FATHER'S DAY - Spawned from the Daisy Chain of Herschel Gordon Lewis, Guy Maddin, David Cronenberg & Ferrara's "Driller Killer", this astounding no-budget horror treat is opening theatrically in the United States of America. Don't Miss It! Astron-6 & Troma RULE

In Canada BUY the Astron-6 Short Film Collection HERE
In USA and the rest of the WORLD - BUY the ASTRON-6 Short Film Collection - HERE
In Canada BUY Astron-6's FATHER'S DAY - HERE
In USA and the rest of the WORLD - BUY Astron-6's FATHER'S DAY - HERE
In Canada BUY Astron-6's MANBORG - HERE
In USA and the rest of the WORLD - BUY ASTRON-6's MANBORG - HERE

This bum-blasting gore fest has more theatrical screenings than you can shake a stick at.

The latest is a screening at Dave Barber's legendary Winnipeg Film Group Cinematheque in Winnipeg, Manitoba, Canada on 3/17, 3/18, 3/21-3/26, 2012.

Troma and Astron-6′s Father’s Day will be presented in several theaters nation-wide, with more to come! The New York premiere will be at Sunshine Cinema on the 10th of February, with the Los Angeles premiere to follow on the 24th of February at the Nuart Theatre.

Current Theaters and Dates:
CA, Los Angeles, Nuart Theatre – February 24
CO, Denver, Esquire Theatre – February 17, 18
MA, Boston Underground Film Festival – March 31
MA, Boston, Coolidge Corner – February 17, 18
MN, Minneapolis, Uptown Theatre – February 10,11
NY, New York, Sunshine Cinema – February 10, 11
OH, Columbus, Gateway 8 – March 2
TX, Austin, Alamo Drafthouse Cinema, January 18
TX, San Antonio, Alamo Drafthouse Cinema, January 19
TX, Houston, Alamo Drafthouse Cinema, January 21
TX, Dallas, Texas Theatre, February 24-28

Father's Day (2011) dir. Astron-6
(Adam Brooks, Jeremy Gillespie, Matthew Kennedy, Conor Sweeney)
Starring: Conor Sweeney, Adam Brooks, Matt Kennedy, Brent Neale, Amy Groening, Meredith Sweeney, Kevin Anderson, Garret Hnatiuk, Mackenzie Murdoch, Lloyd Kaufman

****

Review By Greg Klymkiw

"Death ends a life. But it does not end a relationship, which struggles on in the survivor's mind. toward some resolution which it may never find." - Robert Anderson from his play, I Never Sang For My Father

A father's love for his son is a special kind of love.

As such, Dads the world over face that singular inevitability - that peculiar epoch in their collective lives, when they must chauffeur the apple of their eye from a police station, for the third time in a month, after said progeny has undergone questioning upon being found in a motel room with a dead man covered in blood, après le bonheur de la sodomie, only to return home after dropping said twink son on a street corner, so the aforementioned offspring of the light-in-the-loafer persuasion, can perform fellatio on old men for cash, whilst Dad sits forlornly in the domicile that once represented decent family values and stare at a framed photo of better times, until he succumbs to unexpected anal rape and when doused with gasoline and set on fire as he weeps, face down and buttocks up, frenziedly tears out into the street screaming and collapsing in a charred heap in front of his returning son who reacts with open-mouthed horror as the scent of old penis wafts from his twink tonsils.

For most fathers, all of the above is, no doubt, a case of been-there-done-that - not unlike that inevitable fatherly attempt at understanding when Dad gently seeks some common ground with the fruits of his husbandly labours and offers: "Look son, I experimented when I was young, too."

So begins Father's Day - with the aforementioned, AND some delectable pre-credit butchery, an eye-popping opening credit sequence with images worthy of Jim Steranko and a series of flashbacks during an interrogation with a hard-boiled cop. This is the astounding feature film (the second completed feature this year) from the brilliant Winnipeg filmmaking collective Astron-6 (Adam Brooks, Jeremy Gillespie, Matthew Kennedy, Conor Sweeney) who have joined forces with the legendary Lloyd Kaufman and Michael Herz of Troma Entertainment to generate a film that is the ultimate evil bastard child sprung from the loins of a daisy chain twixt Guy Maddin, John Paizs, early David Cronenberg, Herschel Gordon Lewis and Abel Ferrara's The Driller Killer. Father's Day combines the effects of asbestos-tinged drinking water in Winnipeg with the Bukkake splatter of the coolest artistic influences imaginable and yields one of the Ten Best Films of 2011.

It is the seed of depraved genius that's spawned Astron-6 and, of course, with the best work in Canadian film, it has been embraced by an entity outside of Canada - that glorious aforementioned sleaze-bucket nutter who gave the world The Toxic Avenger. This collective of five (not six) brilliant filmmakers (including the above named quartet and Steven Kosanski, the F/X wizard, writer and director of Astron-6's MANBORG) are part of a new breed of young Canadian filmmakers who have snubbed their noses at the government-funded bureaucracies that oft-eschew the sort of transgression that normally puts smaller indigenous cultural industries on the worldwide map (including its own - Canada only truly supports such work grudgingly once it's found acceptance elsewhere). In this sense, Astron-6 has been making films under the usual radar of mediocrity and steadfastly adhering to the fine Groucho Marx adage: "I refuse to join any club that would have someone like me for a member."

Imagine, if you will, any government-funded agency (especially a Canadian one), doling out taxpayer dollars to the following plot: Chris Fuchman (Mackenzie Murdoch), is a serial killer that specializes in targeting fathers for anal rape followed by further degradations, including torture, butchery and/or murder. Our madman, Fuchman (substitute :k" for "h" to pronounce name properly), turns out to be a demon from the deepest pits of hell and a ragtag team is recruited by a blind infirm Archbishop of the Catholic Church (Kevin Anderson) to fight this disgusting agent of Satan. An eyepatch-wearing tough guy (Adam Brooks), a young priest (Matthew Kennedy), the aforementioned twink male prostitute (Conor Sweeney) and hard-boiled dick (Brent Neale) and a jaw-droppingly gorgeous stripper (Amy Groening) follow the trail of this formidable foe whilst confronting all their own personal demons.

This frothy brew of vile delights includes some of the most graphic blood splattering, vicious ass-slamming violence, gratuitous nudity, skimpy attire for the ladies, 'natch (and our delectable twink), morality, evisceration, hunky lads, delicious babes, compassion, rape, fellatio, chainsaw action, wholesome content, cannibalism, hand-to-hand combat, gunplay, family values, sodomy, immolation and monsters. It's all delivered up with a cutting edge mise-en-scène that out-grindhouses Tarantino's Grindhouse and delivers thrills, scares and laughs all in equal measure.

The film's sense of humour, in spite, or perhaps because of the proper doses of scatology and juvenilia is not the typical low-brow gross-out humour one finds in so many contemporary comedies, but frankly, works on the level of satire, and as such, is of the highest order. It stylistically straddles the delicate borders great satire demands. Too many people who should know better, confuse spoof or parody with satire and certainly anyone going to see Father's Day expecting SCTV, Airplane or Blazing Saddles might be in for a rude awakening. Yes, it's just as funny as any of those classic mirth-makers, but the laughs cut deep and they're wrought, not from the typical shtick attached to spoofs, but like all great satire, derive from the entire creative team playing EVERYTHING straight. No matter how funny, absurd or outlandish the situations and dialogue are, one never senses that an annoying tongue is being drilled firmly in cheek. Astron-6 loves their material and, importantly loves their creative influences. Their target is not necessarily the STYLE of film they're rendering homage to, but rather, the hypocrisies and horrors that face humanity everyday - religion, repression, dysfunction - all wedged cleverly into the proceedings.

Clearly a great deal of the movie's power in terms of its straight-laced approach to outlandish goings-on is found in the performances - all of them are spot-on. Adam Brooks IS a stalwart hero and never does he veer from infusing his role from the virtues inherent in such roles. Hell, he could frankly be Canada's Jason Statham in conventional action movies if anyone bothered to make such movies in Canada on any regular basis. Conor Sweeney as Twink is a marvel. Not only does he play the conflicted gay street hustler "straight", he straddles that terrific balance between genuinely rendering a layered character, but also infusing his performance with melodramatic aplomb. Not only is this perfect for the character itself, but it's perfectly in keeping with the style of movie that is being lovingly celebrated.

Anyone who reads my stuff regularly will know my mantra: Melodrama is not a dirty word - it's a legitimate genre and approach to drama. There is good melodrama and bad melodrama, like any other genre. Luckily, the Astron-6 team has the joy of glorious melodrama hard-wired into their collective DNA and Sweeney's performance is especially indelible in this respect.

Brent Neale as the hard-boiled cop is, quite simply, phenomenal. Will someone out there give this actor job after job after job? The camera loves him and he knows how to play to the camera. He is clearly at home with the straight-up and melodramatic aspects of his role and most importantly, he is imbued with the sort of smoulder that makes stars - he's handsome and intense.

Astoundingly, not a single actor in this film feels out of place. Whether they're emoting straight, slightly stilted, wildly melodramatic or, on occasion (given the genre), magnificently reeking of ham, this is ensemble acting at its absolute best.

The entire movie was made on a budget of $10,000 and once again, for all the initiatives out there to generate low-budget feature films, Father's Day did it cheaper (WAY CHEAPER) and better. The movie uses its budgetary constraints not as limitations, but as a method to exploit what can be so special about movies. The visual and makeup effects as well as the art direction ooze imagination and aesthetic brilliance and it's all captured through a lens that puts its peer level and even some big budget extravaganzas to shame. Imagination is truly the key to success with no-budget movies.

The Father's Day cinematography is often garish and lurid, but delightfully and deliciously so - with first-rate lighting and excellent composition. The filmmakers and their entire team successfully render pure gold out of elements that in most low-budget films just looks cheap - or worse, blandly competent (like most low budget Canadian movies). It's total trash chic - trash art, if you must.

I attended this spectacular event in France many years ago called the FreakZone International Festival of Trash Cinema which celebrated some of the most amazing transgressive works I'd ever seen. When I expressed to the festival director that I was surprised at the level of cinematic artistry, he just smiled and said, "You North Americans have such a limited view of trash culture - for us, trash is not garbage, we use the word to describe work that is subversive." This was so refreshing. It felt like a veil had been lifted from over me and I realized what EXACTLY it was that I loved about no-budget cinema - as a filmmaker, a teacher, a critic and fan.

Making a movie for no money that is NOT subversive on every level is, frankly, just plain stupid. What's the point? And Father's Day is nothing if it's not subversive. Besides, I've seen too many young filmmakers with talent galore ruined by initiatives that purported to celebrate the virtues of no-or-low-budget filmmaking but then forced the artists to apply the idiotic expectations of "industry standards" - whatever that means, anyway. This has been especially acute in Canada, but to be fair, in other non-North American countries also, where bureaucrats make decisions and/or define the rules/parameters of filmmaking.

Father's Day and the entire canon of the Astron-6 team should be the ultimate template for filmmakers with no money to seize the day and make cool shit. That's what it should always be about. And in this case, it took the fortitude of the filmmakers, their genuinely transgressive gifts as artists AND an independent AMERICAN producer to ensure that they made the coolest shit of all.

What finally renders Father's Day special is just how transgressively intelligent it all is and yet, never turns its proverbial nose up at the straight-to-video-nasties of the 80s, the grindhouse cinema of the 60s and 70s and the weird, late night cable offerings of the early 90s. It works very much on the level of the things it loves best. This is real filmmaking - it entertains, it dazzles, it makes use of every cheap trick in the book to create MOVIE magic and finally, it's made by people who clearly care about film. They get to have their cake and eat it too by having as much fun making the movies as we have watching them.

Father's Day was unveiled at Toronto's premiere genre film event, the Toronto After Dark Film Festival 2011 where it won the grand prize of Best Film - voted on by the thousands of attendees of the festival. It will be released theatrically in early 2012 by Troma Entertainment and will be followed with the usual forays into home entertainment formats.

CORIOLANUS - Stunning Shakespeare screen adaptation from Ralph Fiennes is bloody, blistering and topical. Most of all, though, it's just plain bloody COOL!

Coriolanus (2011)
dir. Ralph Fiennes
Starring: Ralph Fiennes, Gerard Butler, Brian Cox,
Vanessa Redgrave, Jessica Chastain, James Nesbitt, John Kani, Paul Jesson

***1/2

By Greg Klymkiw

"What's the matter, you dissentious rogues
That rubbing the poor itch of your opinion,
Make yourselves scabs?" (I.i.150-152) - William Shakespeare, Coriolanus

Coriolanus: My name is Caius Marcius,
who hath done to thee particularly...
Great hurt and mischief;
thereto witness may
My surname, Coriolanus.
Butt-head: Huh huh huh. He said, "Anus."
Beavis: Coriolanus. Anus. Oh, yeah.
Butt-head: Uh, yeah. Anus.
Beavis: Yeah, yeah. Yeah, I heard it, too. Anus.
Coriolanus: The extreme dangers, and the drops of blood
Shed for my thankless country are requited
But with that surname -- a good memory.
Butt-head: What a dork.
- With Apologies to William Shakespeare and Mike Judge

Ralph Fiennes, easily one of our greatest living actors, makes an impressive feature film directorial debut with this action-packed Paul (Bloody Sunday, United 93, The Bourne Supremacy) Greengrass-like political thriller. That it's a superb, vibrant and topical adaptation of William Shakespeare's great tragedy Coriolanus is a double-layer of icing on the cake. It's an extraordinarily riveting feast for the mind and senses.

The phenomenal screenplay adaptation by John Logan (Hugo, Rango, Sweeney Todd, The Aviator) retains the glorious iambic pentameter styling of Shakespeare's rich dialogue (with de rigueur, though always exceptional cuts to the Bard of Avon's text) and sets the action in a contemporary (or very near future) Rome. Given the current financial crisis worldwide (and in particular, the utter mess Italy is currently mired in), as well as the war-zone that our world has become thanks to George W. Bush, Logan's script and Fiennes's first-rate direction of it, delivers a movie that's not only relevant to the here and now, but is proof-positive of the universal qualities inherent in great writing - no matter where and when it's written. (This movie, along with Roman Polanski's Macbeth is a sure-fire way to get any doubting-Thomas high school student - or, for that matter, just about anyone - to devour Shakespeare ravenously.)

The film is set in a Rome that has degenerated into the sort of fractioned warfare that plagued (and continues to plague) many of Europe's Balkan countries. Caius Martius Coriolanus (Ralph Fiennes) is a great warrior who has brought glory to Rome in a battle with a breakaway revolutionary force led by Tullus Aufidius (Gerard Butler). Loyal to the State to a fault, he's not done himself any favours by exerting brute force on his own people who, during the war, have been starving while stores of grain have been guarded fiercely by the forces of Coriolanus.

When our hero is offered the position of consul, he maintains his stance as a warrior, refusing to play any political games. Unable to "lower" himself to currying favour with Rome's populace, several treasonous power-hungry tribunes and senators seize this opportunity to slant things against our hero and force him into exile. Burning with rage, Coriolanus joins forces with his previous nemesis Aufidius (an equally great warrior) and together they march on Rome, decimating everything in their path.

This is quite a magnificent picture. The battle scenes are unremittingly chaotic, violent and alternately sickening and exciting. Fiennes makes excellent use of cinematographer Barry Ackroyd (The Hurt Locker, Green Zone) whose whirly-gig camera captures the battlefields of both the war zone and the political arena. Veteran editor Nicolas Gaster keeps things moving with verve while the superb percussion-heavy score by Ilan Eshkeri (Kick-Ass, Centurion) adds drive, emotional/dramatic context and flavour to the proceedings.

Blending newsreel footage with TV roundtable interviews and straight-up drama, Shakespeare's period dialogue never feels incongruous with the contemporary setting and storytelling techniques. Fiennes elicits phenomenal performances from his key cast - notably the great Brian Cox as the loyal, but doomed Menenius and an astounding Vanessa Redgrave as Volumnia, the manipulative Mom of Coriolanus.

Given that he's both behind the camera and in-front of it for so much of the film's running time, his own work as an actor never suffers. It's great looking at Fiennes's aquiline facial features and listening to him spit out his lines as if his life depended on it.

Cast-wise, the revelation here is probably Gerard Butler. I've always had a soft spot for him as an actor - especially in his kick-butt action pictures like 300 and RocknRolla, but as Fiennes' nemesis-turned-ally, he acquits himself with skill and power. His explosive line readings as Tullus Aufidius knocked me on my ass and I loved it when his Scottish brogue kicked in on overdrive.

The movie is full of great touches, but one of the more powerful moments is when Fiennes has his head shaved into full-on warrior-dome and all his men follow suit. They become an army of skinheads - bent on bloodlust, pillage and vengeance. This is what happens when men of action are betrayed by weaselly bureaucrats and it ain't a purty sight.

I had a few minor quibbles with Fiennes's mise-en-scene. While the Greengrass-like herky-jerkiness is well handled and quite appropriate for much of the action, there's a great moment where Coriolanus demands mega-mano-a-mano with Tullus Aufidius. The movie primes us for one major kick-ass head-stomper of a fight between Fiennes and Butler. Alas, where Fiennes errs as a director is continuing the herky-jerky rather than trusting in the clearly superb fight choreography.

There's also one unfortunate God's-eye-view longshot of the market when Coriolanus is led to address the "rabble". Given the care taken to make the multitudes look old-movie-style gargantuan, we unfortunately see less people on the periphery than we should. Nitpicky, yes - but so much of the movie is so good, less-than-stellar moments stick out like sore-thumbs.

Finally though, Coriolanus rocks bigtime! We get a great play rendered magnificently by a first-rate cast and one setpiece after another to remind us of the urgency, importance and magic of movies - and most of all, that of William Shakespeare.

Coriolanus is nothing if not cool, and it sure isn't nothing and it's most certainly cool.

"Coriolanus" is playing theatrically in most major cities in North America and is presented in Canada via D Films.

THE LEECH WOMAN - Some thoughts on the piercing of the pineal gland

The Leech Woman (1960)
dir. Edward Dein
Starring: Coleen Gray, Phillip Terry, Grant Williams, Gloria Talbott

***

By Greg Klymkiw

Paul and June Talbot (Coleen Gray and Phillip Terry respectively) are just your average American couple. Paul is a scientist (mad, of course) who is attempting to discover a potion that will allow him to reverse the aging process. June is his loving, booze-swilling, abused and neglected wife. The once-loving pair face the usual problems of nuptial bliss gone sour: Paul, in spite of the fact that he’s rather ugly and old, is able to instill feelings of inadequacy in his gorgeous wife who, in turn, feels old, ugly and frumpy in spite of the fact that she’s only in her mid-to-late-30s and pretty much a babe (albeit a slightly dowdy one). If only her hubby could find a way to make his better half, a truly better half.

Such are the typical concerns of Cold War America in the 50s and thankfully we have motion pictures such as The Leech Woman to provide this revealing glimpse into the lives and dreams of Joe and Josephina Average.

Directed by the competent, but otherwise unexciting Edward Dein, The Leech Woman is yet another welcome feature entry in Universal Home Video’s magnificent DVD box-set “The Classic Sci-Fi Ultimate Collection”. While, the picture is not really science fiction, but horror, that’s probably a quibble of the least important kind. What really matters is that it’s a Universal Production – always the sign of quality for genre pictures.

Being from Universal is especially welcome because the picture boasts some really fine studio production value – albeit of the low budget variety, but the kind of studio elements that can contribute rather successfully to creating a property that soars rather than sinks. For example, the pace of the picture is totally bat-out-of-hell and ultimately just the perfect running time (under 80 minutes). This should come as no surprise since the picture was edited by the legendary Universal Pictures in-house cutter Milton Carruth who provided the magnificent cinematic sheep shearing on such timeless celluloid bon-bons as Tod Browning’s Dracula, Karl Freund’s The Mummy, the famed Jimmy Stewart and Marlene Dietrich western Destry Rides Again, all of Douglas Sirk’s classic melodramas, the archetypal 50s sex comedy Pillow Talk and my personal favourites – the Francis the Talking Mule pictures.

Another added bonus to this particular Universal production is some truly excellent makeup design from in-house wizard Bud Westmore.

Most importantly, the technical credits do not overshadow some of the more entertaining and interesting aspects of this picture – namely, the almost feminist perspective on how women are forced into certain ideals by a world dominated by men and how they can get a little self-respect and, of course, payback.

Payback in this picture comes via Old Malla (veteran Broadway actress Estelle Hemsley), a mysterious African woman who appears to have the secret to age-reversal. When hubby drags his maligned wifey into the deepest, darkest jungle in search of the ingredients to restore beauty and youth - salvation and horror alternately lurk around the corner.

And they both involve the piercing of the pineal gland.

And eventually, the picture delivers up even more Universal Pictures delights – the welcome presence of the stalwart and studly Grant Williams (Incredible Shrinking Man) and the utterly cream-wrenching Gloria (I Married A Monster From Outer Space) Talbott.

And have I mentioned the piercing of the pineal gland yet?

And, even more tantalizing are the native rituals in the jungle. What self-respecting 50s genre film would NOT have native rituals in the jungle?

The Leech Woman is a supremely entertaining entry in the 50s canon of genre pictures from Universal. It’s fun, provocative and even a bit creepy.

And, uh . . . it features the piercing of the pineal gland.

"The Leech Woman” is available in the “The Classic Sci-Fi Ultimate Collection” from Universal Studios Home Entertainment.

SEX AND THE CITY 2 - Welcome to the Animal House: The entire world of this film is so reprehensible in its unbridled ode to consumerism. Set primarily against the backdrop of religious fundamentalism, misogyny and exploitation of the poor while four bourgeois sows indulge themselves (and supposedly learn something to make their pathetic lives better) is simply beyond the pale.

Sex and the City 2 (2010) *
dir. Michael Patrick King AKA The Zookeeper
Starring: Sarah Jessica Parker AKA Mr. Ed the Talking Horse, Kristin Davis AKA C.J. the Orangutan, Cynthia Nixon AKA Francis the Talking Mule, Kim Cattrall AKA Willy the Whale, Chris Noth AKA Ben the Rat and Liza Minnelli AKA Clarabelle Cow

Review By Greg Klymkiw

A few minutes into Sex and the City 2, you might find yourself wondering, "Who let the dogs out?"

Well, look in one direction and one direction only - gaze upon Michael Patrick King, the worst camera jockey (he doesn't deserve the title "director") who has ever inflicted his utter lack of taste and talent upon the silver screen. Once again, the four ratty dishrags who somehow managed to catch the attention of movie-goers the world over in the horrendous Sex and the City (based on the TV series I have never bothered to watch) are on the prowl and those of us who dare sit through all 146 minutes will have been deprived of considerable and precious time on this Earth.

Okay, let me repeat one sad fact: 146 MINUTES!!!

146 minutes in which nothing much happens save for shopping, whining, complaining, shopping, lusting, shopping, traveling, shopping, riding camels, dining, drinking, talking utter bone-headed nonsense, uttering lame double entendres and shopping.

So, where to begin?

Oh, who cares?

No... that's not fair. I am here to review the movie. I must continue.

Let's see if I can remember anything.

Have I mentioned there is... shopping?

Ah yes, I have.

Well, there are a few things I remember.

Early on in the movie, one thing I shall never forget is the sad appearance of Liza Minnelli who, playing herself, is presiding over the gay wedding of those two delightful fellows whose names I can't even remember (because I have never bothered to watch the series and I have successfully repressed the first feature). Now, the notion of Liza officiating at a gay wedding is, in theory, not too horrendous an idea. Unfortunately, she can barely utter her lines and we are forced to look at her face. Clearly suffering the ravages of plastic surgery, Minnelli makes the hatchet jobs on Joan Rivers and Phyllis Diller so palatable, that one can imagine conjuring up THEIR horrific mugs to keep an erection going when ploughing some seed into a triple-bagger.

The gay wedding sequence itself - replete with a choir of gorgeous hunks singing "Sunrise, Sunset", delightful white bridges over ponds and fountains as well as, uh... swans, is enough to make one think that such a wedding reception might well be a lot of fun for gay OR straight couples. However, whatever magic this sequence could have had goes up in a puff of smoke by the fact that Michael Patrick King can't direct. He's not even a competent TV camera jockey. The camera, during this sequence especially, is always in the wrong place at the wrong time. All we get is the IDEA of the reception rather than experiencing and seeing it as it should be.

Another unforgettable moment involves, once again, Liza Minnelli. She is forced to perform a musical number during the wedding sequence and I swear to Jesus H. Christ Almighty that I thought I was watching a female impersonator "doing" Liza. Alas, it was not to be. It WAS Liza - in the flesh, all several tonnes of it. (With all her plastic surgery, hasn't she heard of liposuction?) I also realize I am denigrating the art of female impersonators everywhere by even suggesting such a thing. Nobody, but nobody does Liza in her prime like a great female impersonator and the makers of the film might have been better off doing so rather than forcing us to submit to the abomination of the real thing.

Let's see if I can remember the plot.

Is there a plot? Hmmm. I think so.

It appears to go something like this. Carrie (Sarah the talking horse) and Mr. Big (Chris Noth, furry friend of Willard and subject of Michael Jackson's hit love song to a rat) are richer than ever and snugger than bugs in a rug in their marriage. Or are they? Carrie, damn it all, misses going to fashionable openings and nightclubs every night on Mr. Big's arm. Poor thing. Mr. Big, however, is happier staying at home with his flat-screen television. Now, given that going out on the town with Carrie means he would have to put up with one or all of her ugly, neurotic, pathetic friends put me firmly in his corner on this one.

In fact, watching Chris Noth laying back and watching a flat screen television for 146 minutes might well have had more entertainment value than anything else in this abomination.

Okay, where was I?

Oh yeah, so Carrie's getting bored with marriage. This is no surprise since she has the mind of a 12-year-old. What's up, then, with the rest of the clothes-horse buffalo herd?

Well, Charlotte (Kristin Davis, the furry co-star "Clyde" of Clint Eastwood's Every Which Way But Loose and Any Which Way You Can) is happily married and blessed with two beautiful children. But is she REALLY happy? Well, not with that pinched face of hers. She's become obsessed with thoughts of her hubby cheating on her with their Irish nanny with gargantuan bra-less pendulums.

Christ, it's hard being a woman in the modern world.

Then there's Miranda (Cynthia Nixon the talking mule). Well, all seems pretty good with her. She's as bourgeois and stupid as ever and looks like she might be the most satisfied of all the girls.

Of course, none of this would be complete without Samantha (Kim Cattrall, free as Willy the whale) who has not changed much since the last picture. She's still trying to convince herself that she has sex appeal and lusts over anything on two legs with abs of steel. She also gets one of the worst lines in movie history. Ogling a handsome man in the desert she quips, "Lawrence of my labia!"

I'm still laughing.

Are you?

When Samantha lands a free, all expenses-paid trip for herself and her three best friends to the United Arab Emirates city of Abu Dhabi, we leave the confines of New York and sally forth to a new city where the gals can do what they do best. For most of the movie's interminable running time, our bovine foursome traipses around aimlessly on this hideous vacation. They shop, they pine, they whine, they sight-see and, oh yes, they shop.

The entire world of this film is so reprehensible in its unbridled ode to consumerism, but having the sequel primarily set in a world of religious fundamentalism, misogyny and exploitation of the poor while these four bourgeois sows indulge themselves (and supposedly learn something to make their pathetic lives better) is simply beyond the pale. Not only does each woman have their own personal servant (slave), not only do they go camel riding, but they are, at one point, adorned in horrendous fashions modeled after indigenous clothes that are meant to repress the women of Abu Dhabi. It's not only stupid and dull, but it's more offensive than any of the nasty jokes I or anyone else could make about this pointless movie.

And beyond any of the above mentioned transgressions, Sex and the City 2 is like going out to the movies to watch bad television on a big screen. Replete with closeups and dull two-shots, there is absolutely nothing going on in this picture to qualify it as a feature film other than its 146 minute running time.

But then, I've mentioned the running time, haven't I?

146 minutes!

Of nothing.

I was, and still am, agog!

DID YOU HEAR ABOUT THE MORGANS? - Because any day is a good day to release a few rancid turds upon Sarah Jessica Parker, let today be that day as today is the first day of the rest of your life.

Did You Hear About The Morgans? (2009) *
Dir. Marc Lawrence
Starring: Hugh Grant, Sarah Jessica Harper, Sam Elliot and Mary Steenburgen

Review By Greg Klymkiw

HIM:
Green Acres is the place to be,
Farm living is the life for me,
Land spread about so far and wide,
Keep Manhattan and give me that countryside.
HER:
New York is where I'd rather stay,
I get allergic smelling hay,
I just adore a Penthouse view,
Darling I love you, but give me Park Avenue.

Lyrics from the immortal television situation comedy "Green Acres"

There are many attributes of abomination infusing the insufferable romantic "comedy" Did You Hear About The Morgans?, but the most obvious indignity to humanity is, of course, Ms. Sarah Jessica Parker. Voted by the astute readers of Maxim as "The Un-Sexiest Person Alive", Ms. Parker is, to my uncharitable eyes, the most repulsive leading lady to ever expunge her viscous globs of gopher guts upon the silver screen.

Inspired, however, by the good cheer of the recent Christmas season, a more humane stance was called for in consideration of the noble virtues inherent in that of the two-legged ungulate mammal. As such, I have successfully repressed the title of the great novel and film They Shoot Horses, Don't They? and instead, reminded myself that beauty is in the eye of the beholder and only skin-deep. With an earnest commitment to put aside my petty quibbles over Ms. Parker's looks, I decided instead to search beneath her equine visage and peel back the unsightly layer to glance deep into her very soul.

And what did I find?

The personality of a harridan.

So much for being charitable.

Sitting through Did You Hear About The Morgans? I was mouth agape as I bore witness to the affable shaggy-dog Hugh Grant (as a Manhattan lawyer) revealing how incalculably love-stricken he is with this braying glue factory reject. Ms. Parker purports to portray a real-estate baroness who makes the cover of New York magazine due to her apparent prowess in selling over-priced Manhattan properties to rich people.

Mr. Grant and Ms. Parker were once a lovingly married couple, but as Ms. Parker's fortunes in the real estate market rise, Mr. Grant's minimal exposure to Ms. Parker's pursed punim and castrating klafte, forces him to abandon the preferred alternative of palm action to satisfy his manly needs and instead indulge in a brief extra-marital affair. Alas, this act of dipping his wick into another vat of hot wax is the one and only straw that breaks the camel's back of their perfect marriage. (We know it was perfect because the script tells us it was.) Being separated from his filly for three long months, Mr. Grant is desperate to get her back. He successfully rustles up Ms. Parker in her horse flesh at a swanky fund-raiser for breast cancer and begs for an opportunity to spend some quality time to talk over their situation. She reluctantly agrees.

This is where the movie gets even worse and at this point, it's not all Ms. Parker's fault. The blame can be squarely shifted to the supremely untalented writer-director of this atrocity, Marc Lawrence - not just for the poor taste of casting Ms. Parker, but because he has rendered a work that reaches the nadir of his canon (as it were). Having written and directed the wretched Music and Lyrics and Two Weeks Notice, in addition to writing (so to speak) the screenplays for Miss Congeniality I and II and the grotesque remake of The Out-of-Towners and, lest we forget, his five long years of cranking out episodes of the moronic Michael J. Fox TV-series Family Ties, Mr. Lawrence has been rooted in the realm (such as it is) of "how low can one go?" and with this movie, manages to bore well below rock bottom.

Did You Hear About The Morgans? is one of the worst romantic comedies ever made - not only a paint-by-numbers rom-com, but an overblown episode of Green Acres. And that, I fear, is an insult to Green Acres.

When Mr. Grant and Ms. Parker witness a gangland slaying, they are shipped off from Manhattan to the middle of Nowheresville, Wyoming to serve out an indeterminate lngth of time in a witness protection program. The one tiny bright spot in this mess are the husband and wife U.S. Marshall team charged with guarding them, played by the attractive and delightful Sam Elliot and Mary Steenburgen. If only the movie had been about THEM. As the picture cross-pollinates with the fish-out-of-water genre, writer (as it were) Marc Lawrence, tosses in an evil hit man hell bent on tracking our couple down to rub them out.

The predictable course this journey takes is the gradual revelation that time in the wilderness is going to be an ideal backdrop for our lovebirds to get back together. We, the audience, then get to experience one "joke" after another as these dyed-in-the-wool big city folk learn the virtues of down home living, big box stores, air-brained small-town inbreds, and membership in the National Rifle Association. We even get to see Mr. Grant needing to use bear repellent and spray it in his own eyes - not just once, but - Whah-Whah! - TWICE!

In the parlance of many a New Yorker, "Oy, Gevault!"

Can the picture possibly get any worse? You bet! We're inflicted with witnessing how the rural inbreds of Wyoming come to appreciate the joys of new-fangled big-city ways in this backwards idyll.

It is, at this point, dear reader that I must admit - with some embarrassment - to literally vomiting on the floor of the theatre auditorium. I'd prefer to say the movie initiated this unexpected expulsion, but alas, I'd be a liar - it was, in fact some poorly masticated and undigested chunks of Schneider's all-beef hot dog that I purchased from the concession that managed to come up on me without enough warning to take leave of my seat.

But, I digress.

So, where does this all go? Well, it's probably no surprise that our couple reunites and that the threat of the hit man is laid to rest when the entire town of inbreds - man, woman and - YES! - child, pulls out their firearms and rescues Mr. Grant and Ms. Parker from the cold-hearted killer.

The even bigger shock is how a weakly integrated subplot of our couple's attempts to have children turns out. Earlier in the film, it's revealed that Mr. Grant is shooting blanks during the couple's indulgence in marital duties and that adoption is being pursued as an alternative to a natural childbirth that will never happen. Nowhere in the film does it suggest that it's Ms. Parker's fault for inspiring sterility in Mr. Grant, but we know better, don't we?

In any event, all wraps up sweetly when our couple adopts a baby from China, names it (I kid you not) after the small town in Wyoming where they re-discovered their love for each other AND, yes, you guessed it, Mr. Grant musters a decent shot on goal and Ms. Parker indeed becomes pregnant with her very own biologically-generated child.

All that finally remains by the end of the film is what our imagination can possibly conjure up for what might finally pop out of Ms. Parker's womb. Something, no doubt, that will make the creature that pops out of John Hurt's chest in Alien resemble Shirley Temple in Wee Willie Winkie.

BUG - Collaboration with playwright Tracy Letts yields homerun for William Friedkin, director of The Exorcist, French Connection & Cruising

Bug (2007) dir. William Friedkin
Starring: Ashley Judd, Michael Shannon, Harry Connick Jr.

****

Review By Greg Klymkiw

Without question, Bug is one of the most compelling, terrifying and compulsively watchable pictures to grace the screen in quite some time. Directed by William Friedkin, that venerable master of all that can be deliciously and artfully nasty-minded in cinema, it is a picture that some might even view as a bit of a comeback for the filmmaker who unleashed, among many others, The Exorcist, The French Connection and Cruising. I am, however, not all that fond of the notion of comebacks – especially as they relate to men of Friedkin’s talent and vision – as Norma Desmond said, “it’s the pictures that got smaller”, and certainly in the case of Friedkin, the motion picture industry and the marketplace itself has changed, and certainly not for the better.

Bug tells the seemingly simple tale of a lonely working class woman (Ashley Judd) who finds a glimmer of happiness with a mysterious handsome stranger (Michael Shannon), only to be drawn into his web of paranoia. By finding love, they also discover pain, and eventually true happiness proves to be as elusive and delusional as their respective and, finally, collective states of mind.

In the end, does this really sound that simple? To be frank, it isn’t. In fact, one almost wants to avoid lavishing too much (or even any) attention to the plot since, for most of the picture’s running time, Bug careens madly into very dangerous and surprising territory. So surprising, in fact, that one of the minor disappointments is that the script by Tracy Letts (from his play of the same name) veers into some not-so-surprising territory in the last third of the picture’s running time.

However, for the first two-thirds of the picture, one never really gets a handle on where it is going. And in an age of cookie-cutter story telling, being surprised with every turn is not only rare, but in the case of Bug, supremely engaging and, even during some especially stomach-turning moments, entertainment of the highest order.

Friedkin is responsible for so much of this. Based on a theatrical piece, the movie wisely does not betray its roots but enhances them in a wholly cinematic way. Since most of the picture involves two people (with a handful of occasional “interlopers”) in one motel room, this could have (in less capable hands) been a dull, dreary mess. Friedkin keeps us glued to the screen with a keen eye that makes every shot a pleasure to look at, but also resonating with dramatic intensity. Not that the style is intrusive or obvious – it is, in fact, a delicious bird’s eye view of two people spiraling into a pit of insanity presented with verve and honesty.

This should come as no surprise to Friedkin followers. His early career as a documentary filmmaker in addition to his years of experience as a visual storyteller serves him very well. He has also adapted theatre to the big screen – most notably with the slightly dated, but still groundbreaking motion picture of Mart Crowley’s play The Boys In The Band. Friedkin is not one of those filmmakers who fall into the cliché of having to unnaturally “open up” a theatrical work and/or gussy it up with overly fussy visual details. Friedkin embraces the proscenium in a variety of inventive ways – preserving the claustrophobic intensity of the piece, but allowing it to still breathe as a work of cinema.

But perhaps Friedkin’s greatest gift as a storyteller is his audacity. When necessary, he will push the boundaries, up the ante and shove us headfirst into territory that most filmmakers who prefer to hide from or even worse, try to mute. Not Friedkin. He ‘rub our noses’ in the worlds of his various films and succeeds admirably.

Can anyone forget how far Friedkin took us in The Exorcist? Developing compelling characters and charting their journeys with the precision of a master documentarian and slowly building to a series of crescendos in which he earned and flung all manner of visceral atrocities in our face. Friedkin ensured that The Exorcist would be a true classic with lasting value by never forgetting that movies are a rollercoaster ride and that one must build to the peaks and valleys of terror with skill and precision to make sure that the moments of viscera stay with us forever.

With Cruising, Friedkin blended the tried and true ‘policier’ with a descent into a sexy, thrilling, Bosch-like world of gay S&M clubs. Some found this offensive and/or homophobic - too bad for them. They lose. It was supposed to be thrilling. And so it was.

And in The French Connection who can ever forget the moments of utter terror behind the wheel of Gene Hackman’s speeding car as it tore through the grubby, crowded streets of New York in pursuit of a train?

With Bug, Friedkin takes us on an equally compelling rollercoaster ride. As thrilling and memorable as the ride is, there is a point in the story where one gets a nagging feeling that it could go in a certain and potentially ho-hum direction, but because the picture has been surprising you all along and because the ride has been so happily infused with style, you repress your doubts and believe it will go into more unpredictable directions. The ride continues and it is still thrilling, but the eventual outcome was what you will, no doubt, have predicted at that earlier juncture. This is a bit of a drag.

But no matter: there are so few movies around these days as provocative and stunningly directed as Bug that one can forgive a flaw that would sink most other pictures.

The performance Friedkin coaxes from a slightly de-glammed, but still delectably sexy Ashley Judd is a tour-de-force – ranging from shy submission to out and out over-the-top insanity. Michael Shannon has had plenty of time to perfect his performance as the paranoid war vet on the stage, but he seems as fresh as if he were doing it for the first time. And in a supporting role as Judd’s psychotically abusive ex, Harry Connick Jr. shocks and surprises with a performance that is as sexy as it is terrifying.

Bug is a must-see motion picture. Even if you end up hating it, you’ll probably admire it anyway for both audacity and Friedkin's relentless directorial virtuosity.

THE KILLER SHREWS - Review By Greg Klymkiw - A Son of the Pioneers not only became "Festus" on GUNSMOKE, but produced this movie!!!

The Killer Shrews (1958) dir. Ray Kellogg
Starring: James Best, Ken Curtis, Ingrid Goude

***

Review By Greg Klymkiw

Ken Curtis is known to most of us for his long and distinguished career as an actor – from his musical appearances with the magnificent Sons of the Pioneers in numerous John Ford westerns (including his immortal turn as the guffawing clodhopper in The Searchers) to his long-running role as "Festus" the town drunk in the legendary TV western Gunsmoke. These achievements surely pale in comparison to the cherry on the chocolate fudge sundae that is Ken Curtis’s career - he was also the visionary producer of The Killer Shrews.

This extremely entertaining B-movie begins with extremely portentous narration informing us that shrews are nasty little beasts. If we take these scientific facts to heart, it appears that shrews put Hannibal Lecter’s (and presumably Robert Pickton’s) piggies to shame. From here we are plunged onto the bargain basement Dr. Moreau-like island where shrews have been bred all big and nasty by some mad scientist types. It's never explained why they choose shrews for their nefarious attempts at playing God, but one supposes we must take the aforementioned narration as reason enough.

The island is populated by a wide variety of local natives (shrew-fodder), a babe and a villainous heavy (played by Curtis himself). They eventually encounter a stalwart sea captain and his Stepin Fetchit-like sidekick who come to sniff out the dirty doings in this tropical paradise.

Much of the plot, such as it is, revolves around the captain trying to put the make on the babe who is inexplicably involved romantically with the seemingly psychotic Ken Curtis while shrews attack the inhabitants of the island.

As this movie clearly pre-dates CGI, the killer shrews are enterprisingly rendered by utilizing dogs with stringy mops affixed to their backs and huge vampire beaver teeth gaffer-taped and/or glued to the insides of their mouths.

I dare Industrial, Light and Magic to beat that!

The movie is surprisingly replete with thrills and they're reasonably genuine. This is no surprise as the proceedings are directed efficiently by famed special effects man and second unit director Ray Kellogg (making his directorial debut here). Let’s not forget that Kellogg was hand-picked years after this film by John (Our Father) Wayne to direct The Green Berets.

Then again, perhaps we DO want to forget that.

You will not, however, want to forget The Killer Shrews.

I dare you to try.

Legend Films has released “The Killer Shrews” in a terrific DVD that features a delightful bevy of special features including a terrifically colorized version, the original black and white version, some oddly amusing factoids on shrews, a bunch of period trailers from B pictures, an astounding 50s educational film titled “Squeak the Squirrel” and an entire second feature in a double bill (the incredibly lame “Giant Gila Monster” which is of interest only as the second Ken Curtis – Ray Kellogg collaboration).

THE SWELL SEASON - Review By Greg Klymkiw - Lovebirds of ONCE make beautiful music together in new documentary about their concert tour wherein they fall sadly out of love.

The Swell Season (2011)
dir. Nick August-Perna, Chris Dapkins & Carlo Mirabella-Davis
Starring: Glen Hansard and Markéta Irglová

***

(**1/2 if you hated the movie Once, *1/2 if you hated the music too)

Review By Greg Klymkiw

Music is the tie that binds. It's also a universal language - kind of like love. Glen Hansard and Markéta Irglová starred in the huge independent hit movie Once. Written and directed by John Carney, shot on tape for almost zero dollars over a three-week period in 2006, the movie went on to become a multi-million dollar grosser, a prize-winner at Sundance and even more miraculously, copped the 2008 Oscars for Best Achievement in Music Written for Motion Pictures and Best Original Song ("Falling Slowly").

Its stars (who triple-played as singers and composers) were complete unknowns. Hansard had been a busker in Dublin for years and Irglová was a recent immigrant from the Czech Republic. The movie was a delicate love story between two characters who, through a chance meeting on the streets of Dublin, become musical collaborators. As the movie progresses, the characters eventually fall for each other and the songs they write chart their ever-deepening love.

The movie almost sickened me. "Almost" is the operative word. In spite of its twee whimsy, I was, by the end of the movie, sold on its strange, unique (albeit earnest) beauty and that damn song "Falling Slowly" was rooted in my brain for much longer than I would want it to be.

The movie itself and the tale of the movie's success are both Cinderella stories. The story of what eventually happened to Hansard and Irglová is charted in the new documentary The Swell Season and while the Cinderella story continues, it comes to a most unhappy ending.

The movie follows the singer-composers, separated by almost 20 years in age, as they begin a worldwide tour with their band "The Swell Season". The two had actually fallen in love and during the first half of the movie, as we see them rehearse, play huge concerts, kibitz backstage, spend quiet time together and visit with their respective families. They definitely seem joined at the hip in ALL respects and most importantly, it's clear how deeply in love they are. The second half of the movie takes a tragic turn. In this sense, the filmmakers were really lucky, since I suspect a straightforward concert film of these two might have proven pretty intolerable for anyone but their most diehard fans.

The toil of the road, their age difference and a very affecting personal tragedy all contribute to their relationship falling apart in every respect - other than their symbiotic MUSICAL relationship.

It's definitely an interesting and watchable movie, especially for anyone who loved Once, but the filmmaking is competent at best and as an exploration of a musical subject, it certainly lacks the extraordinary power of something like Paul Williams Still Alive - a picture with an astoundingly dynamic subject and directed with genuine filmmaking savvy and artistry. The Swell Season attempts to mask its competence by presenting the movie in monochrome tones, but this seems a bit more pretentious rather than being appropriate. That said, the tones work whenever we focus on Hansard and his very strange family.

What seems odd is that the movie presents very little of Irglová's family and background, placing most of the emphasis on Hansard. Perhaps he just seemed more interesting to the filmmakers or, as I suspect, Irglová simply doesn't have Hansard's depth of life-experience as she displays in some of the latter "argument" scenes. For me, Hansard seemed like the voice of reason and a true artist, while Irglová felt a bit like a modest talent who stumbled into something a bit over her head - aesthetically and emotionally.

Luckily and happily, as with any movie (especially one that is shot mostly hand-held), the sound is first-rate and seeing the movie on a big screen with a great audio system would be a real pleasure.

In this sense, The Swell Season is a Cinderella story of two solitudes.

"The Swell Season" is currently in theatrical release. In Canada, the film is playing at two exquisite independent venues, The Royal Cinema in Toronto and Vancity in Vancouver and is being released via Mongrel Media.

A DANGEROUS METHOD - Review By Greg Klymkiw - Cronenberg's boring Masterpiece Theatre episode of "Jung and the Art of Spanking" is now in theatrical release. Please avoid it!

A Dangerous Method (2011) dir. David Cronenberg
Starring: Michael Fassbender, Viggo Mortensen and Keira Knightley

*

Review By Greg Klymkiw

When David Cronenberg is good, he is very, very good.

When he is bad, he’s cerebral.

A Dangerous Method is dour, dull and decidedly humourless. That said, the first few minutes do suggest we’re in for a hootenanny of the highest order. The score, oozing with portent over a twitching, howling, clearly bonkers Keira Knightley, thrashing about in a horse-drawn carriage as it hurtles towards Carl Jung’s Swiss nuthouse, initially suggested a belly flop into the maw first pried open by such Cold War wacko-fests like The Snake Pit or Shock Corridor.

Alas, Cronenberg seems to have abandoned his pulp sensibilities and instead appears to be making an Atom Egoyan movie fused with Masterpiece Theatre. Sorry David, Atom Egoyan makes the best Atom Egoyan movies. And Egoyan has never, nor will he ever make Masterpiece Theatre. However, if Cronenberg himself genuinely fused Masterpiece Theatre with The Snake Pit and, say, Salon Kitty or The Story of O, with dollops of the madhouse scenes in Ken Russell's The Music Lovers, then he might have generated something not guaranteed to induce snores.

Cronenberg’s unwelcome return to the cold and clinical approach from his pre-Eastern Promises and A History of Violence oeuvres quashes all hope for a rollicking good wallow in lunacy.

Come on, David, we’re dealing with psychoanalysis and sex here.

A little oomph might have been in order. (Or as Norman Jewison is wont to say, "A little bit of the old razzle-dazzle.")

Lord knows Cronenberg’s dealt deliciously with psychoanalysis and sex before – most notably in The Brood. It starred a visibly inebriated Oliver Reed, crazily cooing about "the Shape of Rage" amid spurts of horrific violence laced with a riveting creepy tone. Most notably the movie provided us with the indelible image of a semi-nude, utterly barmy Samantha Eggar adorned with monstrous pus sacks dangling from her flesh, licking globs of gooey, chunky afterbirth from a glistening mutant baby expunged from one of the aforementioned pus sacks.

Now, THAT'S entertainment!

Annoyingly, no similar shenanigans are on view in A Dangerous Method. It’s pretty much a Masterpiece Theatre-styled period chamber drama with with Carl Jung (Michael Fassbender) jousting with his mentor-rival Sigmund Freud (Viggo Mortensen) betwixt spanking sessions with Keira Knightley, a daft want-to-be-psychiatrist with Daddy issues.

Sadly, no proper views of open palms connecting with buttocks or slap imprints on said buttocks are afforded to us.

A pity.

DELIVERANCE - John Boorman delivered one of the truly great American films of all time. It took aesthetic risks and very REAL risks. It was, frankly, dangerous - REALLY dangerous - to make this movie. REAL men in REAL canoes on a REAL river - A REALLY FUCKING DANGEROUS RIVER.

Deliverance (1972) dir. John Boorman
Starring: Jon Voight, Burt Reynolds, Ned Beatty, Ronny Cox and Bill McKinney

*****

Review By Greg Klymkiw

In this day and age, is it possible to imagine a filmmaker assembling a cast and crew willing to risk life and/or limb to make a movie? Not just any movie, mind you - I'm talking about a movie of such importance that rendering it properly would be so fraught with peril that the production company would never be able to secure anything resembling insurance.

Furthermore, would one be able to find in today's landscape a financier with the balls to green-light a movie so dangerous to its participants that the picture and the very act of making it would seem, to any reasonable individual, a completely irresponsible act? In an industry increasingly ruled by lawyers, accountants, insurance agents, frail, sensitive actors and their weak-kneed handlers and worst of all, powder-puff movie executives and administrators who can only do business by dotting all the "I-s" and crossing all the "T-s" , my answer to the abovementioned questions would be a pure and simple, "I think not". (Though a recent exception to this rule might be Tom Cruise's insane stunts in Mission Impossible: Ghost Protocol, though the movie itself is hardly a risk-taker in any other sense of the word.)

That anyone would risk ANYTHING to make a movie at all these days seems to be a rare occurrence and with the lack of risk-taking at all levels of the industry, I sincerely doubt John Boorman's stunning adaptation of James Dickey's novel Deliverance would even be made today.

Well, I suppose it would and could be made in today's climate of caution, but it would be awful, or at best - not nearly as good - at least not if it was made with the sort of punch-pulling, namby-pambiness that renders most everything these days as inconsequentially trite. Most pictures - especially today - will choose to use a battery of stunt men to take the places of actual actors engaging in acts of derring-do, while digital effects would make up for being able to take the time, trouble and decidedly risky business to actually capture on film those said acts of derring-do.

One of the many things that contributes to the greatness of Deliverance is that we see real men in real canoes on a real (and really fucking dangerous) river. In fact, when I used the Blu-Ray technology to scan the more insane stunts, I was only able to detect one - COUNT 'EM - one instance where a stunt man was used.

And I was right - when I scanned through the generous extra features on the recently-released Warners Blu-Ray disc, my own findings were corroborated.

With Deliverance, what we see is what we get - four great actors risking their very lives to make this movie. The film is packed with several terrifying instances of this, but two of them stand out.

The first is when a characters's canoe turns over on the raging waters and he cascades over a rocky indent and plunges in such an awkward manner that the CHARACTER breaks his leg. Watching the actor in question during the aftermath as he is carried along by the current, the pain on his face is so palpable that when it's finally revealed that his bone is actually jutting out of his thigh, there's no doubting his pain. While the actor in question didn't break his leg for real, he did, in fact, break his coccyx. The pain we witness is not only "in character", but it is real.

The other terrifying moment is witnessing one of the characters scaling a huge, treacherous rock cliff. It's an extremely harrowing scene and even more so when you start to realize that this is the actual actor scaling the actual cliff. To say this enhances the drama would be an understatement. (And never mind the actor - think of the camera people and director who would have been dangling perilously with the actor to capture these harrowing shots.) Narratively, his goal is one of life and death. If he does not accomplish his mission, everyone in the party is lost - therefore, the narrative importance of making this real cannot be underestimated.

And why, you ask, is the character scaling this cliff armed with a crossbow gun? And just who is the grizzled, toothless psychopath waiting at the top with one mean-ass shotgun Well, by now, only those living on the moons of Jupiter DON'T know what Deliverance is about.

Briefly then, for the Jupiter-Moon-dwellers, four city slickers take a weekend canoe trip along a raging river in the deep South that will soon be flooded and consumed by a huge, man-made lake. When they are attacked by crazed hillbillies with a penchant for forcible sodomy, they must not only survive the perils of nature, but dig deep to discover their dormant savage nature and defend themselves at all costs. It's pure and simple and through that purity and simplicity, the filmmakers have delivered an astoundingly rich and complex work.

With his novel, the late, great American poet James Dickey used this simple narrative coat hanger to explore man's relationship to nature and his inner beast. Director John Boorman pushed the simple narrative further to explore the notion of the effects of man playing God and the results of trying to beat and/or control nature. Clearly a perfect creative team, Dickey (who also wrote the screenplay adaptation) and director Boorman, successfully collaborated on a movie that thrills us viscerally and engages us intellectually and finally, just plain scares the shit out of us.

And to reiterate, it's not just the action and suspense that grabs us. The characters are perfectly etched and rendered. The four motley city slickers are a typical mixed-bag, not just for the drama, but are, like life itself, a microcosm of people we all know - including, perhaps, ourselves.

Lewis (Burt Reynolds) is Mr. Macho Man - he loves nature, he loves danger and he's as gifted in traversing raging white water as he is with using a cross-bow to secure their food and, eventually, to defend themselves against the toothless, drooling, inbred, sodomy-loving hillbillies (Bill McKinney and Herbert "Cowboy" Coward).

Ed (Jon Voight) is, by default, a rugged-enough hunk, but he has suppressed his true nature so long that it takes quite awhile to find the way back to manliness.

Drew (Ronny Cox) is a guitar-picking, folk-singing bleeding heart Liberal who also gets to be part of a scene that has already - among several in this movie - become indelibly etched on the memory banks all who see it. Drew is front and centre of the "duet" sequence involving the traditional backwoods song "Dueling Banjos".

And last, and certainly not least, Bobby (Ned Beatty) is a jovial, ribald, bumbling fat man who suffers the most savage indignity and learns to "squeal like a pig" in a scene that is so horrific that it's both painful to watch and unforgettable.

These four men are strange bedfellows, but it's their very differences that make them a good team and ideal company for each other.

Boorman attacks the material with both intelligence and ferocity. Supported by the stunning location photography of the brilliant Vilmos Zsigmond, Deliverance is a movie that knocks you on your ass the first time you see it and is so exquisitely rendered that repeat viewings never disappoint. The picture continues to creep you out, thrill you and stimulate the old brain juice - again and again and again.

Another astonishing thing about Deliverance is that its stylistic and storytelling techniques are not dated. It feels as fresh and vibrant today as when it was made back in 1972. On one hand, it is a product of its time in that it explores such dangerous territory unflinchingly, but aside from some big-ass old cars that nobody drives anymore, it feels like it could have been made yesterday.

Finally, that's what renders it a classic. There's nothing ephemeral about this movie.

It is a picture for now and forever.

And that's why it's a masterpiece.

"Deliverance" is available on Blu-Ray from Warner Home Video. It's an astounding transfer that happily and wisely does not attempt to blunt the raw quality of Zsigmond's photography which, by the way, has some of the finest day for night work in cinema history. On HD, it's as stunning as it was when I first saw it on a big screen in 1972.

THE MAJOR AND THE MINOR - Review By Greg Klymkiw - Romantic Comedy with pedophilic overtones. Made in Hollywood. In 1942. 1942? Well, it IS Billy Wilder's directorial debut.

The Major and the Minor (1942) dir. Billy Wilder
Starring: Ginger Rogers, Ray Milland, Robert Benchley, Rita Johnson and Diana Lynn

****

Review By Greg Klymkiw

“Why don’t you step out of that wet coat and into a dry martini?”

Ever hear (or use) that one before? (Or variations on that theme?)

Well, thanks to screenwriters Billy Wilder and Charles Brackett, the abovementioned come-on line from their wickedly diseased minds splashed onto celluloid in 1942’s “The Major and the Minor”, Wilder’s debut in America as a director.

Though filmmakers during this period had to deal with significant censorship because of the restrictive production code, Wilder managed to make movies that flouted the code persistently by brightly and fiercely presenting all manner of permissiveness in a multitude of new and exciting ways. With “The Major and the Minor”, Wilder would pull some rather substantial wool over the eyes of the Code – and what magnificent wool-pulling it proved to be!

The picture features saucy, sexy, vivacious Ginger Rogers as small-town girl Susan Applegate who tries – rather unsuccessfully – to make a go of it in the concrete jungles of New York. Tired of all the wolves that want just one thing (and one thing only – right fellas?) from her supple self, she’s compelled to beat a hasty retreat back to middle America after the abovementioned martini line slithers out of the slavering mouth of horny reprobate Albert Osborne (Robert Benchley). Osborne refuses to take “no” for an answer - insistently endeavoring to get into Susan’s panties. She is forced to resist in a manner that betrays her almost veteran-like stature in having to expertly rebuff similar unwanted amorous advances.

Once at the train station to escape the dogs, as it were, of New York, she realizes she is short a few dollars for the ticket back home and gets the idea to do a makeover (pigtails, lollipop, balloon, etc.) to qualify for a child’s discount ticket. The ruse gets her a ticket, but once on the train, she’s pursued by some skeptical conductors and finds herself hiding in the compartment of a handsome young officer, Major Phillip Kirby (dashing Ray Milland). The Major takes an instant liking to this lollipop-licking “12-year-old” (who, befitting her pre-teen “age”, is referred to as “Sue-Sue” rather than “Susan”) and in an initially innocent, fatherly way Kirby becomes Susan’s saviour and benefactor – not only securing her safely on the train, but temporarily putting her up at his fiancé’s family estate.

It is here, amongst high society, where Lucy (Diana Lynn) a real 12-year-old (and little sister to Phillip’s fiancé) engages in sibling rivalry in extremis and helps Susan steal Phillip’s heart from her nasty, cold fish older sister. And it is also here that amongst the upper crust where the Major disconcertingly appears to be falling in love with a 12-year-old girl.

We, the audience, have had no doubt the Major would fall for Susan, but it starts getting just a little bit strange that the charade continues quite as long as it does. Yes, Susan knows she’s 30 and we know she’s 30 and Lucy knows she’s 30, but the Major most certainly does NOT. In fact, as he’s a teacher of young military cadets, he even seems to be setting his “Sue-Sue” up with any number of his students. He seems to be downright pimping Susan – perhaps to quell his own feelings for her.

Amusingly, but also tellingly, Susan – once the recipient of unwanted attentions from much older men (when she “was” 30) is now, at the age of 12 being hounded by young teenage boys.

On the surface, The Major and the Minor seems to be as frothy and inconsequential a romantic comedy as one is likely to experience. As the film progresses however, you realize it’s pure cynical Billy Wilder and while thoroughly bubbly, it’s not inconsequential in any way, shape or form. Substantially ahead of its time in terms of examining the sexual roles of men and women, and in particular, the way in which women are sexualized by men and society at practically any age, this proves to be a picture that does the requisite double duty of being entertaining and thought provoking all at once.

Finally, one of the more interesting aspects of this picture in terms of how women are viewed by men and by society at large is the fact that Susan is not – even for a moment – a convincing 12-year-old to the REAL 12-year-old and, in actuality, often acts far more immature than a 12-year-old actually would. The fact that a grown man AND teenage boys STILL seem attracted to this 12-year-old who might actually be younger or, at the very least, MORE immature seems to suggest the pedophilic nature inherent in ALL men.

“The Major and the Minor” is an extraordinary picture. It’s funny as hell and even romantic, but it’s also super-creepy. Some might suggest the creep factor was not Wilder’s intent, but one only needs look at his subsequent work (“Double Indemnity”, “The Apartment”, “Sunset Boulevard”, etc.) to realize that there’s no reason why it would NOT be intentional.

Wilder was nothing if not provocative. Watching this movie and comparing it to contemporary want-to-be provocateurs like Todd Solondz and his ilk, it becomes especially apparent how ahead of the pack Wilder was – ahead of the pack, ahead of his time and, to a certain extent, ahead of our time also. Wilder was and is, in fact, the real thing, while those who try to do the same thing now in their insufferably hip fashion are not much more than poseurs. Wilder is definitely a major. Most of the rest are minor.

“The Major and the Minor” is available on DVD from Universal Studios Home Entertainment.

DR. CYCLOPS - Review By Greg Klymkiw - Fun addition to work of great fantasy-adventure director Ernest B. Schoedsack

Dr. Cyclops (1940) dir. Ernest B. Schoedsack
Starring: Albert Dekker, Thomas Coley, Janice Logan

***1/2

Review By Greg Klymkiw

The director of Dr. Cyclops, Ernest B. Schoedsack, had a life that rivaled the adventures experienced by many of the characters that populated his motion pictures.

At the age of 12, Schoedsack ran away from home. By the age of 17, he was a motion picture cameraman for the legendary comedy producer Mack Sennett. At the tender age of 23, he joined the signal corps as a cinematographer and spent much of World War I in the thick of the most horrendous battles, photographing their every detail. After the armistice was signed, he paired up with another young adventurer (Merian C. Cooper) and the two of them became involved in the anti-Bolshevik movement in Russia, Ukraine and Poland.

And this was all before he became the groundbreaking director of some of cinema’s greatest adventures.

While it’s not necessary to know the breadth of Schoedsack’s considerable life experience in order to enjoy his motion pictures, there’s something that’s both moving and admirable to know that adventure fantasies such as King Kong, The Four Feathers, The Last Days of Pompeii and The Most Dangerous Game came from an imagination that was tempered with having seen and done so much as a young man. Schoedsack’s work is imbued with a sense of wonder, adventure and, most importantly, exploration. What’s especially amazing about Schoedsack’s work on Dr. Cyclops is realizing that it was made in 1940.

1940!!!

Schoedsack, endowed as he was with a great eye and a knack for special effects was – to put it mildly – one hell of a photographer and filmmaker. His work in this picture laid the visual groundwork (as Kong most certainly did) for generations of films and filmmakers to follow.

Dr. Cyclops is the fun and thrilling tale of a truly mad scientist (deliciously and brilliantly portrayed by the bald and coke-bottle-lensed Albert Dekker) who uses radium to shrink people and animals alike in a crazed attempt to rule the world. The picture not only features staggeringly gorgeous three-strip Technicolor photography, but a variety of eye-popping special effects that, for their day, would have knocked people on their buttocks and which are, even by today’s standards, quite magical.

The heroes and heroines of the piece pale, of course, beside the tragically obsessive central character who is both literally and figuratively blinded – as the title even implies – but this too is par for the course in a sci-fi melodrama on the scale of this one, and while familiar, it fits comfortably like a comfy, old sweater.

Dr. Cyclops is not the masterpiece that King Kong was, but in its own special way, it was definitely ahead of its time in terms of both special effects and political/historical considerations and it amply provides solid entertainment to anyone who loves genre pictures. The picture’s exploration of a “foreign” enemy wanting to experiment upon and ultimately subjugate American interests also pre-dates that attitudes so prevalent over one decade later during the sci-fi pictures made during the Cold War.

Dr. Cyclops is a most welcome addition to the second volume of Universal’s magnificent DVD box-set entitled The Classic Sci-Fi Ultimate Collection. It’s a gorgeous transfer of a fine little picture and while it’s certainly worth renting, the price point on this box is so reasonable that fans would be well advised to just buy it.

THE NEW CENTURIONS - Review By Greg Klymkiw - Richard Fleischer's screen adaptation of former LAPD cop Joseph Wambaugh's first bestselling novel delivers a dramatic, but realistic front-lines approach to a world that most of us couldn’t even begin to imagine.

The New Centurions (1972) dir. Richard Fleischer
Starring: George C. Scott, Stacy Keach, Jane Alexander, Clifton James, Scott Wilson, Erik Estrada, Rosalind Cash, Isabel Sanford, James Sikking and William Atherton

***

Review By Greg Klymkiw

It’s always a pleasure to extol the considerable virtues of Richard Fleischer, one of the most overlooked and underrated American directors, even when the picture in question is not one of his best works. The New Centurions is a movie that, at least for me, plops squarely into the category of work I loved as a kid that hasn't held up as well as I’d hoped. That said, it has much to recommend it – most notably, a great George C. Scott performance and a generally fine first two-thirds. If there are major problems with the film, they probably lie with Stirling Silliphant’s erratic screenplay adaptation of Joseph Wambaugh’s groundbreaking, best-selling novel.

Wambaugh is, of course, the former LAPD cop-turned-novelist whose books captured the day-to-day grind of police life sans shoot-em-up glorification – a dramatic, but realistic front-lines approach to a world that most of us couldn’t even begin to imagine. Fleischer’s movie version, from a directorial standpoint, often does an excellent job in this respect. Taking us from the graduation of rookie cop Roy Fehler (Stacy Keach) and his on-the-job training under the tutelage of grand, old man of the force; the wizened, cynical Andy Kilvinski (George C. Scott), a good part of this journey offers considerable entertainment value. With the dark grainy lighting and camerawork of Ralph Woolsey, Fleischer gets us through the nightly grind of patrol cops in an almost documentary-like flavour.

For the most part, this is no standard-issue genre fare as we follow the cops on a series of almost mundane adventures – domestic disputes, child abuse cases, petty theft, grifting and in one of the movie’s more amusing segments, the rounding up of streetwalkers, shoving them into the back of a paddy wagon and getting them boozed up so they can’t ply their trade. The film also focuses on the cops’ bouts with alcoholism and marital strife. All of this is peppered with George C. Scott's Kilvinski who regales his rookie charge with all manner of crusty wisdom and gallows humour.

For 1972, this was certainly groundbreaking material.

My first helping of the picture was at the tender age of 12 and I saw it with my ex-cop Dad. As a movie, it was definitely unlike the usual father-and-son fare in the de-glamorization of the cops’ lives and I also recall my own father responding very positively to the movie in that it had “less bullshit” than other cop pictures. Seen now, though, it’s a movie that scores points for being the first of its kind in the mainstream, but alas, loses considerable steam as Silliphant’s script maintains the episodic structure of Wambaugh’s book without finding a compelling enough backbone to hang it on cinematically. The script also adds, all on its lonesome, clunky and clichéd verbiage in strange contrast to the dialogue that crackles as well as plot elements that feel too stock.

This seems especially odd since Silliphant did such a fine job adapting the classic cop novel on which Norman Jewison’s In The Heat of the Night is based. With that film, Silliphant was able to deftly sift the best and most cinematic elements in the original source material by John Ball, while adding the proper connective tissue to make the picture a cohesive whole. The New Centurions by comparison is messy, lurching from one episode to another and never quite capturing the sense of time passing in a smooth manner.

There are other problems with the picture. When the character of Kilvinski tragically departs from the story, the rest of the movie can’t quite rise to Scott’s level of performance and his presence, or lack thereof in the latter third. Scott's rendering of this character is so powerful it almost seems like movie’s only raison d'être.

Alas, the marital difficulties portrayed border on soap opera. It's bad melodrama, pure and simple. It doesn’t help that actress Jane Alexander portrays Stacy Keach’s wife with such ramrod-like seriousness that she comes off like a harridan on lithium. Equally unexceptional is a subplot involving the gorgeous Rosalind Cash as Keach's fresh love interest. In theory, both of these SEEM necessary, but feel shoehorned in to the proceedings rather than flowing naturally from them.

Even more bothersome is the rather interesting cast of supporting characters who are introduced, then dropped, with no visible effort to fully integrate them into the whole. Part or this is definitely a script issue, but in fairness to Siliphant, this and some of the other structural failings could well be coming from studio-imposed cuts to bring the movie closer to traditional cops n' robbers fare. (There is even a well directed, but completely out of place car stunt that feels like it belongs to another movie.)

All this said, though, Fleischer keeps the action moving with his typical efficiency and he works overtime to deliver a sense of the streets and the day-to-day aspects of police work. Some of the banter of the cops themselves (both on patrol and in the station house is gorgeously rendered. There are individual scenes and sequences that soar in spite of the screenplay's flawed structure. Some are simply unforgettable.

Scott’s rendition of “Kilvinski’s Law”, the character’s off-the-book sage advice, is a marvel to behold. Nobody but Scott could do full justice to nuggets like: "Treat everybody the same - white, black, brown. Be civil to everybody, courteous to no one. We're supposed to use equal force. If a dude uses his fists, you use your stick. If he uses a knife, you use your gun - cancel his ticket right then and there. If everything else fails, hit him with a brick."

Other fine moments include a terrifying scene where the cops rescue a baby from being burned and beaten by its neglectful mother, an especially hilarious sequence involving the entrapment of a seven-foot lumberjack “fruit” seeking manly amore in a local park and George C. Scott’s final monologue which is not only heartbreakingly performed, but one of the few moments that achieves what the whole movie aspires to.

Besides, where else is one going to see Mrs. Jefferson herself (Isabel Sanford) playing a foul-mouthed, fat-assed, soul-infused street whore? That gal definitely was “a movin’ on up”.

Oh, and have I mentioned the movie has one major-league groovy Quincy Jones score?

“The New Centurions” is available on DVD from Sony Pictures in their Martini Movies series.

THE CULT OF THE COBRA - Review By Greg Klymkiw - What is Lamia? 'Tis the head and breast of a woman… and the body of a… SERPENT!!! Now you know.

HAPPY UKRAINIAN BOXING DAY! Continuing the tradition of steering you towards awe-inspiring work in this season of goodwill, Greg Klymkiw's CFC presents a KLYMKIW FILM CORNER review of…

THE CULT OF THE COBRA
(Nothing to do with Ukrainians save for the fact that this review is written by a Uke.)

Cult Of The Cobra (1955) dir. Francis D. Lyon
Starring: Faith Domergue, Richard Long, Marshall Thompson, David Janssen

***

By Greg Klymkiw

While one cannot justify delivering more than two-and-a-half stars for this copycat of Val Lewton’s The Cat People, it is a rating that doesn’t adequately represent the picture’s considerable entertainment value and its extremely interesting commentary on post-war life in America, so screw it! I'm giving this thing three stars.

Cult of the Cobra is another film from Universal Home Video’s magnificent DVD box-set “The Classic Sci-Fi Ultimate Collection” and though it lacks panache (save for the terrific cinematography of Russell Metty), it represents just the sort of picture that home consumption appears to have been invented for – a medium to deliver product that might otherwise be consigned to a slag-heap of forgotten cinematic refuse. And for Cult of the Cobra, the fate of neglect would be a shame.

In spite of Francis D. Lyon’s perfunctory direction, there’s something extremely haunting about this story of a group of young American soldiers who have survived the horrors of war and yet, when the clouds of strife are lifted, find themselves stalked and cut-down on home turf by a mysterious, evil and (naturally) foreign killer.

While some contemporary audiences get all high and mighty in their idiotically myopic political correctness when it comes to the ethnocentrism of older pictures, they should just swallow a humour pill and enjoy the fact that the film begins in Asia. Yes, Asia! The film does not specify where EXACTLY in Asia we are – all that really matters is that we are not in AMERICA and that our brawny, normal, American and WHITE heroes are in a mysterious, foreign land. Foreign, in this context equals EVIL!!!!! And even though we’re supposed to be in “Asia”, we’re really in some crazed never-never-land of cloaked, turban-adorned snake charmers.

Looking for some exotic action before returning to their normal lives back in America, our motley heroes manage to buy their way into a mysterious ceremony of snake worshippers where they witness a boner-inducing cobra-charming burlesque routine then interrupt the proceedings in that brashly rude, American way when one of them snaps a flash photo and then, to make matters worse, they engage in a brawl with these foreigners and steal their sacred snake basket. One of the soldiers at a later juncture opines that perhaps they went a “little too far”.

You bet, fella!

These goddamn foreign snake charmers don’t take to your kind at the best of times and now you’re in for one kick-ass curse that’s not only going to follow your infidel rump back to the homeland, but to your ever-loving grave.

And believe you me, bud, there ain’t nothin' Homeland Security can do about cobra curses.

The cast and the vaguely derivative (but compelling) screenplay work overtime as the picture progresses. Things get especially entertaining when our soldier boys get back to America. We primarily follow the adventures of roomies Richard Long (the eventual star of TV’s Nanny and the Professor) and Marshall Thompson (eventual star of T.V.’s Daktari) as they vie for the affections of a wholesome platinum blonde apple-pie babe (Kathleen Hughes). When she eventually picks stalwart hunk Richard Long to be her swordsman, Marshall Thompson dejectedly finds himself in the arms of the mysterious, exotic and FOREIGN Faith Domergue. Domergue plays an agent of the cobra-worshippers and her mission is to kill each and every last one of the infidel soldiers.

By the bye, Faith Domergue represents everything that was so great about 50s movie babes – nice full lips, melt-in-your-mouth curves and sex appeal that never lets up. Domergue was especially semen-draining to young, pud-pulling male movie-goers in This Island Earth.

As per usual - especially when extolling the virtues of 50s babes - I digress.

Russell Metty, the cinematographer, especially delivers the goods. Metty, who shot most of Douglas Sirk’s great melodramas and, lest we forget, Orson Welles’s Touch Of Evil, contributes marvelous lighting and some really effective cobra POVs.

One only wishes that Francis Lyon wasn’t such a dull director. His lack of voice is what keeps this movie from really soaring. Lyon was a great editor (he won an Oscar for his astounding cutting on the classic boxing picture Body and Soul), but as a director, he plays things strictly by the numbers. This workmanlike approach is not always a bad thing in a director, but this picture is so entertaining to begin with that one wants it to be better than it is.

Alas, they can’t all be masterpieces. If they were, the world would actually be a dull place. It’s probably enough that the picture exists and that it’s as fun and interesting as it is. The strange post-war ennui afflicting all the soldiers on home turf and how the strangest element of their experience overseas follows them makes for compelling enough viewing - they've survived war, but those they've made war upon are with them - whether they like it or not. That there is a supernatural element which sinks its hooks into these men is damn evocative, in spite of the ho-hum helmsmanship of Lyon.

One does wonder, however, what the picture might have been like with a livelier directorial hand – a Jack Arnold, a Richard Fleischer, a Joseph Lewis or an Edgar Ulmer – or, for that matter, a producer like Val Lewton. In fact, any one of those directors and Lyon editing (instead of directing) might have delivered the goods.

It’s still a good picture though. Seeing these hunky, fresh-faced young soldiers get mysteriously whacked by the stunning Faith Domergue will keep you on the edge of your seat.

And, you know what? I’m almost inclined to revise my two-and-one-half to three-star boost yet another half-star in Heaven's direction.

I won’t, but one can dream, can’t one?

Cult of the Cobra is available on DVD in Universal Home Video’s “Classic Ultimate Sci-Fi Collection”