stone. At one point, Karin lets it all spill out to Maria, who responds blankly to these words tinged with bile:

"Do you realize I hate you and how foolish I find your insipid smile and your idiotic flirtatiousness? How have I managed to tolerate you so long and not say anything? I know of what you're made - with your empty caresses and your false laughter. Can you conceive how anyone can live with so much hate as has been my burden? There's no relief, no charity, no help! There is nothing. Do you understand? Nothing can escape me for I see all!"

Poor Agnes desperately wants her sisters to be with her and touch her in these final hours, but more often than not, they sit immobile in the gorgeous parlour outside her room. What Karin confesses to a Maria who does not bother to challenge the horrendous assertions is enough to prove that the desperate desires of Agnes will not be fulfilled. She'll go to her grave never feeling the love of her siblings.

Finally, it's left to Anna to hold Agnes close to her warm, inviting, motherly bosom. During one unbelievably creepy and nightmarish sequence, after Agnes's final internal combustion of pain followed by her last gurgling croaks of life, she is dead, yet her consciousness remains in her sick room. She asks for her sisters to visit one by one to assist in her spiritual passage to the other side. Here they fail miserably and again, it is up to the servant Anna to offer this solace.

Even Bergman at his most brilliant and despairing, never made a movie like this. Its setting is the most exquisitely furnished and adorned home, yet everything feels untouched, unloved. It's stifling and claustrophobic. The physical beauty of the surroundings are as empty as the hearts of Karin and Maria - both of whom express hatred for each other. Even when they briefly reconcile, it is short-lived.


The pain, the savagery of the cancer ripping the insides of Agnes apart is unrelenting. Bergman lavishes his camera over every detail, the slow movements of Agnes, the rigour she must employ to do the simplest of things like reaching for a glass of water, walking to a window to look at the rays of sun, sitting at a desk to write her memoirs, every stroke of the pen sending jolts of pain into her body and then, in words on the page, describing the pain as well.

Sven Nykvist's cinematography and longtime collaboration with Bergman reaches a pinnacle that could never be matched. We never see outside the windows, only the natural light pouring through them upon the beautiful, but cold and stately physical interior consume our perspective. Worst of all, when the lens attempts to caress the faces of its characters, especially Karin and Maria, all we get is the pain, hatred and regret, ozing from their pores of skin, which we can see in vivid detail.

Some movies are just inextricably linked to your being. Cries and Whispers is such a picture for me. I first saw it at a very young age with my mother. Her sister and my beloved aunt, had experienced a similar death from cancer. The pain we both felt was acute and yet, I remember my mother being affected, not just viscerally, but by Bergman's artistry and the sheer genius of the acting. I lived with the film through repeated viewings over the course of 40+ years. My most recent viewings came during my mother's year-long struggle with stomach cancer and in the weeks after her pain-wracked final weeks and, ultimately, death, I had to see the film even more.

It touches and reminds you of life's fragility and ultimately, the importance of love and forgiveness. In the movie's final moments, we hear a diary entry from Agnes as Bergman takes us out of the dank, sarcophagus-like atmosphere of the blood-red interiors and upon the sumptuous, rolling green lawns of the estate. All three sisters, dressed in white and carrying frilly parasols, gently walk the grounds with the loyal Anna accompanying them. They rush to an old swing, so special in their childhood. They take seats as Anna swings them back and forth. The final words of the film (in a heartfelt homage to Eugene O'Neill's immortal play of familial suffering, acrimony and grief, Long Day's Journey Into Night) have Agnes revealing the following:

"All my aches and pains were gone. The people I am most fond of in all the world were with me. I could hear their chatting around me. I could feel the presence of their bodies, the warmth of their hands. I wanted to hold the moment fast and thought, "Come what may, this is happiness. I cannot wish for anything better. Now, for a few minutes, I can experience perfection. And I feel profoundly grateful to my life, which gives me so much."

We sit, in stunned silence, tears pouring from our eyes, our thoughts turning to all those we've loved and continue to love and we are, ourselves, profoundly grateful for everything in life, which has indeed given us so much - and especially, Ingmar Bergman's hallowed gift us, Cries and Whispers.

THE FILM CORNER RATING: ***** 5 Stars

Cries and Whispers is available on Blu-Ray from the Criterion Collection. It features a wealth of glories for us to be grateful for, including a 2K digital restoration, an introduction by Bergman, shot in 2001, an all-new interview with Harriet Andersson, conducted by Peter Cowie, a video essay by filmmaker :: kogonada, behind-the-scenes footage with Cowie's commentary, a one-hour-long documentary from 2000 entitled Ingmar Bergman: Reflections on Life, Death, and Love with Erland Josephson (2000), exquisite new translation of the dialogue in English for the subtitles, an optional English-dubbed soundtrack (which helps those who don't speak Swedish to watch repeatedly and concentrate on the visual, an essay by film scholar Emma Wilson in the accompanying booklet and a stunning new cover design by by Sarah Habibi ace Criterion artist Sarah Habibi.

Saturday, 9 May 2015

THE DROWNSMAN - DVD/BLU-RAY Review By Greg Klymkiw - Drowning Babes a Fetish?

Available May 12, 2014 on Blu-Ray and DVD from Anchor Bay &
Anchor Bay Entertainment Canada - for Drowning Fetishists ONLY!

No Extras on this at all, just the movie straight-up, nicely transferred.
The Drownsman (2014)
Dir. Chad Archibald
Script. Archibald & Cody Calahan
Starring: Michelle Mylett, Caroline Korycki, Gemma Bird Matheson,
Sydney Kondruss, Clare Bastable, Ry Barrett, JoAnn Nordstrom, Breanne TeBoekhorst

Capsule Review By Greg Klymkiw

A whole whack o' lean, trim, supple and oh-so pert babe-o-licious chickie-poos die at the hands of The Drownsman. He has absolutely no interest in stalking, hacking, raping and/or maiming his nubile victims. His needs are simple. He wishes to drown them. Like the old Commonwealth adage, "No sex, please, we're British," The Drownsman revels in its colonial roots with, “No bloodletting, please, we're Canadian, though drowning in cottage country north of Toronto will do very nicely with our maple syrup, thanks.” He's a Canadian serial killer, so whaddya expect?

READ THE FULL REVIEW
IN MY TORONTO AFTER DARK
FILM FESTIVAL COVERAGE
BY CLICKING HERE!!!

Friday, 8 May 2015

COFFY - Review By Greg Klymkiw @ Electric Sheep Magazine - Pam Grier Cleans Up Good

PAM GRIER is COFFY, a lean, mean, KILLING machine with a soul that’s ALL WOMAN. By day, she’s a caring, highly skilled inner-city nurse, but by night, she transforms into a DEADLY show-no-mercy VIGILANTE who takes on the whole underworld --- thug by thug --- pusher by pusher --- gangster by  gangster --- corrupt politician by corrupt politician --- john by john & PIMP by DIRTY, STINKING PIMP.

READ GREG KLYMKIW'S blistering **** RAVE REVIEW @ ELECTRIC SHEEP - a deviant view of cinema by clicking HERE.


READ GREG KLYMKIW'S REVIEW @ ELECTRIC SHEEP - a deviant view of cinema by clicking HERE

Thursday, 7 May 2015

A DAY IN THE COUNTRY - Review By Greg Klymkiw - Jean Renoir does de Maupassant


A Day in the Country (1936/1946)
Dir. Jean Renoir
Starring: Sylvia Bataille, Georges D’Arnoux,
Jane Marken, André Gabriello, Jacques Brunius, Paul Temps

Review By Greg Klymkiw

A Day in the Country, made by Jean Renoir in 1936 is a mere 40 minutes long, but it's so perfect that I'd never wish for it to be any longer than it is. This short film, or featurette (often referred to now as a mid-length feature - mostly in the area of documentary films) is a dazzlingly romantic and bittersweet love story which resonates with deep humanity and truth, as much now as it surely must have when it was unveiled almost 70+ years ago. That the film has survived and not dated in terms of its aesthetic aims is a marvel, but then again, it is Jean Renoir, after all, one of the greatest filmmakers of all time. How could it be any less?

The short dramatic film is an art unto itself and in recent years (at least two decades, in reality), it's been extremely depressing to see so many of them that serve as little more than "calling cards" for young filmmakers wanting to make a feature, or worse, to get a job directing series television. These, for me, are the most egregious misuse of the art, but the other intolerable misuse are the seemingly endless punchline pictures wherein everything is set-up to solely deliver a surprise ending, usually reducing the whole viewing experience to little more than the cinematic equivalent of a joke. The latter I'm hesitant to bring up in solely negative terms, only because, it's an approach that can work when the filmmaker is generating work of a clever, razor-sharp satirical (not spoof or parodic) nature, as in the case of something like Marv Newland's immortal Bambi Meets Godzilla.

Ah, but Renoir! A Day in the Country is not only a great film for movie-lovers (and lovers, period), but is, I think an important film to expose to young filmmakers, in addition to the sumptuous, intelligent and highly inspirational added features on the Criterion Collection Blu-Ray, because I think the whole package has value to instil, at least within the best filmmaking students (at least those who truly count) the inherent values of what it means to strive for genuine moviemaking excellence. The film is a marvel of narrative genius, features a masterly use of the medium and ultimately, is a movie that resonates because its core thematic values are inherently entrenched in the work so as to always run parallel to every tool at a filmmaker's disposal to render dramatic beats.

I'm not meaning to get all Syd Field and/or (God Forbid) Robert McKee on you, this is Renoir after all, but it's important to acknowledge what makes great films immortal and to examine the simple details of the filmmaking process which contribute to achieving a universality within the storytelling - one which is regionally and historically specific and yet, not hampered by elements which render the piece ephemeral. And, of course, it's an adaptation of a story by Guy de Maupassant, no slouch in the writing department, if you follow my drift.


Like most great work, the veneer is perfectly simple. The Dufours are a mega-petit-bourgeois family of moderately comfortable means. Monsieur Dufour (André Gabriello) owns a hardware store in Gay Paree and decides to treat the family to a pleasant sojourn outside the city for a Sunday outing. The final destination is a country inn along the Seine where they plan to enjoy nature, order a meal of fresh fish and picnic outdoors.

Monsieur Dufour proves to be a plump stuffed shirt who either can't afford or, more likely, is too cheap to own a cart, preferring to have borrowed one from his milkman. He mostly ignores and tut-tuts his seemingly frivolous, but good-hearted and good-humoured wife (Jane Marken) and worse, is far too accepting that Anatole (Paul Temps), his miserable, dopey, rail-thin assistant at the store has been betrothed to his beautiful, vivacious and intelligent daughter Henriette (Sylvia Bataille, married in real life to Georges Bataille!!! AND then Jacques Lacan!!!). The snooty Grandmother (Gabrielle Fontan) mostly holds court from her generous tuffet, exuding all the more annoying traits of the petit bourgeoisie.


Into this set-up, we've become acquainted with a pair of boatmen, fishermen and jacks-of-all-trades at the inn who offer their services to city dwellers keen to traverse the gentle waterways and visit islands in the general vicinity. Whilst the Dufour family settles outside, the men eat their own lunch from inside the inn (rural types express derision over such indulgences) and, opening the window, gaze at the bourgeois antics with requisite incredulity, but most of all, focusing their gaze upon the assembled women.

Rodolphe (Jacques Brunius, actor, director, author, critic, British broadcasting personality) is by far the randiest of the two men and so desperately wants his friend Henri (Georges D'Arnoux, assistant director, race car driver) to pair up with him in attempting to make a grand seduction, that he agrees to go after the portly Madame DuFour and leave Sylvie alone for his pal. Henri is dolefully serious and insists that genuine love is his goal and that a cheap tryst is not his slice of cheese nor glass of wine. He grudgingly agrees to go along with Rodolphe's plan as he is genuinely struck by Henriette's beauty, but also does not wish to disappoint his best friend.

We're then treated to a delightful Renoir roundelay of discourse amongst the boatmen and the family until Rodolphe's plan bears fruit and he's on a skiff with the clearly charmed Madame DuFour and Henri, as agreed in advance, with Henriette. Grandma naps whilst Monsieur DuFour and the horrid Anatole engage in a series of botched attempts to fish in the Seine.

Most of the focus is upon Henri and Henriette and we are treated to one of the loveliest, most romantic interludes in all of French cinema. The film eventually flashes forward to a future juncture in the lives of the characters and here, Renoir delivers a one-two punch of sheer sorrow and regret, inspiring yet another superlative - one of the most profoundly moving sequences in all of French cinema.

Renoir, of course, was wise to have adapted de Maupassant's great story to the screen. Its framework and characters are not only film worthy, but perfect material for the director of such masterworks as The Rules of the Game and Grand Illusion and the rest of his vital dramatic examinations of class structure and honour. He brings incredible economy to cinematically introducing the world of the film and its characters. Most importantly are his visual perspectives upon the natural world and its relationship to the characters and by extension, to all of humanity. His subtly effective ways of always keeping the focus in the story twixt Henriette and Henri is so dazzling, its sheer genius can move especially acute viewers to tears, especially the focus upon Henriette, including the now iconographic sequence of the screen beauty on a swing.


Renoir also displayed his natural gifts as a filmmaker in terms of dealing with exigencies of production. The story required, nay, demanded clear skies and sun, but alas the weather in the area chosen for shooting (the Seine would, in 1936, have been far too populated and industrialized to tell this period tale) was stricken with an utterly anomalous series of rain and wind storms. Given that there are only two very brief scenes indoors, Renoir was faced with the decision of incorporating the weather into his story and it's astonishing how well it works, adding a fresh layer neither he, nor de Maupassant, could have imagined. Imagine, however, Renoir did and he renders it exquisitely.

Another fascinating aspect to the making of this stunning short drama is that some of the weather delays (there were days they absolutely could not shoot) is that Renoir had to leave the project before it was over. No matter. He planned his shots down to the most minute detail anyway, so that his trusty assistant director Jacques Becker (who would go on to be one of France's greatest directors, easily on a par with Renoir and Bresson) could continue in his absence. (I've always loved the fact that assistant directors in France are not cattle herders and/or pencil pushers as they are in North America - they're integral to artistic vision beyond mere mechanics.)

Further to the odd history of the film is that Renoir had an extended stint in Hollywood during the war, so that he was unable to completely finish and release A Day in the Country until 10 years later. It's been said this delay caused Henriette Bataille to lose a shot at stardom, but in actuality, production in France during the war years had changed drastically, plus she was also married at the time to the clearly insane, albeit brilliant Georges Bataille (no cakewalk, I assure you) and she did indeed gain considerable acclaim for her acting with screenwriter Jacques Prevert's acclaimed theatre company October and even won one of France's highest honours, the Suzanne-Bianchetti Award, bestowed only upon its most promising actresses (recent winners include Audrey Tatou, Isabelle Adjani and Isabelle Huppert, as well as Quebec's Genevieve Bujold).

A Day in the Country did indeed have a strange early life, but it now lives for all of us and will continue to do so for future generations.

THE FILM CORNER RATING: ***** 5 Stars

A Day in the Country is available on Blu-Ray from the Criterion Collection. In addition to a gorgeous 2K digital restoration, with an uncompressed mono soundtrack, a brilliant essay by the late Gilberto Perez and an all new Engish subtitle translation, the value of this release is huge for both Renoir enthusiasts and film fans, but the pedagogical value of the extras is of the highest level and includes a great 1962 introduction by Renoir, an interview with Renoir scholar Christopher Faulkner about the film’s production, a video essay by Faulkner on Renoir’s methods, an 89-minute compilation of valuable, eye-opening outtakes, screen tests and a 1979 interview with producer Pierre Braunberger. Please don't bother with getting this via iTunes or Hulu. This movie is worth owning in all its glory - to watch, study, fondle, fetishize and cherish.


Wednesday, 6 May 2015

THE FRIENDS OF EDDIE COYLE - Review By Greg Klymkiw - Crime Classic on Criterion Blu-Ray


The Friends of Eddie Coyle (1973)
dir. Peter Yates
Starring: Robert Mitchum, Peter Boyle, Richard Jordan, Steven Keats, Alex Rocco

Review By Greg Klymkiw

The fate of Eddie Coyle (Robert Mitchum) is clear as he strides into frame from out of the pitch black Boston night at the beginning of the grim 1973 Peter Yates-directed crime drama. It's as if his downward trajectory has been infused in his very DNA; signed, sealed and delivered at birth with a profound and palpable inevitability.

The Friends of Eddie Coyle is a masterpiece.

Robert Mitchum inhabits every inch of Eddie: heavy-lidded, baggy-eyed, paunchy, world-weary and shuffling with the gait of a once-physically-powerful man now consigned to the throbbing aches of late middle age. Under the cold glare of fluorescent lights in a 24-hour cafeteria, Eddie places a slice of rubbery pie and a cup of coffee onto his tray and sits at the table occupied by Jackie Brown (Steven Keats), a dark-haired, gap-toothed, bug-eyed young thug.

Wolfing his pie down between slurps of watery coffee, Eddie’s manner is been-there-done-that as he negotiates with the thug to purchase an ordnance of powerful and highly illegal handguns. Jackie is clearly an upstart, oozing bravado – peppering it with promises he might clearly not be able to keep. Eddie sets him straight - almost like a schoolteacher lecturing his young charge. Holding his battered fist in front of the thug, Coyle explains he has twice the number of knuckles most people have. Eddie's nickname is "Fingers". His hand was crushed - punishment for lousing up a job based on false promises.

But Eddie’s not bitter. It’s business, he explains. It’s the life he chose in the only world he ever felt comfortable in. But now, Eddie needs a big score and he needs favours. If he can’t get them, he’s headed straight for hard time. By trade, Eddie's a Teamster truck driver. Unfortunately, he took the wrong driving gig and now he's looking at five years in stir. His wife will have to collect welfare and his kids will face the cruel taunts of their classmates for having a no-account Dad. It would seem Eddie needs a miracle. He needs more than that, though. What Eddie really needs are friends. Right now, he has none – at least none that he can count on.

Promises are cheap. So is life.


Robert Mitchum, one of the screen’s most legendary and charismatic actors has played everything from cops to cowboys to soldiers and everything in between (including his stunning turns as the evil Max Cady in Cape Fear and the malevolent psycho lay preacher in Night of the Hunter). Eddie Coyle is a role that not only fits Mitchum like a well-worn baseball glove but is, I truly believe, his best role and quite probably his greatest performance. Mitchum serves up a hardened criminal – albeit a marked, desperate one who knows what he needs to survive, even if it means succumbing to the lowest rung of his kind and turning stool pigeon to cops who seem, frankly, no better than the criminals they seek to incarcerate.

Mitchum pulls out all the stops, by plugging all of them in. He is, quite simply, less-is-more incarnate; taking his time, listening deeply to his fellow actors, pulling subtle shifts in emotion that register so deeply with us we can feel his pain, frustration, strength, sadness and finally, desperation.

As a director, Peter Yates was certainly no stranger to the crime genre when he made The Friends of Eddie Coyle. He’d already directed the Donald Westlake heist picture The Hot Rock, the gritty British-produced Robbery (a realist, almost semi-documentary-styled dramatization of 1963’s notorious “great train robbery” starring Stanley Baker), numerous episodes of such classic TV crime series as Danger Man and (one of my personal favourites) The Saint. Last, but certainly not least, Yates helmed Bullitt, the slam-bang Steve McQueen detective thriller that set the bar for all cinematic car chases that would follow.

There was always, however, another side to Yates who gave us the gentle comedy of Breaking Away and the tragic gay love story The Dresser. It is finally this combination of the macho stylist and the gentle humanist that made Yates a natural to direct The Friends of Eddie Coyle. These seemingly dichotomous qualities Yates possessed are probably what make the picture so great.

The other, of course, is Yates's gift with details and realism, especially getting the most out of locations. While Bullitt, showcased Steve McQueen’s baby blues, Jacqueline Bisset’s feminine perfection and a car chase that has seldom been matched, it most brilliantly and stunningly extolled the virtues of the city of San Francisco.


The Friends of Eddie Coyle is set in Boston and the last time I checked, it was and is a city of great beauty. You’d never know it from Yates's grim eye. He goes well out of his way to show us a Boston that nobody, save perhaps Eddie Coyle and other underworld denizens would bother to live in.

In seedy cafes, dank bars, endlessly indistinguishable parking lots, near-tenement slums, lifeless suburbs, abandoned cement factories, bowling alleys, cold, almost Kafkaesque inner-city financial district public squares and other equally unflattering locales, Yates and gritty, versatile cinematographer Victor (Dog Day Afternoon, The Gambler) Kemper train their lens on the non-descript and do so with harsh light, available light or no light at all. And lots of grain. Glorious chunks of swirling, dancing grain.

Of course, it makes perfect sense within the context of this world that "business" would always be done in plain view, in public places or, for especially sordid dealings, no man's land. It's not as if these guys have offices. They do, however, have homes. Eddie's home is clearly incongruous with his lifestyle - a clean, small two-story post-war job in an older city suburb with a loyal wife doing the ironing in the cramped, but homey kitchen and the Irish Catholic iconography in the hallway above a telephone set upon a tiny little desk and a patch of yard out front from where Eddie can watch his kids clamber onto their school bus. This is not a place for him to do his dirty business.

Paul Monash’s excellent script beautifully distills George V. Higgins novel of the same name. Higgins, a former prosecuting attorney turned crime writer always displayed a knack for dialogue that crackled with life and constructed narratives that defied typical crime story structures.

One of the astonishing things about Monash's adaptation of Higgins's novel and Yates's adherence to the literary sources is the strange focus upon the nasty, brutal crimes committed as a result of Coyle’s efforts. Coyle is peripherally involved as a supplier to the criminals, but Yates and his writers lavish considerable attention and detail upon the various bank robberies that take place – none of which ever directly involve the title character. Not only is this an opportunity for Yates to dazzle us with the slam-bang virtuosity of his many gifts as a filmmaker, but narratively and cinematically, it drives the nails of truth into us - that Eddie's dealings have serious consequences. His crimes are very real and not at all without victims.


And though our “hero” never gets so much as a moment to brandish a weapon, (which is, in and of itself highly unconventional for any crime picture), we are flung back to the reality and inevitability of Coyle’s eventual demise. Yates never lets us forget just how doomed poor Eddie is. Nowhere is this more haunting and downright moving than the heart-achingly tragic sequence where Coyle’s “friend”, the two-timing killer Dillon (Peter Boyle) takes him to a Boston Bruins hockey game (replete with "Number 4" Bobby Orr on the ice). As the game unfurls before cheering fans, Dillon plies Eddie with endless pints of beer and engages in pleasantries, all the while knowing that at the end of the evening, he has been entrusted with the mission to blow Eddie Coyle’s brains out.

I’ll never forget the first time I saw The Friends of Eddie Coyle as a kid with my ex-cop Dad. It was a movie that stayed with me and haunted me for the 40+ years since first seeing it. What I don’t think I’ll ever forget was my Dad’s response at the end of the movie. “That’s the way it is, kid, that’s just the way it is,” he said to me, with more than a little sadness in his voice, and with many long years under his belt dealing with guys just like Eddie Coyle.

Seeing the movie now, those words still hold true. I see Eddie, lumbering through his own Palookaville, the inevitability of his doom and those same words emblazoned, no doubt, upon his own brain.

That’s just the way it is.

THE FILM CORNER RATING: ***** 5 Stars

"The Friends of Eddie Coyle" is available on a superbly transferred Criterion Collection Blu-Ray which features a lovely, informative commentary track recorded in 2009 by director Peter Yates.

Tuesday, 5 May 2015

ROAR - Review By Greg Klymkiw - Wildlife Nature Adventure Snuff Film 4 Whole Family

REAL LIONS. REAL PEOPLE. REAL MAULING. REAL CRAZY.
Roar (1981)
Dir. Noel Marshall
Starring: Noel Marshall, Tippi Hedren, Melanie Griffith, Kyalo Mativo

Review By Greg Klymkiw

Roar is clearly one of the most insane movies ever made. Oh hell, let's shoot the works and just declare that it is the most insane movie ever made. It stars 150 lions, tigers and other big cats. No animals were harmed during the making of the movie, but 70 people were.

It all began when actress Tippi Hedren (The Birds, Marnie) was in Africa shooting a movie in the mid-60s when she discovered on safari that an entire abandoned mission had been taken over completely by lions.

Ding! Light bulb flashes over Tippi's head! There's a movie in this, she thinks.

Her hubby, producer Noel Marshall agrees. In fact, for a few years, the two of them become wildlife preservation activists and eventually started to rescue lions, tigers and all other manner of big cats and raised them on the grounds of their Beverly Hills mansion. When the menagerie started to get a trifle large, they moved out to Acton, California where they bought up huge tracts of land and set up a wildlife reserve. They kept buying more and more big cats and even elephants - giving them all a safe harbour to live out the rest of their lives peacefully. This is, to my mind, a damn wonderful thing for them to have done, especially given how unscrupulous the wildlife trade has always been (as well as poor animals being exploited in circuses and private zoos).

Maybe not so wonderful is the film they eventually made; not that it's awful - well, actually, it kind of is - but as you're watching the movie, you just keep wondering, "What in the hell am I watching here?" And you know what? That's probably a good thing. So many movies during the past 40-or-so years are such dull, by-the-numbers bore-fests, machine-tooled within an inch of their lives, that anything that forces you to scratch your noggin so hard it starts to bleed has got to have something going for it.

The movie tells the rather insane tale of a guy who runs a huge wild animal preserve. Most of the recipients of his largesse are lions - a ridiculous number of lions (plus tigers, panthers, leopards, cheetahs and the aforementioned elephants). Played by director, co-writer and co-producer Marshall, our hero spends a good deal of screen time wrasslin' his beasts. They are such ornery critters and. BONUS, super cute and loveable. The only problem is, they're lions and tigers for Christ's sake! Marshall's Man Friday and sidekick Mativo, while no Stepin Fetchit, is definitely in Mantan Moreland territory as he goes mega-bug-eyed when the lions and tigers act up - which, during the first half hour of the film is pretty much all the time. (There's even a ludicrous running gag involving Mativo fending off tigers with an umbrella.)

MELANIE GRIFFITH AND LION CAVORT
It turns out that Marshall's family has been away from the compound for some time. Wife Tippi has needed a trial separation from her big-cat-crazy hubby. Now, however, she, their two sons and their mega-hot teenage daughter (Tippi's real-life daughter Melanie Griffith) are due to fly in. Given that the animals are acting up (they even attack and maul some visiting wildlife committee members for the area), Marshall's a tad worried he might be late picking them up at the airport. He and Mativo jump into a boat and go down river. Unfortunately, a couple of tigers jump into the boat and it doesn't take long for it to capsize. This results in a seemingly endless farce involving bicycles and a jeep, all of which break down.

In the meantime, the family has indeed landed and with nobody to greet them, they hope a bus for the wildlife compound. When they arrive, we are treated to one of the most insane, surreal extended sequences ever put on film. The lions and tigers get mighty ornery in Marshall's absence and chase the entire family around the compound, destroying much of the interior of the big house. This feels like it's going to go on forever. Not that it's boring, though. These are real lions and real people.

TIPPI HEDREN IS MAULED BY A CHEETAH,
JAN DE BONT IS MISSING HALF OF HIS SCALP,
A HAPPY-GO-LUCKY WILDERNESS FAMILY REJOICES!!!
Now, seriously, I need to stop for a moment and try to explain how insane this all is? We're basically cross cutting twixt the bumbling Marshall and his bug-eyed Mantan Moreland-wannabe getting into a whole whack o' "fine messes" and a lithe, middle-aged Momma and her brood being chased by lions. At one point, they're even attacked by - I KID YOU NOT - elephants!!! As if these events weren't insane enough, I think it's important to point out that many of the bites, scratches and outright mauling-actions are REAL. The looks of terror on the faces of the actors are not acting, they're real, too.

This is like The Adventures of Wilderness Family as snuff film. During the course of shooting, Marshall got so repeatedly mauled that he almost died from gangrene. Tippi was bitten in the head. The boys were both bitten and Melanie Griffith was so horrifically mauled, that she required major reconstructive surgery.

Cinematographer Jan De Bont (he'd shot many of Paul Verhoeven's Dutch films and directed Speed, Speed 2 and Twister) had pretty much half of his scalp torn right off.

The plot, such as it is, eventually allows the family to get back together in an utterly harrowing climactic sequence. There's also a subplot involving some wildlife committee members who decide they're going to shoot all of Marshall's lions in retaliation for the mauling they received earlier. After shooting a few helpless beasts, the alpha lion attacks them and tears their throats out. Marshall tells Mantan Mativo not to say anything to the wife and kids so as not to ruin their reunification. We're then treated to a ten-or-so-minute-long montage sequence of the happy family and lions with a gentle folk song on the soundtrack.

Roar, from conception to finished product took 11 years. The principal photography alone took 4 years. The budget soared to a reported $17 million, the vast chunk of the money coming from Hedren and Marshall's combined savings, earnings and real estate. (Marshall actually made a small fortune from his royalties on such hit films that he executive-produced like The Exorcist and The Harrad Experiment.) But, really, $17 million??? Look, 17-mill is nothing to sneeze at, even though in today's bucks, it's considered a pittance for most pictures, but by 1981, when Roar was finally completed and released (to zippo boxoffice) this was a HUMUNGOUS amount of money.

Frankly, I don't even know where the film is supposed to take place. There's some odd thank you to the Massai nation at the beginning of the movie and many African actors populate supporting roles. Sometimes it looks like we're in Africa, but most of the time, it looks like we're in Acton, California surrounded by wild beasts from Africa. And guess what? It really doesn't matter. This movie could only be set in the never-never land it appears to take place in.

The film has barely been seen since 1981, but now, thanks to Drafthouse Films, Roar has been restored to its former glory for a theatrical release followed by a huge Blu-Ray/DVD run.

And here's the rub, I can't actually say the picture is awful, nor can I say it's good. I really have no idea what to say other than the fact that it's unlike anything you'll ever see. It's gorgeously shot, some of the suspense and action scenes are definitely hair-raising and most of the acting (when it is acting and not real terror) is pretty good. Tippi Hedren, in particular, makes quite a terrific Perils of Pauline figure as she seems to get into the most ludicrously dangerous animal-dodging gymnastics and little Melanie is just plain mouth-wateringly gorgeous. Director Marshall, however, is a dreadful actor. He's so overwrought you just want to punch him in the face. It won't be necessary, though. He got gangrene for his troubles and egregious ham-boning.

A year after the film flopped, Marshall and Hedren divorced. Wilderness Families only live happily ever after in the movies.

THE FILM CORNER RATING: *** 3 Stars (though it's really impossible to rate this at all)

Roar is playing in a variety of special engagements. In Toronto, it can be seen in repertory all through the month of May at the Royal Cinema. You really want to see this on a big screen. The bigger the better.

Monday, 4 May 2015

AVENGED - Review By Greg Klymkiw - Redsploitation Payback Thriller with Babe n' arrows


Avenged - aka Savaged - (2013)
Dir. Michael S. Ojeda
Starring: Amanda Adrienne, Tom Ardavany, Rodney Rowland

Review By Greg Klymkiw

Avenged (previously known on the film festival circuits and some foreign markets as Savaged) is an all-new entry in the cinematic lexicon known amongst genre geeks as "Redsploitation".

Compared to the 70s onslaught of "Blaxsploitation" (Shaft, Hell Up In Harlem, Slaughter, the list goes on and on and on), "Redsploitation" is a relatively tiny sub-genre of contemporary B-pictures. They differ from the urban African-American sex-and/or-violence-ridden fantasies in that their scope was limited to the stereotype of noble savages, often in rural (albeit mostly contemporary) locales and always involving the exacting of revenge upon Whitey for his callous treatment of Native Americans.

"Redploitation" always lacked variation in terms of character and plot. African-American characters could certainly have any number of stereotypical roles like gangsters, pimps and dealers, but they could also be cops, rights activists, just plain folk (though facing extraordinary hurdles requiring acts of violence) and in the case of star Pam Grier, she got to be a nurse in Coffy (albeit one who prowled dark corners blowing away pimps and dealers). In fact, women in Blaxploitation could, more often than not, hold their own with the men and not just be victims (the latter being the solitary roles for Native women in Redsploitation).

The grandaddy of the Native American action pictures were Tom Laughlin's hugely popular Billy Jack extravaganzas, but even these male fantasies, initially aimed at drive-ins, grind houses (and now in the days of waning public exhibition venues, DVD and VOD), developed huge mainstream acceptance whereas hardcore "Redsploitation" was linked to independent and/or much smaller distribution/exhibition outlets.

One of the "best" 70s forays into the sub-genre was Johnny Firecloud by William Allen Castleman. Generally better written than most of this fare, it also featured taut direction and a decent, mostly Native American cast. Starring Mexican actor Victor Mohica in the title role, the indignities perpetrated upon Johnny and his people are horrendous, but they pale in comparison to the genuinely satisfying revenge he exacts upon the dimwitted racist White losers: tomahawks, scalping, burying in the ground save for the head exposed to ants and the elements, plus other grim payback delights. Going a few steps further than most films of this ilk like Savege Harvest, Ransom, Thunder Warrior, Scalps and Cry For Me, Billy, Johnny Firecloud doesn't end in an orgy of total mind-numbing violence, but actually veers into the territory of ambiguity and, hence, a bit more reality than the aforementioned.


Avenged, co-produced by the visionary Canadian company Raven Banner with the American auteur Michael S. Ojeda is distinctive for being the most recent entry in "Redsploitation". Its cool blend of kick-ass revenge action with the supernatural and a nice combination of first-rate production values and some genuinely rigorous moviemaking craft, manages to put a whole whack of huger budgeted studio pictures to shame. Director Ojeda seldom favours the ludicrous ADHD-like shooting and cutting which plagues most super-hero and other recent wham-bam effects-laden extravaganzas. His shot selections are smartly considered, efficient and feature a nice variation in focal lengths and point of view choices (as opposed to the reliance upon too many close-ups and few mediums and wides that we see in $200-$300million indulgences). This allows his cuts to be rooted in dramatic action rather than spurred on by empty kinetics.

Narratively, Avenged is fairly straightforward, but with a few oddball deviations which allow us to feel like we're not watching something that's completely run-of-the-mill. Zoe (Amanda Adrienne) is a lithe, babe-o-licious, long-blonde-tressed beauty who decides to drive cross-country to meet up with her African-American boyfriend with the plan of moving in with him. Sounds simple enough, but the cool element Ojeda adds to this mix is that Zoe is challenged with being deaf and partially mute (she can form words, sentences, etc. but they're not always intelligible to those who don't know her). Though her Mother expresses trepidation, her sensitive beau realizes that her trip, as well as the decision to leave home and move into common-law bliss with him, is an important part of her continued journey of empowerment.


As these tales often go, she finds herself in the middle of nowhere (topography similar to John Ford's use of Monument Valley in his westerns) when she's witness to a horrific hit and run murder twixt a truck full of Good Old Boy Whitey Rednecks and a young Native man. Before she can hightail it out of there, she's boxed in and approached by the slavering, inbred White fellas. She's kidnapped and taken to the family's remote "estate" of White Trash decrepitude wherein she's grotesquely tied and affixed to a bed in an old shed with - yuck! - barbed wire.

It should be immediately noted that Ojeda does not sexualize nor salaciously dwell upon Zoe's inevitable gang rape by these scumbags. Thank Heaven for tender mercies. However, plenty of Hell is to follow. She manages to get away, but wrenching oneself from barbed wire bindings is not a pain-free, nor is it a pretty sight. Unfortunately, as she flees into the night, Zoe is mortally wounded with a scatter of buckshot from one of the rednecks and is left for dead in the rocky, sandy hills.


So, you're wondering: Where's the "Redsploitation?"

Oh, ye of little faith, here's the rub. The family of inbreds are descendants of a vicious cavalry commander who wiped out most of the Apaches in the area. Our villains are so proud of this, they worship their great-great-grandpappy's memory with slavish devotion - so much so that they continue butchering Native people whenever they can. Ojeda's narrative then adds the following tasty frisson: Legend has it, that the Chief of the local First Nations people swore eternal revenge upon his killer and all those who followed his family lineage. When a lone medicine man in the middle of the wilderness finds Zoe's battered, bloodied body, he attempts to revive her with some ancient ritual, but in so doing, he revives the spirit of the Apache Chief who melds his soul with Zoe and soon, you've got two spirits in one body that both need to extract revenge.

And believe you me, the vengeance is as sweet as it is stomach churning.


Okay, I've seen a lot of movies in my day and as moronic as the aforementioned spirit-melding may be, I have to admit it's pretty original as far as genre pictures go (though it has a few nods of homage in the direction of The Crow). And, you know, there's also something to be said for the pleasing (albeit ludicrous) image of a hot blonde adorned in feathers and war paint as she hunts down the vicious inbreds one-by-one. This (dubiously authentic) appropriation of Native culture is exploitative, but even as you see the nuts and bolts of this construct, it's perversely entertaining. Still, by using the tragic history of the local Natives is not without more than a few dollops of ethnocentrism if not outright racism, BUT, and this is a BIG "but", the film does go out of its way to utilize and address the stereotypical trappings of civilization and savagery that have been so-long married to Euro-centric notions of superiority as they relate to the inherent "lower order" of Indigenous Peoples. There is a clear awareness on the part of the filmmaker that he's playing with these elements, but in a contemporary context, he's allowing his imagination to run as rampant as all get out, which is certainly a far cry from the naiveté of filmmakers from earlier ages.

In her great book "When the Other is Me", Emma LaRocque provides a detailed analysis of "the dichotomy of civilization versus savagery [which] is the long-held belief that humankind evolved from the primitive to the most advanced, from the savage to the civilized." LaRocque notes that:

"racialized evolutionism has not entirely disappeared from the Western intellectual tradition. In disciplines of anthropology, history, political science, psychology, sociology, religion, and even in earlier Marxist thought, theories on human development were and still are largely premised on patriarchal, Eurocentric and evolutionary ideas about so-called primitive peoples."

Appropriating a tragic history and doing so within the "obviously doctrinaire and self-serving" civ/sav perspective which permeates Avenged, seems somewhat less egregious within the context of a sheer contemporary "entertainment". After all, this is not scholarship, but a piece of pure fiction that is so clearly fantasy, one would hope that even the lowest sub-strata of movie-fandom would assume that the use, or rather, misuse of stereotypical images of Native People is, in fact, ridiculously lacking in veracity.


Then again, our modern world continues to be sadly fraught with ignorance of the lowest order. Given that, even a film like Avenged falls into a strange never-never land of (mis)appropriation. LaRocque's own scholarship presents the interesting findings that "White writers often portrayed 'Indians' as savage creatures who tortured and mutilated White bodies", though clearly, Ojeda's film presents the exact opposite (at least initially). The Whites in his film are the slavering, savage, psychotic violators - not just of a physically challenged woman, but contemporary Native people as an extension of the violent historical genocide of Natives. In this context I'm especially interested in how LaRocque also points out a reversal of "the violation" since "contemporary Native writers also turn the tables on the colonizer to point out White cruelty and contradictions; in effect, to point to White savagery."

I'm not 100% sure of filmmaker Ojeda's heritage, though his surname is certainly rooted in Spanish origin, one which in the South Western (or "Tex-Mex") states can often include Native DNA and cultural roots. Whatever the case may be, he is clearly having his cake and eating it too.

LaRocque admits that prior to being in "any position to critically examine the history and sociology of racism, [she] experienced a sense of shame and alienation from teachers, textbooks, comics, and movies that portrayed Indians as savages." Not surprisingly, her eventual pursuit of 'higher' education revealed how "many university professors and most textbooks presented Native peoples in as distorted and insulting ways" as the aforementioned mediums so that the "racist theme of Western civilization/Indian savagery was ever-present."

Given that Avenged, along with the Redsploitation sub-genre and the litany of literature and cinema over the past century (and then some) have wallowed shamelessly in lies and stereotypes, it's the scholarship which has yielded the most abominable violations of truth. The literature and popular culture of deception has been predominantly American and appallingly buttressed by American academics who support and defend (whilst denying) their racist scholarship within the sickening "star-spangled" flag-waving of "the American expansionist doctrine of Manifest Destiny."

Is it any wonder these stereotypes persist? "The notion" LaRocque argues "of 'civilization' and its antithesis 'savagery' are invariably defined and measured by Euro-White North American standards. It should be needless to point out that such an un-scientific belief is racist because it sets up Whites as superior and non-Whites as inferior."

So how then is (an admittedly) entertaining (albeit blood-spattered) trifle like Avenged dangerous? LaRocque points out that Aboriginal peoples "are still being hounded and haunted by White North America’s image machine, which has persistently portrayed them in extremes as either the grotesque ignoble or noble savage."

Avenged does double duty on this front.


When the "noble savage" medicine man accidentally conjures up the spirit of a revenge-crazed Apache warrior and allows it to morph with the equally violated and angry character of Zoe, she essentially becomes a zombie-like member of the living dead who exacts vengeance that's perhaps even more "savage" than the indignities perpetrated by the White inbred racist rednecks.

The again, I'd be a hypocrite if I didn't admit to gaining a fair degree of satisfaction seeing the White Trash get their comeuppance via bows and arrows, blades and in one pretty spectacular set piece (in terms of filmmaker Ojeda's directorial skill and sheer aplomb), wherein the Apache-warrior-possessed Zoe rips the intestines out of one of the "bad guys" with her own hands, pulling his guts out like a viscous rope that seems to have no end and causing the villain the most horrific (and equally endless) pain.

Thinking upon my own visceral response to this picture in relation to what I acknowledge is "wrong", I still can't help but applaud Ojeda's audacity. He takes us into some very dangerous territory and I'll take that over the commonplace, the fake vibes elicited from "feel-good" entertainments. Avenged dazzles because it yanks us, roller coaster-ride-like, back and forth, this way and that from extreme political, historical and cultural dichotomies.

It's an appalling film, but there is value in its terrible, terrible beauty.

THE FILM CORNER RATING: ***½ 3-and-ahalf-stars-Stars

Avenged (previously known as Savaged) is a Raven Banner production and world-wide release available on home video formats via Anchor Bay Canada. The extra features focusing upon the development and making of the film are especially interesting as they place solid emphasis upon director Michael S. Ojeda's considerable craft in terms of placing a visual emphasis upon his storytelling, but also how he works within the exigencies of modest financial resources to create a piece that feels far more imbued with production value than would normally be ascribed to such exploitation items.