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HWAYI: A MONSTER BOY - Review By Greg Klymkiw - Unique Korean crime thriller slays @FantAsiaFilmFest2014

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The kid's a natural born killer.
Alas, he just wants to be a real boy.
Hwayi: A Monster Boy (2013) ***½
Dir: Jang Joon-hwan
Starring: Yeo Jin-goo, Kim Yun-seok, Cho Jin-woong, Jang Hyun-sung, Park Hae-jun, Kim Sung-kyun

Review By Greg Klymkiw

Hwayi (Yeo Jin-goo) is a normal 15-year-old boy in every respect except for the fact that a monster living in his neighbourhood continues to haunt him at the most inappropriate moments. He is, however, quite normal. He has five fathers and one mother, all hardened criminals and they live communally in a shack next to a greenhouse where they raise junipers. Indeed, so far, so normal. One of his Dads has trained him to be a skilled marksman and in no time at all, the lad is ready to make his first kill. The only problem is that Hwayi has been getting tastes of the world outside his family and, like Pinocchio, it seems he'd possibly like to be a real boy. Each day, he wanders about the city, envying the kids walking to and from school, then making the acquaintance of a hot babe. A definite chemistry is a-sparkin' here, but how does a lad take a girl home to meet the folks when he has 5 Dads?

It's also understandable that the hot, young lassie would take quite a shine to Hwayi. After all, he's a nice looking boy and always attired in an ultra-stylish school uniform. It's not as if he goes to school or anything, though. He's been self-taught by dipping into the family library of his erudite scumbag Dads and Mom. In fact, he even displays the gifts of an artist - so much so that his fathers and mother debate the merits of sending him to art school instead of him having to toil for the rest of his life as a hit man. Ah, decisions, decisions. Such are the vagaries of parenting.

In Korean movies, anyway.

Well, before anything like a relatively normal education can happen, the family has one big job to pull off and they desperately need Hwayi to make it happen. Alas, the job will reveal a truth Hwayi is not prepared for and soon, he's hell bent on revenge. His need for vengeance is aimed squarely at the family he's come to love. This is clearly enough to conflict any lad.

And then, there's that monster.

Hwayi: A Monster Boy is a dazzler. I dare any American filmmakers to even try matching this. They'd fail miserably, of course. It takes a specific indigenous perspective that's not clouded by an industry now woefully rooted in dull tried and true formulas aimed at morons. The great script by Park Ju-seok is steeped in fairy tale, melodrama, horror, slam-bang criminal heists, hits and extremely shocking violence. Director Jang Joon-hwan imbues the film with shades of film noir whilst energizing it with stunning white-hot action set pieces, martial arts and car chases to die for. The film has a few longueurs and might have benefitted from a good 10 minutes of judicious trimming, but this doesn't ultimately detract from its original narrative, unique tone and haunting staying power. It deals with many elements familiar to genre films, but always injects the kind of welcome twists one never expects these days - certainly not from American studio films - and in so doing, the movie delights like few other crime pictures do.

And yeah, there's that goddamned monster.

Hwayi: A Monster Boy enjoyed its North American premiere at the 2014 FantAsia International Film Festival in Montreal.

COLD IN JULY - Review By Greg Klymkiw - Jim Mickle Delivers the Goods (Again), Rocks @FantasiaFest 2014

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Sam Shepard, Michael C. Hall & Don Johnson - Vigilantes? Executioners!
Jim Mickle's COLD IN JULY
Cold in July (2014) ****
Dir. Jim Mickle / Script: Nick Damici & Mickle
Starring: Michael C. Hall, Sam Shepard, Don Johnson, Vinessa Shaw, Nick Damici

Review By Greg Klymkiw

Dane (Michael C. Hall) is late for the interment ceremony. A preacher has just finished reading words over the body in a cheap wooden box and two gravediggers are already piling dirt into the maw of the six-foot-deep open cavity in the earth where the young man Dane has killed will lay for eternity. The Sheriff (co-writer Nick Damici) has assured Dane that all is well - it's an open and shut case of self-defence. After all, we're in the great state of Texas, where a man's home is his castle, where he shall protect it and his family against anyone who dares creep into his sleepy suburban abode in the middle of the night. Still, Dane feels the weight of his actions. While his little boy slept soundly and his wife silently padded into the living room, Dane squeezed off one well placed shot into an intruder's skull, spraying globs of brain and geysers of blood all over the wall and chesterfield. Still haunted by images of cleaning the remnants of someone who was once a living, breathing human being and now reduced to a squeegee sponge of blood and gooey pulp being squirted and splashed into the toilet bowl, guilt has sunk its teeth into Dane's very soul, like some pit bull from the depths of hell, with jaws to match. He knows now his life has changed forever.

Dane hasn't even had time to get out of his station wagon when he arrives at the cemetery. Then again, nobody would ever know he's been the lone witness to the tail-end of the burial. No one, that is, save for Russell (Sam Shepard), the lanky, grizzled and grimacing old man with a grey buzz cut atop his dome and a pair of shades he's removed to reveal his piercing eyes. The old man, seemingly appearing from nowhere, towers above Dane, dwarfed only by the big, old Texas sky. He leans into the open window, burning holes into the killer of his only son.

"Come to watch the shit go into the hole, huh?" quips Russell with a half smile. "Mighty Christian of you."

Dane struggles for words, knowing that whatever he says won't make the old man feel any better.

"That sure was a nice picture of your family in the newspaper," says Russell with a smile so warm, it's sinister. He dons his shades again. That huge orb of Texas sunshine's mighty powerful. "Your little boy," he continues, "He sure looks a lot like you."

Dane's face is frozen.

"Y'all have a nice day, now." And the old man strides away, old, but resolute and powerful.

We've all seen J. Lee Thompson's Cape Fear and while Sam Shepard is no Robert Mitchum (who in Hell could be?), one surely wouldn't want to be on this sonofabitch's shit list, either. As Russell, Sam Shepard is plenty scary.

Cold in July plays out in a tense, low key manner that at first seems similar to the classic 1962 revenge thriller, albeit with a dose or two of lithium, but all comparisons to Thompson's picture soon flake off like so much old paint on an abandoned farmhouse in some Texas dustbowl. The narrative transformation is, of course rooted in the striking screenplay adaptation of Joe R. Lonsdale's 80s pulp novel. Written by longtime creative partners Jim Mickle (the film's director) and Nick Damici (brilliantly playing the smarmy, corrupt local sheriff), the gorgeously crafted script takes us on a tortuously serpentine path of shocks and ever-mounting blasts of violence that keep our tiny hairs bristled, our mouths ever-agape and our jaws thudding ever-lower to the floor. And don't be fooled by the few loose ends that might plague you, but only after you've finished watching the film - they're as much a part of the intentional dives into straight-faced ambiguity as they are part of the strange social, political and cultural backdrop.

Lansdale's novel was borne out of the raging Rompin' Ronnie Reagan-omics. Add to this the Texas setting, a state overflowing with massive longhorn cattle, big old American gas-pig Mustangs, station wagons, mighty half-tons plus a gun culture wherein the right to bear arms was lightyears ahead of states that already had extremely liberal National Rifle Association (NRA)-approved attitudes to brandishing such weaponry to begin with. Here, we just plain gots are-seffs sum purty choice material ripe for Mickle-Damici's cinematic ropin' and'a ridin'. Their film is savagely funny, full of surprises and yup, just plain savage.

Shepard isn't the only scary-ass dude in this movie. Don Johnson as, get this, Jim-Bob, gets to yuck it up as a good ol' boy galut. He's a part-time pig farmer with the most behemoth-like porkers this side of Hog Heaven (and generous slabs of superbly white-fat-marbled bacon in his breakfast frying pan) and a part-time private dick with the shadiest connections imaginable. Jim-Bob boasts an arsenal of truly magnificent weaponry, a killer instinct to go along with his killer smile and one knee-slappin' sense of gallows humour. Plus, he's what you might call, in the parlance of white trash everywhere, good people.

The performance that never ceases to take one by surprise is Dexter-star Michael C. Hall. Shucking his persona from that annoyingly overrated series, Hall looks super-sexy-ugly, complete with a horrendous mullet and thick cop-moustache, Hall renders the mild-mannered picture-framing small business owner with a brilliant, underplayed hand which slowly and creepily mounts into that of a hardened killer - on the right side of the law, that is = or rather, whatever side of the law in the pulpy amoral world the film inhabits, that's less wrong than the other.

The trio of Shepard, Hall and Johnson become a perverse Texas version of The Three Musketeers fighting for love and country (in the sickest manner imaginable). At one point, the recently-released jailbird's son is disparagingly identified as "shit that don't fall too far from the tree", but as the lad has gone so far beyond even Dad's pale, Shepard himself remarks: "Whaddya do with a dog that keeps biting people? You either keep it on a chain or shoot it."

Shepard and Johnson play old buddies from Korea and they're both enveloped with a post-war ennui that lead them to take very different roads, at least on the surface. Deep down, though, it's a well-worn path they both share. Hall, of course, is mild mannered, but he is a product of gun culture and the almost-separatist Lone Star State DNA-hard-wiring of individualism that firmly delivers a sense of what's right, what's wrong and as such, doing right at all costs. It's the fluid of life-force that courses through his veins like a river wild. Though his character would have been too young to serve in Vietnam, he'd have grown up believing that it was a just and noble war. Add post-Cold War and Reagan-omics to his persona and he's prime material for bloodlust. Even though his first taste of blood renders him virtually immobile, it's ultimately the thing that leads his need, like a carrot on a stick, to see justice through - Texas-style, of course.

A warning: PLEASE be careful not to read much more than this about the movie before you see it. After my first helping, I scoured a variety of items and discovered WAY TOO MUCH INFORMATION!!! What in the hell is wrong with critics, puff-piece-scribes and flacks? Are they completely out to fucking lunch? Well, for my part, I saw the movie in a plumb virginal state - I even picked up a copy of the book, but didn't read it until afterwards. With that in mind, it would be unfair to reveal too many of the eye-popping, though perfectly natural twists in the story, but let's just say that the criminal element revealed is so appalling that we need to pinch ourselves to assure us we're not dreaming. One of the more grotesque elements that's revealed is the whole notion of organized crime in Texas. Johnson refers to it as "Dixie Mafia. Put "Dixie" and "Mafia" together in the same breath and you've got more scary-ass shit than you've bargained for. Even worse, however, are some of the activities the trio discover on a videocassette labelled "Batting Practice". Believe me, you just don't want to know. Well, at least until you see it to believe it and then, you really don't want to know.

Jim Mickle is a director who continues to dazzle. I hope he keeps making films with the same intelligence, prowess and independent spirit he's brought to bear on this film as well as his previously fine work Mulberry Street, Stake Land and We Are What We Are. I can't imagine the studios not wanting Mickle, nor can I imagine he doesn't want to make studio pictures either. He would benefit from their resources and we'd all benefit from his being able to keep growing, but he needs to remain resolutely his own man - so here's to the system not fucking him with an unwanted kiester-slam.

Cold in July is pure, deliciously vicious pulp fiction. It's as compulsive and propulsive as storytelling at its finest should be and it's marked with a tone and style that bears a unique, individual voice. There's no tongue-in-cheek, no cinema-referential indulgences and best of all, it remains true to its foul roots. There's a purity and cleanliness here that is absolutely and marvellously mired in filth, and we're all the better for it.

Cold in July played at the 2014 FantAsia International Film Festival, It's been released by IFC in the USA and by Mongrel Media in Canada.

DAWN OF THE PLANET OF THE APES - Review By Greg Klymkiw - Chuck Heston, why hast Thou forsaken me?

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2014: Boy-crush hug twixt Jason Clarke & Andy Serkis
1968: Hot open-mouth kiss twixt Kim Hunter & Chuck Heston

2014: When men are wimps
1968: When men are men among men
2014: When women are bedraggled hags
1968: When women are Linda Harrison as "NOVA"
Dawn of the Planet of the Apes (2014) *
Dir. Matt Reeves
Starring: Andy Serkis, Jason Clarke, Gary Oldman, Keri Russell, Toby Kebbell, Kodi Smit-McPhee

Review By Greg Klymkiw

I pity all of you. Some came of age to (Ugh!) Star Wars, others came of age to (Ugh!) John Hughes or (Ugh!) The Goonies, yet others came of age to (Ugh!) Toy Story or (Ugh!) Jurassic Park, and even worse, many came of age to (Ugh!) Harry Potter, and then, perhaps worst off of all are those who will come of age to (Ugh!) stupid, noisy superhero comic book movies and those who will be completely bereft of originality will come of age to (Ugh!) reboots like Rise of the Planet of the Apes and its (Ugh!) dull, mediocre sequel Dawn of the Planet of the Apes. What's next? Afternoon of the Planet of the Apes? Tea-Time of the Planet of the Apes? Night of the Living Dead Planet of the Apes? Seriously, all of you not only have my pity, but my condolences for childhoods that could really be little more than living the death of a thousand cuts to thine brain and soul. About the best that can be said in favour of Dawn of the Planet of the Apes is that it's not as dreadful as Rise of the Planet of the Apes. This is predominantly due to the fact that it has a real director, Matt Reeves (Cloverfield, Let Me In) at the helm. Alas, he struggles valiantly, but unsuccessfully with an utterly boring screenplay and no real reason (artistically) for the picture to exist.

In fact, the entire reboot exists only to fill the 20th Century Fox coffers with dough from a lot of desperate and stupid movie-goers. The Original Five (kind of like the N.H.L.'s Original Six) is a perfectly fine series of films and frankly, Franklin J. Schaffner's original 1968 Planet of the Apes is not only a bonafide masterpiece, but it's so terrific that it holds up beautifully to this day on levels of both storytelling and craft that dazzles. As everyone knows, the first picture took us on a thrilling journey to a topsy-turvy planet by way of time travel and subsequent films offered a series of entertaining, often exciting and boldly satirical adventure films which perversely added up to one massive time warp - one which led to a never-ending cycle of the same mistakes wrought by humanity and an ever-present and always inevitable reality that nuclear annihilation is, was and always would be the end result.

The sheer genius of this within the context of popular entertainment is one thing, but that each film was infused with buoyant snap, crackle and pop by way of thrilling classical adventure always tempered with great humour - some black, some satirical and often, just plain hilarity emanating naturally out of the drama - is what made the original film and its sequels immortal.

The reboot is dull on several fronts, but the most egregious flaw in its storytelling is to begin, literally, with the beginning. The second big problem is just how dour, serious and irredeemably humourless the whole thing is. There's one laugh in all of Dawn that's surprisingly clever - so much so I won't ruin it for you save to note that it's rooted in the kind of satire so prevalent in Schaffner's 1968 original and that wended its way through the sequels - and involves an ape equivalent to the antics of a Steppin' Fetchit or Mantan Moreland to curry favour with the "dominant" race in films of yore.

Dawn begins ten years after Rise. The virus which sprouted in the last movie has decimated almost the entire human race. In the city of San Francisco, those humans who were resistant to the terminal illness, live in isolation and fear that their meagre power supply will soon run out. The apes, on the other hand, are living idyllically in the forests of northern Cali and getting stronger and smarter. Caesar (Andy Serkis) is still their leader, but his authority is being challenged by Koba (Toby Kebbell), a violent warmongering ape. The human beings are led by Dreyfus (Gary Oldman), a stirring orator of the fascist variety who grudgingly allows Malcolm (Jason Clarke) a few days to try and peacefully negotiate with the apes for access to the nearby power dam in order to get San Fran up and running again.

Malcolm drags Alexander (Kodi Smit-McPhee), his sensitive (Ugh!), artistically-inclined son and Ellie (Keri Russell), his (Ugh!) supportive, loving and oddly haggard nurse girlfriend along with a few other fellas to do their power dam magic. Everything twixt human and ape in the jungle seems reasonably "Kumbaya, My Lord" until bad apes pull bad shit and bad humans pull bad shit and hell breaks loose.

Eventually, order is restored, but a storm's a brewin' with imminent all-out war for the next sequel.

Dullsville!

Both the performances and characters of the humans are strangely lacklustre and the apes (save for Caesar and Koba) are indistinguishable from one another - a far cry from the indelibly-etched characters on both sides of the equation in the 1968 classic and its sequels. While there is an inevitability of doom and despair in the 60s/70s Apes pictures, nothing is ever oppressively dreary and predictable the way it is here.

Reeves handles some of the action sequences with the sort of aplomb one would want, but because we have no real investment in any of the characters, his efforts are all for naught.

There's a lot of noise and thunder here, but finally, this is a film which is perfectly emblematic of the sheer unimaginative roller coaster amusement park rides that major studio films are transforming into. The 3-D, as per usual, adds nothing to the proceedings save for inducing headaches and muting the colour and sharp contrast of the visuals.

Again, all I can do is offer my pity to audiences so starved for a good picture that they're willing to suffer through this unoriginal mess that been crapped upon them by a studio system that's increasingly losing its way into a miasma that I suspect cinema might have a hard time recovering from.

Dawn of the Planet of the Apes is in humungously wide release via 20th Century Foz and predictably drawing in audiences throughout the world.

For more elaboration on the Original Five and my vitriol about Rise of the Planet of the Apes, feel free to read my review of that film HERE.

In the meantime, feel free to enjoy the original films via the links directly below:

BOSS NIGGER aka "Boss", "The Boss", "The Black Bounty Killer" - Review By Greg Klymkiw @FantasiaFest2014

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Play the theme song from BOSS NIGGER sung by Terrible Tom while you read the review:

"Look Mayor, you've been hunting black folks for so long,
we just wanted to see what it'd be like to hunt white folks."
Boss Nigger (1974) ****
aka Boss, The Boss, The Black Bounty Killer
dir. Jack Arnold
Starring: Fred Williamson, D'Urville Martin, R.G. Armstrong, William Smith, Carmen Hayworth, Barbara Leigh

Review By Greg Klymkiw

Boss (Fred Williamson), a tough, tall and lean African-American cowboy, counts his reward money, pockets it obligingly, then flashes a big smile at the racist lawman who grudgingly had to pay it out. "I wants to thank ya, Sheriff," says our title character. "Sorry, we ain't got time to stay for supper, but we got us more whities to catch."

And so begins Boss Nigger, one of the best westerns of the 70s. Boss and his trusty, wiseacre sidekick Amos (D'Urville Martin) ride off into the picturesque natural beauty of New Mexico in search of their next easy kill - always wanted, dead or alive and yes, always of the White Trash Caucasian Persuasion.

Now if you saw Quentin Tarantino's Django Unchained and thought the idea of an African-American bounty hunter was original, just remind yourself that QT's entire output has been steeped in ripping off, or rather, referencing the works of older films he revered as being cooler than cool.

And don't get me wrong, I thoroughly enjoyed the Jamie Foxx/Christoph Waltz western bloodbath, but Boss Nigger is the real thing.

JED: Go ahead and kill me, Nigger!
BOSS: That's "Mr. Nigger" to you!
JED: Then go to Hell, Mr. Nigger!
BOSS: To Hell is where you're going!
Made almost forty years ago, it's way ahead of its time and proves to be more cutting edge revisionist than Tarantino's. Written and produced by the former football champ turned superstar and directed by the legendary Jack Arnold (The Incredible Shrinking Man, The Creature from the Black Lagoon, The Mouse That Roared), this terrific duster blends old fashioned western tropes with the very best elements of Blaxsploitation. Don't forget that Django needed to be rescued and taught the trade by a White Man, but Boss Nigger and Amos are former slaves who broke free all on their own and carved a path of destruction to emancipate their fellow brothers in the legendary Nigger Charley series (not to mention that Django is single-minded in the pursuit of securing his wife's freedom at the expanse of anyone, whereas Williamson's character is all about making America a better place for all oppressed people of colour).

How can anyone not like a film wherein
Fred Williamson goes at it with William Smith? 
And so it is that Boss and Amos are on their way to a wild, wooly tank town bereft of a sheriff in order to track down Jed Clayton (William Smith), the meanest, orneriest criminal psychopath this side of Hell and his gang of bloodthirsty, shoot 'em up, rotgut-guzzling and female-violating redneck racists. The pair rescue the beautiful Clara Mae (Carmen Hayworth) from gang rape at the hands of some Clayton cowpokes, deposit her in the care of some kind Mexican-Americans on the outskirts of town, then proceed to nominate themselves as Sheriff and Deputy of a town so corrupt that its Mayor (R.G. Armstrong) is secretly in cahoots with Clayton.

Boss and Amos waste no time in posting the new laws of the town which all include hefty fines for spitting, cussing, shooting and worst of all, using the word "nigger". Many townspeople are shocked by this and would just as soon put up with the Status Quo, but some, like the sexy schoolteacher Miss Pruitt (Barbara Leigh) are relieved that law has come to their town. She even develops a mad crush on the muscular, leather-adorned Boss Nigger.

In addition to their shenanigans in town, the Boss and Amos wreak havoc upon the huge gang of cutthroats and Boss Nigger reigns solidly as a violent, action-packed western of the highest order.

Jack Arnold's helmsmanship is first-rate, the fisticuffs, shootouts and explosions are taut and engaging and Fred Williamson's writing equally so.

The dialogue is especially ripe and you'll feel like delivering a standing ovation when the prim, proper schoolmarm Miss Pruitt begs Boss to take her along when he leaves town after tidying up his business. Williamson, always the King of Cool, writes himself one of the best lines in movie history. Bidding the sexy schoolteacher farewell, he says:

"Lady, a Black Man's got enough trouble in this world without a White woman following him around."

Enough trouble, indeed!

Boss Nigger (with the title Boss) is playing at the 2014 FantAsia International Film Festival in Montreal.

DOCTOR PROCTOR'S FART POWDER - Review By Greg Klymkiw - Fabulous Family Fart Fun @FantasiaFest2014

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These happy kids investigate a hole in the wall blown open by a FART.

DOCTOR PROCTOR - Inventor
Doctor Proctor's Fart Powder
aka "Doktor Proktors prompepulver" (2014) ***½
Dir. Arild Fröhlich
Script: Johan Bogaeus, Based on Jo Nesbø's Book
Starring: Kristoffer Joner, Atle Antonsen, Emily Glaister, Eilif Hellum, Arve Guddingsmo Bjørn, Even Guddingsmo Bjørn

Review By Greg Klymkiw

Who in their right mind doesn't appreciate a good, rip-snorting fart? I know I do and I'm sure you do too, so pull my finger and I'll emit the following review.

If you're sick of the same old crap Hollywood keeps foisting upon your kids, reject the empty-headed faecal matter and embrace farts instead. The Land of Fjords has delivered one of the best family films in years, the cool and funny adaptation of Jo Nesbø's terrific book Doctor Proctor's Fart Powder.

Set in a seeming never-never land of an Oslo that must surely exist, two inventors, the kind, benevolent, scatterbrained and poor Doctor Proctor (Kristoffer Joner) and the evil, greedy and disgustingly corpulent Mister Thane (Atle Antonsen), live within a stone's throw of each pother in the same neighbourhood of manicured lawns and fluorescent-colored interiors ripped from the world of a Pee Wee Herman-like playhouse.

Two lonely, parentally-neglected kids, sweet, blonde Lisa (Emily Glaister) and the goofy, grinning carrot-top pompadoured Nilly (Eilif Hellu) discover that Doctor Proctor just created a fart powder that emits gaseous excretions that are both odourless and so powerful they can blow holes through brick walls and most importantly, so propulsive they can allow those who use them properly to fly.

Rival inventor Thane, steels the formula and claims it as his own. It's up to the wily kids to save the day, but they face formidable odds when they tussle with Thane's repulsively brutish twin sons (Arve Guddingsmo Bjørn, Even Guddingsmo Bjørn).

Alas, this is Doctor Proctor's only chance to finally hit it big and allow him to claim his rightful place amongst the world's greatest inventors. Most importantly, Doctor Proctor will never be able to claim betrothal to his one and true love unless he can amass a big enough fortune to satisfy the father of the woman he adores. Fart Glory is just around the corner - especially since NASA has shown keen interest in the Fart Powder for their Space Program.

Will justice be done?

Will our heroes save the day?

Will farts bring lovers together?

For a movie about flatulence, this is one sweet and lovely little film. It's original, funny and decidedly explosive. Pitting underdogs against the Status Quo is tried and true stuff, but add farts to the mix and you've got full-on, full-bodied happy-faced shenanigans to melt the hearts of even the most stone cold grumpy-pants.

I don't know about you, but I'll take farty-pants over grumpy-pants anytime.

Doctor Proctor's Fart Powder had its international premiere at the 2014 FantAsia Film Festival in Montreal.


July 30, 2014 - History in the making at the 2014 edition of the FantAsia International Film Festival in Montreal. Legendary director Tobe Hooper will be presented with a Lifetime Achievement Award followed by a screening of the Dark Sky 40th Anniversary Restoration of Hooper's Masterpiece, THE TEXAS CHAINSAW MASSACRE. As if that's not enough, you'll have to choose between that and a screening of the terrific South African Crime Thriller FOUR CORNERS - BOTH TONIGHT AT #FANTASIA2014 - Reviews By Greg Klymkiw

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Original 1974 Poster
La Belle Province is the place to be today, so head on down to the true capital of Quebec (and Canada), Montreal, la ville aux cent clochers.

History is in the making today. It will rival that of the Seven Years' War, the moronic Tory-led burning of the Parliament Buildings, Mayor Camillien Houde's brave protest against Anglo-enforced conscription, the opening of the Saint Lawrence Seaway and, of course, Expo 67.

Tonight, July 30, 2014, you will be forced to CHOOSE between TWO great EVENTS happening AT THE SAME TIME during the 2014 edition of the FantAsia International Film Festivals. At 9:40 PM in the DB Clarke Theatre, you can see the terrific South African crime thriller by Ian Gabriel entitled Four Corners and FIVE FUCKING MINUTES LATER at 9:45 PM in the Concordia Hall Theatre, the legendary filmmaker Tobe Hooper will be on hand IN THE FLESH to received FantAsia's Life Achievement Award, which will then be followed by a screening of Dark Sky Films' astonishing 40th Anniversary Restoration (from the original 16mm reversal negative) of Hooper's masterpiece The Texas Chainsaw Massacre.

Below you will find capsule reviews (with links to the full reviews) of Four Corners and The Texas Chainsaw Massacre. Read 'em and weep. If you can't be in Montreal tonight, just weep, sucker!


A tattooed prison lifer knows all,
because he's seen all and stays alive
with his constant hawk-like gaze.
Four Corners (2013) ***½
Dir. Ian Gabriel
Starring: Brendon Daniels, Jezriel Skei, Abduragman Adams, Irshaad Ally, Lindiwe Matshikiza,

Review By Greg Klymkiw

Four Corners (as harsh and brutal as much of it is) compares to being a kinder, gentler and more straightforward South African version of Amores perros by Mexican auteur Alejandro González Iñárritu, though it never feels like homage, nor is it derivative. Ian Gabriel's finely crafted film focuses on a handful of inter-connected characters as we follow the amalgamation of their individual stories into each other. There's a sense of melancholy and tragedy running through this beautifully acted film, but there are also touches of an eventual new world for all the characters and a strong sense that perhaps their children and their children's children will be the ultimate beneficiaries of their pain, struggles and sacrifices in a country still hurting from the hideous legislation of segregation and racism. READ THE FULL REVIEW HERE.

It's ALWAYS about the MEAT!!!
The Texas Chain Saw Massacre (1974) Dir. Tobe Hooper *****
Starring: Marilyn Burns, Paul A. Partain, Edwin Neal, Jim Siedow, Gunnar Hansen, John Dugan, William Vail, Teri McMinn, Robert Courtin, John Henry Faulk, John Larroquette

Review By Greg Klymkiw

"There are moments when we cannot believe that what is happening is really true. Pinch yourself and you may find out that it is." - A horoscope read aloud during The Texas Chain Saw Massacre.

What hit me when I first saw The Texas Chain Saw Massacre is how brilliantly the movie is sectioned into two separate, yet inextricably linked halves, the first being a simple narrative set-up for its especially harrowing second half. Creepily building during the first 40 minutes, with occasional exclamatory jolts of violence, the picture delivers a solid bedrock from which it plunges you headlong into the second 40 minutes, a relentless nightmare on film. This is not a passive experience - you're slammed deep into the maw of pure, sheer, unrelenting terror.

Beg all you like. The nightmare never seems to end. When it finally does, the utter dread and revulsion generated by the whole experience stays with you forever. This, of course, is not because of the gore, or the extremity of the violence, but rather because the tone of the movie is so unlike anything you will have experienced. Even with all the slasher films, torture porn and moronically graphic remakes that have assailed contemporary audiences over the past decade, none of them come close to the disquieting power and intelligence with which The Texas Chain Saw Massacre is so astonishingly infused with. As they say, this one's for the ages. READ THE FULL REVIEW HERE.

ROAD TO PALOMA - Review By Greg Klymkiw - A haunting and lyrical directorial debut by actor Jason Momoa

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The great cinematic spirit of 70s existential male angst lives in Momoa's directorial debut.

Father (Wes Studi) & Son (Jason Momoa)
Road to Paloma (2014) ****
Dir. Jason Momoa
Starring: Jason Momoa, Robert Mollohan, Wes Studi, Timothy V. Murphy, Charlie Brumbly, Lisa Bonet, Sarah Shahi

Review By Greg Klymkiw
"The government did not pursue rape charges on [Native American] reservations 65% of the time last year and rejected 61% of cases involving charges of sexual abuse of children..."
- THE NEW YORK TIMES, February 20th, 2012

BORN TO BE wild FREE!
Set against the backdrop of America's continued apartheid and genocide against its indigenous Native Peoples, actor Jason Momoa (Game of Thrones) delivers an extremely promising directorial debut with this powerful and cerebral tale of a young man who has extracted justice on his mother's behalf after the law fails to do so. Robert Wolf (Momoa) has already committed his act of vengeance before the film has begun (we experience bits of it in flashback at later junctures), so make no mistake, this is not a vigilante picture in any sense of the word.

Cleverly utilizing the tropes of westerns, biker pictures (notably Easy Rider) and the 70s genre of existential male angst, the picture (written by Momoa and his co-star Robert Mollohan) centres on the final activities of a man who senses that his own end will result in physical pain, incarceration and possibly even death, but in the days leading up to meeting with fate, he seeks both redemption and the opportunity to scatter his mother's ashes in a sacred place that binds her spirit (and his) to the natural world.

Robert is wanted by the law for murdering the man who trespassed onto the reservation, then raped and beat his mother to death (so severely she was facially unrecognizable). Robert's father Numay (Wes Studi) is a local cop and though he's wracked with guilt for being on the job during the horrific crime, he's even more devastated (albeit silently) that he placed his faith in the judicial system. The system, as it so often does, fails the Native People who live on the reservations. Well, it fails them - period, but that's another story.

The perpetrator is never brought to trial, spends one year awaiting official prosecution, then, like so many other White Men charged with vicious crimes against Native women, he's released. Numay sadly accepts this as the Status Quo. Robert does not. The result is that the long arm of the law, which does virtually nothing for Native victims of crime, spends an awful lot of time, money and resources to hunt down Robert for his "crime". Though Robert's a wanted man, Chuck (Charlie Brumbly), the local F.B.I. liaison twixt the Bureau and the reservation, well-knows the score and has intentionally "fucked the dog" on this matter. Kelly (an appropriately smarmy Lance Henriksen cameo) is one mean-ass Bureau head honcho who wants this "murderer" caught, so he enlists Williams (Timothy V. Kelly), his best agent and an even bigger-and-meaner-ass prick than he is to hightail it down there to extract "justice".

Robert's not too phased about any of this. He's come to town to pick up his Mom's ashes for a 500-mile-long odyssey "in-country" where he suspects he'll be unmolested until he can deal with his Mom's spirit-journey. Momoa, as a director, excels at capturing the spirit, architecture, people and topography of the town outside the reservation. It's a one-horse town replete with crumbling old service stations, a sleazy strip club, a country-and-western bar and a whole lot of rednecks, whores and tough-guys. That said, not a single one of them will tussle with Robert. He's more than earned their respect. The same can't be said for his old buddy Cash (co-writer Robert Homer Mollohan), an alcoholic musician who has a bad habit of picking fights he could only win if he was sober.

Soon, the two men are on their motorcycles and blasting free and clear along the highways of America's Southwest and here's yet another superb sequence beautifully handled by Momoa, the director. With cinematographer Brian Andrew Mendoza, he's created an indelible look at reservation life, small town sleaze and now, the film settles almost completely into a state of zen-sickle-ridin' with stunning vistas, gorgeous sunsets and hell, even Monument Valley (a clear nod to John Ford - the legendary director who both exploited images of Native People and eventually made the necessary amends to render works of genuine power).

What I loved most about this movie is that it has so many opportunities to deliver standard cat-and-mouse thrills, chases, action scenes and unbearable tension. It finally, offers, only a smidgen of that. The movie excels as cinematic tone poem - a tribute to land, freedom and at the same time, an elegy to a world destroyed by colonial forces, one that still suffers under the weight of these shackles of a Status Quo that works only for the "ruling class". Momoa himself knows something about this as his blood mixes two very colonized racial ethnicities - part Hawaiian, part Native American. He not only serves as a terrific leading man (he's intense and gorgeous), but he elicits a whole whack of fine performances from his entire cast - especially Wes Studi, who's great as always. It's also wonderful seeing Lisa Bonet again on a big screen - she's gorgeous and a fine actress - and in his own way, Mollohan as Momoa's sidekick, conjures up the spirit of a somewhat kinder, gentler Dennis Hopper.

Road to Paloma is clearly a deep, profound and reflective work. Yes, it meanders, yes it's sometimes too cerebral, yes, it might have been nice if Momoa had subscribed to genre a bit more vigorously, but this is a world and issue that's too often ignored by mainstream cinema. There is, however, one sequence which delivers the goods on straight-up brutal action and we do get a chance to experience an illegal, hidden-from-the-world no-holds-barred fighting match (similar to the one Walter Hill explored in his 70s - 'natch - classic Hard Times, with Charles Bronson and James Coburn). Momoa also offers a genuinely tense climax. It's as inevitable, as it's shattering and is directed with the kind of panache that suggests even greater things from him.

Shockingly, the film bears the imprimatur of the film production division of WWE - yup, World Wrestling Entertainment. Rather than supporting a straight-up genre picture with one or several of its wrasslin' stars, they've backed the work of someone who's a genuine artist and has made a picture that's actually about something. That said, WWE recently secured the brilliant Canadian film artists Sylvia and Jen Soska to direct a picture, so that they backed Momoa in his desire to create a stunning, poetic movie that's alternately joyous and heartbreaking, is perhaps not too much of a stretch, after all.

In the 70s, a picture like Momoa's would have been green-lit by the studios, but these days, it takes truly independent visionaries to back work by equally visionary artists. Big business as pro wrestling is, there's always been a strange sense of independent spirit to their world. Supporting a movie about the independent spirit of America's Southwestern Aboriginal People seems to have made for a pair of very happy bedfellows.

Road To Paloma is available on a gorgeous new Blu-Ray from Anchor Bay Entertainment Canada and Anchor Bay Films (WWE's partner on the presentation of this film). For those who especially love the 70s-style angst of manly-man work like The Gambler, The Last Detail, Your Three Minutes Are Up, etc. this is a definite keeper. My only quibble is the lack of extra features. There's one deleted scene which is excellent, and interestingly offers something that was wisely omitted from the final film, in spite of its quality. That, however, is it. I'd have loved a commentary track from Momoa, maybe one that was moderated by an academic critic in areas of cinematic representation of Native Peoples. Given the film and the subject matter, this would have been a perfect capper to a really fine film in an exquisitely transferred Blu-Ray. Ah well, who the fuck am I? I didn't produce the damn home entertainment release. Though more and more, I think I should, or at least someone who loves MOVIES as much as I do. [insert smiley face here]

Feel free to order Anchor Bay's Road to Paloma, the great Criterion Collection of 70s male existential angst (America: Lost and Found) and/or some fine literary discourse on Native Issues by Emma LaRocque and others, directly from the Amazon links below (and in so doing, you'll be supporting the ongoing maintenance of The Film Corner).








THE ZERO THEOREM - Review By Greg Klymkiw - Lame Gilliam @FantAsia2014 & Theatrical via MongrelMedia

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Not even a babe in nurse regalia
will make this watchable.
The Zero Theorem (2013)
Dir. Terry Gilliam
Starring: Christoph Waltz, Lucas Hedges, Mélanie Thierry, David Thewlis, Tilda Swinton, Matt Damon

Review By Greg Klymkiw

In a dystopian future (where and when else?), Qohen Leth (Christoph Waltz) is an eccentric mathematician who slaves in front of a computer for a faceless corporation. Joby (David Thewlis), his direct superior, sweetens the pot for the hairless-pated worker bee when he brings him a mission from Management (Matt Damon). Qohen has been assigned to crack The Zero Theorem, an equation which has broken and eluded the finest geniuses. It's no wonder, though, since the goal is to prove the ultimate mystery of the universe - that everything is meaningless. Plunking away at his computer in the privacy of a dank, old cathedral converted into his home and private work station, our hero is respectively assisted and distracted by a precocious teenage computer whiz (Lucas Hedges) and a hot babe (Mélanie Thierry). The latter seduces him, but he's only allowed to taste her ample wares within a virtual world. Ugh! Don't bogart the keyboard, bud.

The first twenty-minutes-or-so of this lame, pretentious final chapter in Gilliam's trilogy, which began with Brazil and sandwiched Twelve Monkeys is not without his trademark visual flourishes and some semblance of interest-level, but it soon descends into the kind of cerebral nonsense that plagues Gilliam's worst work and will only appeal to pseuds of the highest order. Not even a few blasts of the finest wacky tabakky is going to make this dull mess palatable for anyone but the most severely brain-damaged and/or those seeking enlightenment via Gilliam's masturbatory splooge in order to make themselves feel like they're smarter than those who could care less for this trifling nonsense.

The Zero Theorem enjoyed its Canadian Premiere at the 2014 FantAsia International Film Festival in Montreal and is now playing theatrically via Mongrel Media at The Royal Cinema in Toronto followed by a DVD release. If you're going to bother seeing this at all, you'll be better off seeing it theatrically. At least the big screen and big sound will offer some respite from the picture's numbing emptiness.

FILM CORNER STAR RATING: *1/2 One and a half stars.


THE DROWNSMAN - Review By Greg Klymkiw - Canuck Babes slaughtered by maniac ghost @FantasiaFest2014

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As you can clearly see, perfectly normal receptacles
for water can mean death to babes in The Drownsman.
Sadly, none of the babes is sucked into a toilet.
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

Review By Greg Klymkiw

Canadians are generally more polite than our American neighbours to the South. In spite of the perverse tradition of our cinema (Cronenberg, Maddin, The Soskas, anyone?), the latest production from the Canucks who brought us last year's low budget horror hit Antisocial, proves that Canadians are twisted as always, but they are ever-so considerate, almost to a fault. Hacking, maiming and/or raping nubile babes is not in the purview of those politically-mindful content-delivery specialists Breakthrough Entertainment and Black Fawn Films. Having created The Drownsman, they've managed to deliver an all new evil cinematic psychopath devoted to the art of, I kid you the hell not, drowning his hot vixen honey-pie targets. It's kind of like that old adage from the UK, "No sex, please, we're British." Or in this case: No bloodletting, please, we're Canadian.

Isn't that special?

Indeed, the opening minutes of the film are as sickening and harrowing as you're likely to see in any recent picture. In a deep, dark, dank pit of filth, a fetching babe is dragged by a tall, powerful and greasily bedraggled scumbag into a metal tub wherein he proceeds to shove her under the cold, dirty water. It is, however, the psycho's lucky day. The babe, desperate to survive, proposes that he make love to her instead. Sneaky vixen that she is, the lithe lassie allows him to penetrate her loins and expunge his unholy seed within her and then, as he shudders in post-orgasmic bliss, she plunges him into the water and drowns the sicko bugger, drowns him GOOD AND DEAD!!!

CUE: OPENING TITLE - THE DROWNSMAN.

Though, the titles don't suggest anything of the kind, we quickly assume that we've jumped forward to the present. A party rages inside a Christmas-light adorned country house overlooking a deep, dark winter lake. We know a party is raging because we hear muffled music coming from inside and a handful of babes are hanging on the porch, doing what babes do naturally - giggling and boozing. Hannah (Caroline Korycki) hustles her hot BFF Madison (burgeoning Canuck Scream Queen Michelle Mylett from Antisocial) over to a Noma-lit dock near the deep, dark water of the winter lake. Though it's Canada, the lake is not frozen. El Nino must be about. Hannah and Madison look deeply into each other's eyes and we briefly suspect there's going to be some lesbo action, but alas, it's a genuine "bestie" hug that occurs. Hannah's getting married, presumably to one of the fellows at the party in the house. She wants Madison to be her Maid of Honour. She then excuses herself to go take a piss. Madison clumsily slips, falls, whacks her (presumably not-too-empty) noggin on the dock and rolls into the water. Here she meets a rotting version of the drowning fetishist from the opening, but luckily, she awakes to a gaggle of babes round her on the dock.

She's safe.

For now.

CUE: TITLE CARD - ONE YEAR LATER.

It's the night of Hannah's wedding. It's raining cats and dogs. Seeing as this is Canada and it's one-year-later from the aforementioned party adorned in Christmas lights, one again assumes El Nino is prowling about since the torrent outside should actually be snow, but is, in fact, not unlike some Third World Locale during Monsoon Season. Hannah bursts into Madison's bedroom. Our troubled lassie has completely skipped her Maid of Honour duties and the blushing bride is crimson with anger.

It seems Madison has been a basket case for a whole year. She's become terrified of water, so much so she can't even drink it, but requires a constant IV to keep her full of fluids. One assumes her fear of water keeps her out of showers and bathtubs, so why Hannah would want a foul, rank, unwashed Maid of Honour is somewhat beyond me. Why Madison always looks freshly scrubbed and gorgeous since she's not even dipped her tiniest tootsie in H2O is, perhaps, the film's greatest mystery.

Hannah demands that Madison be available the next evening for a major intervention. The babes are planning to cure Madison of her hydrophobia once and for all. Given that Hannah has just gotten hitched, we assume her hubby is too cheap to take her on a honeymoon and/or is especially sensitive to give up his second night of wedded bliss so his new bride can get together with all her babe friends and dunk Madison in a bathtub full of water. Well, he's Canadian, I guess, and Canadians are known to be quite Liberal in all matters (unless they live in Alberta).

Does any of this sound, oh, I don't know, shall we say, remotely stupid? Phew! Good. I'm glad I'm not the only one. Some might say, "Chill, Klymkiw, it's a horror movie." To them I say, "Horror movies don't all have to be stupid."

This one sure is.

I applaud its makers for trying to create a new 80s-style horror psycho, but, uh, a killer who drowns his victims? And worse yet, gets drowned himself by one of the victims who let him ball her and then turns into a rotting ghost psycho who continues to drown babes? And, uh, for some reason, keeps terrorizing the living progeny of his final spurt of seed? And, even more stupidly, sucks babes into pretty much any receptacle that holds water so he can drown them, but never once does he think of using a toilet bowl or even a bidet? And isn't it egregious when you deliver a no-to-low-budget horror movie replete with babes and none of them are naked - or hell, even attired more aggressively in their undies? Oh, and get this nadir of stupidity, a psycho ghost who is so waterlogged that the only thing that he's afraid of is fire? Jesus, not only is the movie stupid, the psycho ghost is plenty stupid also.

You know, call me jaded, but this really doesn't seem like a good idea for a movie. In fact, it's so stupid, I'm shocked anyone bothered to green-light this film. Yes, stupid movies get made all the time, but this one really earns some kind of Oblation for Major Mental Deficiency.

The way I'm flaming this sucker, you might wonder if there's anything good at all about this movie. Well, it's decently shot, the design of the title psycho ghost is really first-rate, the musical score manages to rise above its stock origins and Michelle Mylett is clearly a decent actress and a major-camera-loves-her-babe who deserves a lot better than this. It's perhaps worthy to note that Mr. Archibald's direction, in spite of the loathsome screenplay he's cobbled together with Cody Calahan, suggests that he's quite the fan of Wes Craven and others of that 80s ilk and he acquits himself in the rip-off department with a passable degree of competence.

Competence, however, is kind of a dirty word in my books - especially in no-to-low-budget genre films. The movie is deadly serious, completely without humour (humour's a hallmark of Craven, Carpenter, et al) and finally, so stupid, it can't generate any real thrills. In fact, it's so stupid, it doesn't even qualify as unintentionally funny. (My 13-year-old daughter kept commenting, "God, this is soooooooo stupid, Dad," but when I asked her if she wanted to watch something else, she did, in fairness to the picture say, "I don't mind stuff that's stupid sometimes and it's kind of scary." High praise. The kid's got taste.)

Look, I love horror films and I'm generally excited by some of the cool shit going on in the genre within the low-budget realm these days, but the best work does what it does when it's actually about something and/or blessed with genuine originality (and not just coming up with something nobody's done before - like, uh, drowning). I'm personally looking for a unique voice - even if the subject matter is rooted in standard genre tropes. God knows, the whack-a-doodle Rasmussen Brothers managed to display something in that regard, in spite (or even because) of their slavish homage to the great John Carpenter in their directorial debut, the Foresight Features guys (whom Archibald's done some work with) have continually offered up original voices, Kaare Andrews attacked his gun-for-hire reboot of the Cabin Fever franchise with dazzling aplomb in spite of its less-than-stellar script and, though the list can go on, of course, lest we forget The Soska Twins, who might as well be called the most original new, young voices working in genre films today.

On the basis of this picture, though, I have no proof that Archibald has anything resembling a voice. Perhaps, he'll prove me wrong someday. Tell you what - I'll hold my breath and hope I don't drown in the meantime.

THE FILM CORNER RATING: *½ One-and-a-half-stars.

The Drownsman had its World Premiere at the 2014 edition of the FantAsia International Film Festival in Montreal.

EJECTA - Review By Greg Klymkiw - Solid script anchors alien thriller premiering @FantAsiaFilmFestival2014

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It's time to make room for some visitors.
IF YOU DARE DOUBT,
YOU'RE A FOOL!
Ejecta (2014) dir. Dir. Chad Archibald, Matt Wiele
Screenplay: Tony Burgess
Starring: Julian Richings, Lisa Houle, Adam Seybold

Review By Greg Klymkiw

In a world replete with eyewitness accounts detailing UFO sightings and contact with extraterrestrial (or at least, unidentified) life forms, all the stuff so many individuals and groups have testified to seeing and/or feeling, are those which tend to be discounted by ascribing said testimonials to mental illness. Though I have no doubt that many such experiences are indeed the bi-products of more than a few of the aforementioned folks being completely out of their respective (or collective) gourds, I still get the willies when I realize that some of them are most probably not crazy, that they've seen and experienced things I hope to never be unlucky enough to witness and/or feel.

Furthermore, I genuinely believe there's stuff out there that can never be adequately explained and probably won't be since an elite exists that's all too aware of certain realities, but keeps them veiled in secrecy for a variety of social, cultural, religious, political and economic reasons. The only people who would tend to dispute this, to doubt it beyond all that is reasonable, are those who would be quick to dismiss such notions, both genuinely and surreptitiously.

My own beliefs on this matter are not, I suspect, only due to years of tuning into very some very strange stuff on shortwave radio, eons of listening to Art Bell and George Noory on late-night talk radio and poring over as many books, articles and internet blogs on the matter as I've been able to pore over. Nay, I accept without question that some truly weird shit's going on out there (or, at the very least, I take it seriously enough to question it).

As for the poor souls who've become targets of derision for experiencing the unexplainable, it's clear they've been through something that's so cerebellum-brandingly real, so horrific, so indescribable and so nerve-shreddingly painful that they can only respond in ways that some would term as insanity. I have no doubt, however, that a goodly number of these people are not bonkers. In fact, those who absolutely refuse to believe are more likely to be the crazy ones.

Oh, and in case you're convinced that I am a few bricks short of a load on this, allow me to reveal, in defence of my sanity, that I've been mulling over the Drake Equation for several years (which, for some, might well be proof of my potentially schizophrenic nature). In any event, the equation provides an excellent basis for thought and discussion on the possibility of life existing beyond Earth and within our very own Milky Way and as such, has its fair share of champions in the scientific community. Radio Astronomer Frank Drake first came up with it in the early 60s and while it's impossible to use as a purely mathematical equation due to several unknown variables, it's still quite a brilliant series of questions to consider when searching for signs of extraterrestrial life. In fact, the Drake Equation is indeed the very foundation upon which the science of astrobiology was founded. (Feel free to do your own research on this, there's plenty of great stuff out there for further illumination.)

As well, we would be fools to ignore the wealth of historical artifacts, etchings and fossils that can certainly provide a solid bedrock to allow for a huge degree of healthy speculation that we, are not, alone, or, as expressed by the central character in the terrific film Ejecta:
"We were never alone."
All the aforementioned conundrums I've expressed tie directly and indeed form a great deal of the content of this extraordinary feature film triumph from the visionary Collingwood Crazies known to genre fans as Foresight Features. Ejecta is, without a doubt, one of the scariest science fiction horror films you're likely to see this year.

Buoyed by intense, intelligent writing from Tony Burgess (Pontypool, Septic Man) in a screenplay that induces fingernail-ripping-and-plucking (biting nails to the quick is "pussy", anyway), plus an astonishingly riveting performance by one of Canada's greatest actors Julian (Hard Core Logo, Cube, Man of Steel) Richings, Ejecta is a movie that plunges you into the terror of one utterly horrendous night in the lives of those who make contact with aliens. All of them experience a series of close encounters of the third kind, though be warned, they're as far removed from the benevolence and joy expressed in Spielberg's grandaddy classic of the genre.

There are no happy-faced hairless alien midgets gesticulating Zoltán Kodály Hand Signals whilst smiling at a beaming Francois Truffaut in Ejecta. No-siree-Spielberg, these mo-fos are super-ugly and their presence induces the sheer horror that inspires drawer-filling of the highest order. That said, Close Encounters of the Third Kind is worth noting here, because Ejecta shares one very important element with Spielberg's bonafide masterpiece.

Obsession.

Close Encounters took its title and three-act structure from a system of extraterrestrial classification as posited by the late astronomer Dr. Josef Allen Hynek – the close encounter. According to Hynek, a close encounter of the first kind is seeing unexplained phenomena, while the second kind involves hard proof of some sort of physical manifestation from what was originally witnessed and, finally, the close encounter of the third kind being contact. I'd argue that experiencing even one of these encounters would be enough to drive someone obsessively to seek subsequent levels of encounter or, in the case of Ejecta, we have three characters equally fraught with obsession. One seeks answers to stopping his pain, another will inflict pain to secure answers, while yet another brings the obsession of an artist seeking answers in his subject. And forgive me if I get all eggheaded on you here, but there is a sense of Trinity that Ejecta shares with Close Encounters - both pictures have a kind of Father, Son and Holy Spirit manifestation coursing through them and it's this level of spirituality and obsession that bind the pictures.

Close Encounters, of course, charts the journey of everyman Richard Dreyfuss who experiences the unexplained appearance of something other-worldly and abandons his life, his job, his family – everything he holds dear – to obsessively track down the meaning behind this occurrence. In a tale steeped in Judeo-Christian resonance – from Moses to Christ – Roy makes a perilous journey, climbs Devil’s Tower and comes face-to-face with the answer to his visions until he, along with twelve (trinity existing within the square root) apostolic “pilgrims” ascend to the Heavens, arms outstretched in what is surely the most benign crucifixion-image (trinity) imaginable.

This sense of spirituality is almost divine in nature and makes perfect sense considering the aforementioned Hynek’s own belief in the notion that a technology must exist which blends both the physical and psychic. Furthermore, it's important to note that Paul Schrader wrote the first pass of Close Encounters and though he didn't take a story credit (something he regretted almost as quickly as he agreed to it and more so in the years to follow), Spielberg's film feels, deep-down, like a Schrader narrative - especially the combination of obsession and spirituality.

This is an unbeatable combination that Ejecta flirts with at every turn.

The journey Burgess's screenplay takes us on begins quite evocatively with some cold, impersonal Ascii-text being typed onto a hazy computer monitor:
Tonight the universe is no bigger than my head.
It's time to make room for some visitors.
Yes, visitors indeed. William Cassidy (Julian Richings), a conspiracy theorist living off the grid in the middle of some godforsaken Ontario hinterland is inundated with unwelcome guests - a filmmaker, an interrogator and a mean-ass alien.

Joe (Adam Seybold) is the most benevolent of the three visitors Cassidy receives. This ultra-indie one-man-show documentary filmmaker believes he's been invited by Cassidy to engage in an interview. When he gets confirmation that he'll be granted an audience, he's ecstatic since Cassidy is considered the "Holy Grail" of UFO experts. Upon arriving, Cassidy seems confused as to why Joe is even there, but as things progress, we understand all too well why the wiry, jittery recluse is occasionally addled. Unlike the Richard Dreyfuss character in Close Encounters, most of Cassidy's adult life has been fraught with the obsession an alien encounter instigates. At least Dreyfuss had tangible things to lose, but poor Cassidy appears to have lost everything before he could even get a chance to amass it. What he's amassed is a life of questions, pain and endless, seemingly futile attempts to let the world know about his experience. He's lost a life he could have had. That's scary enough, but happily, the movie delivers its share of visceral chills to complement those of the philosophical variety.

We are privy to some of Joe's interview footage which reveals Cassidy's credentials in the UFO field. At first, Joe makes the mistake of referring to the alien abduction Cassidy suffered almost forty years ago, but is sternly corrected that it was not an abduction. The aliens came to Cassidy:
"They met inside my mind. I could feel them, I could hear them inside. They pretty much ignored me, but they had this meeting and then they left. They left something behind, something inside of me, and it's been there ever since. When I'm awake it hurts, but when I'm not, it floods me with these nightmares. No, no, it's not nightmares, it's not a thing, it's a feeling, it's not pain, it's not fear, it's something else, something much, much worse."
And damned if we don't believe him. This, of course, is one of the scariest things about the film. Burgess has written a character that allows Richings to invest with such intensity, that many of the creeps and shudders we get come directly from Cassidy's brilliantly scribed (via Burgess) and executed (via Richings) dialogue.

It's often been erroneously suggested in a kind of knee-jerk screenwriting 101 fashion that it's always better to show in movies than tell and those who ascribe to this strictly are too quick to dismiss the cinematic power of telling. In the case of Ejecta, so much of the film's power is in the showing of the telling and believe you me, the telling via the words Burgess provides to Richings borders on the poetic and it's these flights of fancy rooted in the unknown that not only wrench the bloody bejesus out of you but are one of the contributing factors to the film's overall achievement as a genre film that utilizes the tropes it must, but does so with the oft-neglected poetry inherent in cinema itself.

When Cassidy explains the feelings he has because of the intrusive alien presence within him, he notes in desperation, that it's "the fear of the anticipation of this feeling [which] eats away at my life." Well, Jesus H. Christ, Almighty! Hand me an extra large pair of Depends Adult Diapers because this statement and the chilling manner of its delivered was easily just as shit-my-drawers scary as a beautifully directed set piece which happens at another juncture in the film where Cassidy and Joe hide in the shed from the alien that prowls malevolently just outside.

Structurally, the film benefits from yet another trinity in the three-pronged approach to capturing the narrative of this night of horror. Firstly, there's Joe's documentary footage, then there's the perspective of the military through various helmet-cams and finally, the present-tense unfolding of Cassidy's interrogation at the hands of the malevolent Dr. Tobin (Lisa Houle). The movie skilfully bounces us throughout these perspectives, yet we seldom feel lost in the proceedings beyond the manner in which the characters themselves feel lost.

The film is co-directed by Matt Wiele and Chad Archibald and while it's difficult to ascertain the nature of the collaboration from the finished product, the bottom line is that there's a consistency to the film's overall snap, crackle and pop which renders a picture that almost always grabs you by the balls (or, if you will, vulva), squeezing, scratching, scrunching and twisting until you feel you can bear no more.

My only quibble is with certain elements of the interrogation scenes. There's an automaton quality to the military personnel which is no doubt intentional, but often feels too "play-acted" to gel with the elements in the film which seem rooted in docudrama-like reality. I was also mixed on how the blocking played out during these scenes as they seemed almost by-the-numbers plotted-out, not unlike that of series television.

Lisa Houle's performance, however, is one of the weirdest I've seen on film in a long time and that's quite a statement considering that she plays opposite Julian Richings who is eccentricity-incarnate. At first, I was not sure of her performance and thought I'd have to repress it in order to enjoy everything I loved about the picture, but it eventually grew on me because it really is so out-to-lunch. Houle delivers many of her lines with a kind of sing-song quality and at times she came across like some genetically mutated pollination twixt a happy host on children's educational programming and Ilsa, She-Wolf of the S.S.

This, ladies and gentlemen, is an achievement. My hat is off to her.

Then again, my hat is off to the entire Foresight Features team. They keep delivering the goods and Ejecta is as strange, perverse, thoughtful, scary and darkly funny as their best work has proven to be. The film also gives new meaning to the old movie tagline "Watch the Skies" because here, it's not the skies you need to watch, it's the universe implanted in your brain and goddamn, it hurts. And worst of all, you can't necessarily see it. Short of sawing the top of your skull off and gazing at your glistening brain in one of those cooking show mirrors, there's nothing to "watch".

Everything is feeling. And that, is really fucking scary.

THE FILM CORNER RATING: **** Four Stars

Ejecta had its world premiere, presented by Anchor Bay Entertainment Canada, at the 2014 edition of the FantAsia International Film Festival in Montreal.

PICKPOCKET - Review By Greg Klymkiw - Classic Robert Bresson crime drama now a stellar Criterion Blu-Ray

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The new Criterion Collection Dual-Format release of Robert Bresson's Pickpocket is one of the best Criterion packages ever produced.

Okay, I know this is a horrible generalization, but I'll take the plunge anyway. French movies usually drive me up a wall. I hate it when they're whimsical (Phillippe de Broca's King of Hearts or, God help us, anything by Jean Pierre Jeunet), or when they try to be funny (the annoyingly whimsical Jacques Tati, anything starring the overwrought rubber-faced Louis De Funes and virtually every French comedy from the late 70s to early 90s and often remade as equally detestable Hollywood hits), or when they trot out their horrendous historical dramas (in recent years almost always directed by the lead-footed Jean-Paul Rappeneau) and, of course, anything from the pretentious Jean-Luc Godard. French movies I detest are so numerous that the thought of having to watch them forces me to conjure up images of cheese-gobbling, wine-slurping, beret-adorned, effete aesthetes of the most ridiculous kind - inflicting their dipsy doodlings upon us with carefree abandon. Yes, I know. This is a generalization and tremendously unfair, but for whatever reason, my aforementioned rant even tends to give me enough ammunition to blame the French for everything. There are, however, two general exceptions to my prejudicial view. The first is anything by Robert Bresson and the second is pretty much any French crime picture or thriller (save for Godard's contributions to the genres. He alternately gives me headaches AND a sore ass.). For me, the French can almost do no wrong here. Jean Pierre Melville (Bob Le Flambeur), Claude Chabrol (Le Boucher), Henri Georges Clouzot (Diabolique) and even the boneheaded (but stylish) Luc Besson (Leon the Professional) have served up - time and time again - thrills, scares and existential criminal activity that turn my crank like there's no tomorrow. Most importantly, I worship the ground Robert Bresson walks upon. With this in mind, his astonishing Pickpocket delivers EVERYTHING I could want from the French - Bresson AND crime.

And now Pickpocket is available on one of the very best Criterion Collection home entertainment packages they've ever produced. In addition to the film looking better at home than ever before (via a new 2K digital restoration, with my favourite uncompressed monaural sound), the new Dual Format DVD/BluRay release is blessed with the most astonishing collection of added value material. The audio commentary track featuring film scholar James Quandt is, without peer, the finest commentary on Bresson one could ever want and is easily one of the best commentary tracks ever laid down. Quandt is the legendary TIFF Cinematheque senior programmer of the TIFF Bell Lightbox, mastermind of the legendary 2012 retrospective of Bresson's entire canon and the author of the great book "Robert Bresson (Revised), Revised and Expanded Edition (Cinematheque Ontario Monographs)". Also included is an introduction by writer-director Paul Schrader (whose work on Bresson is the only rival to Quandt's in his book "Transcendental Style In Film - Ozu, Bresson, Dreyer"), The Models of “Pickpocket”, a 2003 documentary by Babette Mangolte featuring interviews with actors from Pickpocket, a phenomenal interview with Bresson from the 1960 French TV program Cinépanorama, a 2000 Pickpocket Q and A featuring actor Marika Green and filmmakers Paul Vecchiali and Jean-Pierre Améris, fascinating footage of the sleight-of-hand artist and Pickpocket consultant Kassagi from the 1962 French TV show La piste aux étoiles and last, but not least, a fine essay by novelist and critic Gary Indiana.


Pickpocket (1959) dir. Robert Bresson
Starring: Martin LaSalle, Marika Green, Pierre Laymarie, Dolly Scal, Jean Pélégri, Kassagi, Pierre Étaix

Review By Greg Klymkiw

Robert Bresson is all about breaking the rules and flouting convention. Pickpocket is no exception to this tradition. What's most phenomenal about Bresson, is that when he's working within a genre framework, he clearly understands the rules and grammar of cinematic language so well that he's able to veer into dangerous territory and do so in such a way that the work is not only fresh, but still delivers the necessary frissons genre pictures need in order to deliver the goods. Like his WWII P.O.W. picture A Man Escaped, Pickpocket is rife with both atmosphere and suspense - both of which soar due to his rule-breaking that places an emphasis on touches so profoundly real that he plunges us deeply into the worlds and minds of his characters in ways most other directors can only TRY to do.

Pickpocket follows the adventures of Michel (Martin La Salle), a sensitive young man who could do anything with his life - he's clearly sharp-witted and intelligent, but when he discovers his talent for picking pockets, he attacks this pursuit with an almost fundamentalist zeal. His mother (Dolly Scal) is dying in poverty and he seeks to redress this situation by stealing. That said, he's so ashamed of his prowess at stealing that he finds it hard to face his mother and leaves her in the more than capable hands of the beautiful Jeanne (Marika Green), a neighbour and caregiver to the old woman. His best friend Jacques (Pierre Laymarie) is aware of Michel's criminal activities and desperately tries to sway him on the right path, but instead, he strikes up a working relationship to with two sleazy accomplices (Kassagi and Pierre Étaix) who not only assist him, but provide additional tutelage so he can become even more brilliant at deftly removing money from the wallets of all manner of marks - mostly in crowded subways (a la Samuel Fuller's classic noir picture Pickup on South Street).

Add to this mix, a cat and mouse game he plays with a police inspector (Jean Pélégri) and it all adds up to a classic crime picture. Bresson's approach to material, an approach that might have been hackneyed in less capable hands, yields a movie that is so original that it feels like a clutch of syrup-laden maraschino cherries on a nice hot fudge ice cream sundae.

Bresson never appears to use any closeups, or for that matter, a sparing use of wide shots. Almost the entire film is framed in medium shots - allowing for a consistent visual treatment that works ever-so beautifully with the perverse cutting style which avoids cutting on action, but does so before or after action. This allows for a deliberate pace that renders the pickpocketing sequences unbearably suspenseful and also makes the pleas of those who love him all the more powerful. In a sense, the audience almost becomes a part of the Greek chorus of those who would have Michel walk the straight and narrow.

This, in a nutshell, is very cool.

Bresson's approach also captures the world and atmosphere with utter perfection. Everything from the cafes, to Michel's austere apartment, the racetracks, the crowded subways and his mother's death room all have the unmistakeable whiff of real life. They're not stylized in the usual fashion of crime films - no baroque, noir-ish qualities here. He shoots it all straight on and in this fashion, creates both consistency in his mise-en-scene, but a world that never feels manufactured.

This is the beauty of Bresson, of course. He doesn't want to overtly manipulate the proceedings, but in his austerity he does indeed, like all great filmmakers - manipulate AND manufacture.

Is it any surprise that redemption, of some kind, is just around the corner? And, given the film's indebtedness to Dostoyevsky, the redemption is not overburdened with the usual tropes of morality. Morality hovers just above the surface, but doesn't actually get in the way of the picture's emotional and narrative trajectory. Immoral behaviour is, frankly, a lot of fun to experience - at least vicariously - and Bresson does not deny us this simple pleasure. He just does it in ways that no other directors have ever been able to successfully master in quite the same way.

Pickpocket is a corker of a crime picture and because Bresson infuses it with his unique voice, it's not only a fine bedfellow with the best of Chabrol, Clouzot and Melville, but occasionally astral-projects itself above the mutual resting place of the aforementioned.

Robert Bresson strikes again.

Pickpocket is a great picture and one that served as a huge inspiration to all the crime pictures that followed it.

Oh, and just for fun, watch Pickpocket back-to-back with Paul Schrader's American Gigolo and you'll be plunged into movie-geek Heaven. I won't explain further. Just do it.

THE FILM CORNER RATING: ***** Five Stars

"Pickpocket" is available on the Criterion Collection. Feel free to order it directly from the Amazon links below. To read my opening tribute to Bresson and James Quandt's legendary 2012 TIFF Bell Lightbox retrospective, feel free to visit The Robert Bresson Man-Cave™ HERE.

CLOSER TO GOD - Review By Greg Klymkiw - Cloning Thriller an O.K. Modern Frankenstein take @FantAsia2014

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Closer To God (2014) dir. Gary Senese
Starring: Jeremy Childs, Shelean Newman, Shannon Hoppe, David Alford, John Schuck

Review By Greg Klymkiw

Bouncing Baby Elizabeth has just been born. She's a clone created by Dr. Reed (Jeremy Childs) and after years of research and plenty of failures, it looks like he's finally hit pay dirt. When word leaks, all hell breaks loose. The media has a field day, various government authorities plot all manner of legal attacks, the hospital is besieged by crazed born-again Christian protestors and strange visitors wander halls they shouldn't even be in. When Reed has the cloned baby and his lab moved to his palatial country estate, the circus follows him and now his family are virtual prisoners in their own home (which is surrounded by armed security guards).

Though things seem well with the baby, something is still amiss. Years earlier, the good doctor conducted cloning experiments with a local couple and the results were not at all successful. In fact, something that shouldn't have survived, has. It ain't pretty and it's mighty angry.

A new kind of hell will soon break loose.

Closer to God is a reasonably effective low-budget take on the Frankenstein story which is certainly watchable, but falls short of the calculatingly chilly style of Cronenberg's early work that it most resembles. Writer-Director Gary Senese attempts to infuse his film with an intelligent discourse involving ethical issues and the struggles between science and religion. Alas, it's missing the excruciating tension of films like Shivers, Rabid and The Brood, but worst of all, it's bereft of the perverse nature of those pictures. Because it takes itself so very seriously, Closer to God is also missing anything resembling humour. Given its ultimately pulpy roots (less Mary Shelley, more Universal Horror Franchise versions dolloped with cool Cronenbergian aspirations), the movie plays out like a straight-to-VOD time killer with a tiny bit more brains than the usual dross clogging the airwaves and cyberspace.

Its underpopulated locations - both exterior and exterior - betray the low budget, especially in the small number of bodies used for the masses of protestors and structurally, the story doesn't adequately blend the subplot involving the experiment gone wrong so that what little suspense the film actually has, comes far too late in the proceedings. The story also relies too heavily on flashbacks to fill in details of character and logic, so much so that we're taken out of the forward trajectory the film needs to work as the thriller it aspires to be.

The performances are an odd mix of wooden (almost all of them) to genuinely superb (Jeremy Childs), but perhaps the best thing that can be said here is that the wonderful character actor John Schuck is a real sight for sore eyes in his all-too-brief role as the good doctor's lawyer. Most will remember Schuck from his second-fiddle role in the long-running McMillan and Wife TV series, but those who care anything at all about movies will remember him as a part of Robert Altman's company of players during his richest period of the 1970s (he portrayed, among other immortal roles, the "Painless Pole" in M*A*S*H and the lowlife Chicamaw in Thieves Like Us).

Closer to God isn't awful, but given the subject matter, it falls considerably short of its promise. My hat is off to Senese for attempting to deliver an old tale in contemporary garb, but close is still "no cigar".

THE FILM CORNER RATING: **½ Two-and-a-half Stars

Closer to God enjoyed its International Premiere at the 2014 edition of the FantAsia International Film Fest in Montreal.

DEALER - Review By Greg Klymkiw - Grim, Grimy, Violent French Crime Drama Delivers Goods @FantAsia2014

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Dealer (2014) Dir. Jean Luc Herbulot
Screenplay: Samy Baaroun, Herbulot
Starring: Dan Bronchinson, Elsa Madeleine, Salem Kali, Bruno Henry

Review By Greg Klymkiw

Dan (Dan Bronchinson) is a caring, loving single Dad living in Paris. He dreams of moving to Australia and start life anew. He also happens to be a criminal scumbag, pimp and drug dealer; a lifestyle that's now starting to wear him down and forced his wife to move out with their daughter in tow. Though he's wisely avoided selling any hard drugs, especially cocaine, an opportunity presents itself when one of his regulars is in desperate need of one kilo of the death powder and willing to pay retail for it. In one single afternoon, Dan can make enough to completely change his life and that of his family's.

Throwing his better judgement to the wind, Dan reconnects with a dangerous cartel from his younger days and in the flurry of activity (including some cops looking for him), he hides the goods in his hooker's lair. When it goes missing, his life is turned topsy turvy and he's plunged into an adrenalin charged race against time - one in which he's faced with:

-trolling the deepest, darkest Parisian shitholes,

-engaging in several breathtaking chases,

-mixing it up in several brutal displays of fisticuffs,

-leaving a trail of corpses as long as his decades-long rap sheet,

-and rescuing his wife and child from the clutches of some criminal psychos holding them ransom until he delivers.

Dealer is one thrilling, shocking and edge-of-the-seat-suspenseful crime picture. Some might make an obvious comparison to the work of Nicholas Winding Refn (Drive), but that would be a slap in the face to co-writer and director Herbulot who offers up a movie that's anything but the pretentious, sickeningly cerebral and wildly overrated pictures of Refn. Herbulot's film is as striking a debut as such first-feature/sophomore classics of the genre as Nick Gomez's Laws of Gravity, the Hughes Brothers'Menace II Society, Mathieu Kassovitz's La Haine and even Martin Scorsese's Who's That Knocking At My Door and Mean Streets. It's a movie so rooted in streets, cheap rooms, dives and gutters that it practically stinks of sweat, blood, piss, dog shit and cum.

Stunningly shot and cut in the kind of herky-jerky that's more in line with masters like Paul Greengrass, who actually know how to compose shots as opposed to all the big-budget poseurs who shoot their action and suspense in this manner because they aren't real filmmakers, Herbulot is the real thing and then some.

I can hardly wait to see his next picture. If it's even half-as-good as Dealer, it's going to be damn amazing.

THE FILM CORNER RATING: **** Four Stars

Dealer enjoyed its world premiere at the 2014 edition of the FantAsia International Film Festival in Montreal.

THE DESERT - Review By Greg Klymkiw - Argentinian 4-hander w/ 2 hunks, 1 babe and zombies @FantAsia2014

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A hot babe w/ a gun & 2 hot hunks - always a bonus during the apocalypse!

Hot Babe gets porked, Hot Hunk gets pricked. Good deal.
The Desert aka El Desierto (2013)
Dir. Christoph Behl
Starring: Victoria Almeida, William Prociuk, Lautaro Delgado, Lucas Lagré

Review By Greg Klymkiw

As per usual, I'm always delighted when filmmakers expand the boundaries of genre filmmaking with new and original takes on the tropes. This is why I endured The Desert, a well-acted and intelligent Argentinian picture which eventually suffers from a detrimental reliance upon one well-intentioned arty-farty longueur after another. (I don't even mind the arty, it's the farty that drives me bonkers.)

A trio of attractive Argentinians have been holed up in a fortified apartment - long enough to have established some reasonable ground rules to approximate a normal life within extraordinary circumstances, a garden-variety post-apocalyptic world with zombies roaming about in search of human flesh. Ana (Victoria Almeida) is in a relationship with Jonathan (William Prociuk). Axel (Lautaro Delgado), understandably obsesses over her lithe form when she's sleeping and possesses himself equally with tattooing flies upon his body.

These, at least from my twisted perspective, both seem like reasonable-enough fetishes, especially given how this odd family unit appears to live. Considering the dire situation they're in, they seem to live reasonably well. Their rules to live by are both lifestyle and safety driven. All decisions must be made collectively and like a jury, they need to be unanimous. Games of the "Truth or Dare" or backgammon variety must be played if even one person wants to play and the others don't. When venturing into the outside world, two people must go - no solo efforts allowed. There are fucking zombies out there, yes? As for expressing themselves privately, given the claustrophobic nature of their existence, they have devoted one room where each can record their own video diary. They then deposit their tapes through a slot into a locked chest.

Given the lack of traditional power and water, they patch into a small generator for electricity and use rain barrels on their roof. Food is of the canned and dry goods variety. Hell, if they weren't mostly relegated to this one ground floor suite, it could, in fact, be a paradise. Alas, like the metaphorical title suggests, there is no oasis - the outside world is as much a desert-like environment as is their inside world. Emptiness is all-pervasive.

Luckily, for the audience, we catch these characters on the precipice of going a bit stir crazy, if not borderline bonkers. The biggest tension is between Axel and Ana. Axel wants some nookie and given that Ana's a sultry bit o'Chocotorta, one can't blame him. She knows he's been staring at her while she sleeps and even finds out he's been breaking the rules and sneaking her tapes out of the chest to watch. There's some discussion and consideration given to the idea of sharing her, but this creates added tension. At one point, during a game of Truth or Dare, certain confessions rear their ugly heads and even worse, one of the dares involves capturing and tattooing a zombie.

Ana has been keeping a memorial to every zombie they're forced to kill by giving each one a Greek name and etching it upon a wall. When the men drag home a live zombie for the tattooing dare, he's securely chained and Ana soon gives him the name Pythagoras (Lucas Lagré). He becomes a surrogate pet to her and she spends hours staring at it, attempting to communicate with the woeful wretch and even decorating his face with spray paint.

Here's the deal. There's nothing wrong with the story, nor is there anything wrong with the deliberate pace used to recreate a sense of both claustrophobia and tedium, but there are eventually far too many moments where the tedium forces your mind to wander and it's here where you're not only taken out of the story, but forced to mull over several unanswered questions and/or holes in the plot. While one is watching a movie is not the right time to be thinking about such matters and this results in an overall experience wherein a good many of the picture's parts are excellent, but the whole leaves a bit to be desired. (Sorry for butchering Aristotle here, but given the Greek names Ana's obsessed with, it seemed appropriate.)

The performances director Behl elicits from the cast are, as mentioned, superb. The triangle of friends/lovers feel like a genuine unit, albeit a frayed one. Almeida's Ana is a lovely mix of sexy, smart, cheeky and resourceful, but beneath the spitfire, she evokes, especially in her soulful eyes, a sense of sadness which plays beautifully with her overall journey as a character. Lucas Lagré is astonishing as the zombie - his remote, blank qualities conjure a sense of tragedy and empathy, except during occasionally shocking bursts of ferocity. Delgado's Axel is ruggedly handsome with an offbeat quality which he uses to superb effect - whether he's leering or obsessively fetishizing certain aspects of this life in hiding. Sanitation, or lack thereof, is certainly an issue and given the number of disgusting little bastards of the insect family Diptera (to carry the Greek metaphor to a pretentious, on my part, extreme), his need to tattoo flies on his body makes perfect sense, especially since one can only spend so much time under bug netting. Prociuk is an appropriately handsome and stalwart Jonathan - his intense Slavic features (forgive me, I'm an inveterate Ukrainian-spotter) are used to their fullest effect. He evokes an odd sense of emptiness and a kind of working-class roughness which ties in with Ana's own doubts about her love for him.

Behl's direction is, overall, superb - the blocking, sense of composition and the overall mise-en-scène of this world is clearly the work of a gifted filmmaker, as is his finely-tuned feel for observation. Alas, I do wish he'd have occasionally picked up the pace to avoid those stretches where we have too much time on our minds to think about some of the aforementioned plot-holes, most of which are niggling questions about the outside world, but annoying enough to rip us out of the drama. He's clearly a director to watch and if you have a hankering for some existentialist genre-bending and some patience (a definite must here), The Desert will offer you rewards not usually found in post-apocalyptic horror.

THE FILM CORNER RATING: *** Three Stars

The Desert enjoyed its Canadian Premiere at the 2014 edition of the FantAsia International Film Festival in Montreal.

IT CAME FROM KUCHAR - Review By Greg Klymkiw - Terrific Documentary about the Kuchar Bros is a MUST-SEE! Don't miss it in anticipation of TO BE TAKEI, a new film by Jennifer M. Kroot, the superb American documentary filmmaker who provided this lovely film biography on the Kuchar Brothers and in turn, delivered a lovely portrait of Star Trek's "Mr. Sulu" opening August 22, 2014 at TIFF Bell Lightbox via Anchor Bay Entertainment

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In anticipation of TO BE TAKEI, a new film by Jennifer M. Kroot, the superb American documentary filmmaker who studied under the late, great and legendary avant-garde filmmaker George Kuchar at the San Francisco Art institute, I am presenting this all-new rewrite of my first review of her brilliant first feature IT CAME FROM KUCHAR which I filed five years ago. A lovely portrait of the man we all know and love as navigator Sulu in the original Star Trek TV series and the six classic feature film spin-offs, TO BE TAKEI just enjoyed two sellout screenings at the famed FantAsia International Film Festival in Montreal and will be opening theatrically in Canada at TIFF Bell Lightbox on August 22, 2014 followed by a DVD release from Anchor Bay Entertainment via Starz Digital. In the meantime, read about Kroot's magnificent tribute to a pair of filmmakers whose influence changed the shape of independent cinema and, given that it's the kind of film portrait that any artist would die to get should give you some idea of what you, the movie-goer have to expect with TO BE TAKEI. (I suspect Mr. Takei feels as blessed to have Kroot as his film biographer as the Kuchar Brothers.)

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It Came From Kuchar (2009)
dir. Jennifer M. Kroot
Starring: George Kuchar, Mike Kuchar, John Waters, Bill Griffith, Buck Henry, B. Ruby Rich, Wayne Wang, Guy Maddin, Christopher Coppola and Atom Egoyan.

Review By Greg Klymkiw

Whenever I asked young filmmakers whose work they adored or what they thought was especially cool, I'd get the same pathetic responses: Christopher ("One Idea") Nolan, Wes ("Geek Chic") Anderson, Quentin ("I finally made a genuinely Great movie") Tarantino and, God Help Us, George ("I used to make cool movies before Star Wars") Lucas. (All parenthetical slags mine.) On rare occasions, I'd breathe a sigh of relief whenever someone mentioned David Lynch.

However, when I'd mention the likes of Alejandro Jodorowsky, John Waters, The Brothers Quay, Jan Svankmajer, Ulrich Seidl or Doris Wishman, their faces became as blank as a sheet of Kinkos/FedEx paper waiting to be fed into a copier. Granted, I'd almost forgive the upcoming generation of cinema-belching Philistines when they'd scratch their ignoramus noggins at legendary names like Kenneth Anger, Stan Brakhage, Maya Deren, Jonas Mekas, Bruce Conner or Hollis Frampton, but most disturbing to me was seeing their faces dissipate into some sort of optical effect of nothingness that reminded me of Claude Rains transforming into The Invisible Man when I mentioned the coolest of them all, the Kuchar Brothers (George and Mike).

This was and still is truly depressing. The Kuchar Brothers are as important to cinema as any genius iconoclasts like Dovzhenko, Eisenstein, Welles, Corman, Altman, Kubrick, Fellini, Pasolini, Bunuel, Bergman and among many others, yes, even Quentin Tarantino (post Pulp Fiction, of course).

And guess what? The Kuchars aren't only important, they're cool.

At the risk of sounding like my father, my generation fed gluttonously at the buffet of cool movies because we wanted to make movies that were as cool, if not cooler than those that came before us. Most importantly, we learned things that could become springboards for our own ambitions - not just from the very recent past, but from over the entire breadth of cinema. And I reiterate, the coolest of the cool were George and Mike Kuchar.

And, Thank Christ Almighty (or whatever deity strikes your fancy), because someone has finally enshrined these cool cats in a feature length tribute worthy of their status, genius and historical importance in the development of cinema.

It Came From Kuchar is a finely honed and entertaining documentary that also carries with it a considerable degree of import to burgeoning (and even seasoned) filmmakers as well as cineastes. Some documentaries are important for content, some for form, and yet others for both. The fact that this documentary focuses so winningly (in form and content) upon the brothers' work, their influences (and influence over other filmmakers), plus their remarkable personal lives, is more than enough to make this a must-see motion picture.

Such is the filmmaking dexterity of the doc's director Jennifer M. Kroot. Granted, she is one of the converted, having been George Kuchar's student at the San Francisco Art institute where he became her mentor. As such, this paid off in spades. Kroot learned from the Master well and in turn painted both a loving portrait and a movie with a strong narrative support beam that draws audiences magnetically to its subjects.

At first, the movie simply, seamlessly and amusingly places the Kuchars within the context of 20th century cinema. Through a series of introductory interviews with the likes of Buck Henry, Atom Egoyan, John Waters and Guy Maddin - interviews that are copiously infused with accolades of the most laudatory kind from said filmmakers - we see how some of the world's most important directors love, respect and have been deeply affected as artists by the Kuchars.

In addition to this, the picture also delivers a nice taste of what influenced the Kuchars themselves. Mike Kuchar talks about how they adored going to the movies in the 50s and he describes movie theatres as "temples" which, of course, they were. This was long before the age of the multiplex - where one could be sitting in a packed-to-the-rafters picture palace (which always boasted hundreds, and sometimes thousands of seats). The movies the Kuchars adored were garishly colour-dappled melodramas by the likes of Douglas Sirk and overblown Hollywood star-turns by Liz Taylor in Butterfield 8.

Kroot also wisely focuses on introducing us to the underground cinema scene of the early 60s where in contrast to the picture palaces, young hipsters patronized tiny hole-in-the-wall joints like "The Bridge" in New York City to groove on ultra low budget experimental works. Many of the projects were super-cerebral and contrasted the narrative qualities and huge entertainment value inherent in the works of the Kuchar Brothers.

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I especially love the simple, direct way Kroot juxtaposes the films of the Kuchar Brothers with the blockbuster soap operatic features they loved. Seeing samples from The Craven Sluck or The Devil's Cleavage up against the lofty Kuchar influences like Imitation of Life is what demonstrates how much they loved movies. This for me, is one of the things I personally always loved about the Kuchars - their devotion to motion pictures amounted to deity worship.

They were also always funny, but their own perverse renderings of the likes of Liz Taylor did not fall into oft-despicable spoofs or even parody - the pictures they made had a satiric edge wherein they overplayed the conventions of melodramatic mainstream cinema, yet did so not to mock the movies, but to expose innumerable truths found in everyday human behaviour and relationships by using the movies they loved as starting blocks to render their own unique cinematic style.

What is so astounding about the work of the Kuchar Brothers is that for all the lurid details, the shock value, the intensely overblown melodrama, the cult-ish qualities, these movies are so uncommonly personal that they are often extremely moving. One alternates between laughing and crying, inspired by force one seldom sees in avant-garde cinema (and, frankly, cinema period). The Kuchars managed a magical blend of the grotesque with heartbreakingly emotional truths again and again and yet, again.

These guys are true Masters.

These guys are the real thing!

And they're so cool they're beyond cool.

And certainly, one of the many things I love about Kroot's documentary is seeing and hearing how the Kuchar Brothers' love of melodrama contributed to their exclusive voice, which in turn inspired a whole new generation of filmmakers. When I hear Guy Maddin waxing eloquent about George's use of makeup - especially on women - wherein their eyebrows are ludicrously inflated to look like "chocolate bars", I can only smile and recall Guy's own unflagging boldness in applying raccoon-eye makeup to all his female characters. Guy also cites the "aggressively stylized voices" of the actors, which Guy also brings to his work - or rather, he insists upon stylized vocal delivery, but in his own predilection for all that is repressed and muted. John Waters, of course, took the Kuchars' notion of aggressive vocal stylization completely to heart. That said, the Kuchars' ripe dialogue played a huge part in this and both Maddin and Waters picked up that particular torch and ran with it.

KUCHAR KUCHAR KUCHAR KUCHAR KUCHAR KUCHAR KUCHAR

In the film, we learn that the Kuchar Brothers were born in New York City at Bellevue Hospital, which as George notes, is renowned as the hospital where 50s/60s heart-throb Tab Hunter was also born, and most notably as a hospital devoted to treating the insane. A few years later, the Kuchar family moved to the Bronx - a neighbourhood of blasted-out empty buildings and endless vacant lots. This is where George and Mike (twins, though neither knows if they are identical or fraternal) really discovered themselves. They loved the Bronx and using their bountiful imaginations, they turned this seemingly grotesque world of the abandoned into a veritable paradise - Disneyland for the sons of working class Eastern Europeans.

Their Dad was a handsome, rough and tough truck driver of Hungarian descent and Mom was a gentle, supportive book binder of Ukrainian descent. Dad had an eye for the ladies, or as George says in the doc, he was "very carnal". This resulted in continual friction, but the boys dismiss it as typical family squabbling. I was especially fond of George's recollections of how his own Dad eventually came around to partially accepting their love of filmmaking when the boys started putting lots of nudity in the work. Dad, as it turns out, was an avid collector of "Red Reels" (8mm porno films for home consumption) and he fervently encouraged the boys. Gotta love it when fathers and sons find common ground. That said, George drew a line at refusing his Dad's request for some private porn requests.

Very few stones are left unturned in Kroot's documentary. We get generous footage and background on George's work as a film professor and mentor at the San Francisco Art Institute, a tremendously moving section on George's creative and romantic relationship with the late filmmaker Curt McDowell (Thundercrack), some wonderful early recollections on George and Mike's career as graphic artists on Madison Avenue (yikes!) as well as George's friendship with Art Spiegelman and Bill Griffiths that led to his work as a cartoonist in "Arcade" and Bill Griffiths's astounding revelation that Zippy the Pinhead was partially inspired by George. Mike's illustrations of gay porno comic books, George's incredible Weather Diaries, the brothers' devotion to caring for their aging (now deceased) Mother and even the differences in approach to storytelling when the brothers work apart are additional nuggets spread about Kroot's Table de cinéma.

While the wealth of information in this movie is staggering, it NEVER feels like everything but the kitchen sink. Each piece of information, each recollection, each clip, each interview, each piece of the puzzle that is the Kuchar Brothers is meticulously placed and honed to move the story forward in an entertaining and informative fashion.

Most importantly, we are blessed with George Kuchar's secret to providing the exquisite turds on display in so many of his movies. For this, my life is now complete.

THE FILM CORNER RATING: **** Four Stars

Here are some terrific Kuchar related materials including the It Came From Kuchar on DVD at Amazon that you can order directly from the links below and in so doing support the ongoing maintenance of The Film Corner.





THE MAN IN THE ORANGE JACKET - Review By Greg Klymkiw - Latvia Yields Sickness @FantAsia 2014 in Montreal

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Proletarian banality in Latvia.
The Man in the Orange Jacket (2014)
Dir. Aik Karapetian
Starring: Maxim Lazarev, Aris Rozentals, Anta Aizupe

Review By Greg Klymkiw

This might be one of the most vile movies I've seen in quite awhile. I suspect most audiences will find it either reprehensible or boring (or both), but ultimately, I think it signals the arrival of an especially gifted filmmaker. Aik Karapetian is Armenian and the movie is a co-production between Latvia and Estonia. Given that this is a brutal, nasty-humoured psychological horror film, its peculiar ethnographical pedigree seems to almost guarantee that we're going to see something that's as shocking as it's off the well-worn path.

While it shares similarities to Roman Polanksi's The Tenant and Repulsion. it just as easily conjures up comparison points to John McNaughton's Henry: Portrait of a Serial Killer, David Fincher's Se7en and Jonathan Demme's The Silence of the Lambs (with generous dollops of Lars von Trier and Michael Haneke). Finally though, The Man in the Orange Jacket is all its own movie - a truly sickening and starkly original piece of work. After seeing it, nobody will accuse it of being in the domain of been-there-done-that.

When a whole whack of dock workers are laid-off, one of them decides he's had enough of his lot in life as a labourer within the "new" capitalism of Eastern Europe. He wants a taste of what the 1% have and nothing's going to stop him from getting it. He targets the scumbag corporate CEO (Aris Rozentals) who's responsible for his predicament of unemployment, shows up at the richie-rich's sprawling, isolated country mansion, murders the CEO and his gorgeous young wife (Anta Azupe), tosses their bodies into the basement and proceeds to live a life of leisure in the upscale, though oddly antiseptic abode. There's a bit of perverse fun to be had watching our boy lounging about in expensive clothing, eating gourmet meals, drinking fine wine, sitting in different comfy chairs and "admiring" the works of art on the walls, but it's clear that what he desires is not attainable since he's essentially a proletarian numbskull - albeit of the psychopathic variety. Curiously, what little we find out about the CEO suggests that in his own way, he's as hollow a shell as our working class hero. As for our rich man wanna-be, Karapetian makes no attempt to add any more shading that what little we see.

Thankfully the movie doesn't provide us any excuses or reasons for the psycho's behaviour, beyond the banal desire to have what can never truly be his. Some, I suspect, might dump on this as a major flaw, but any attempts to fill in the blanks would simply have been disingenuous. This is, ultimately, the story of one big fat nothing and as such, it's a damn effective one. Replete with astonishing visual flourishes and a creepy-crawly methodical pace of the most unbearably compelling kind, The Man in the Orange Jacket is as sterling a sophomore effort as we're likely to experience this year.

At a certain point, early on, it's quite obvious that we're not going to get even a smidgen of empathy in this character. As his isolated indulgence progresses, he becomes increasingly bored and we're then privy to a series of harrowing incidents which suggest the house itself is haunted or that he's even more off his rocker than we suspected. When he summons two gorgeous twin escorts to "his" home, he's such an empty vessel that the most "creative" sexual shenanigans he can muster is to piss into the swimming pool and force the hookers to stay in the water.

We should all be so lucky.

THE FILM CORNER RATING: *** 3-Stars

The Man in the Orange Jacket enjoyed its International Premiere at the 2014 edition of the FantAsia International Film Festival in Montreal and has been selected to unspool at the prestigious Fantastic Fest at the Alamo Drafthouse Cinema in Austin, Texas.

TIME LAPSE - Review By Greg Klymkiw - Cool Low Budget Science Fiction Meets Crime Thriller @FantAsia2014

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If you're a scumbag mob bookie - knowing the future could come in handy.
Knowing the future is a good deal.
Then again, maybe not.
Time Lapse (2014)
Dir. Bradley King
Writers: King and B.P. Cooper
Starring: Danielle Panabaker, Matt O'Leary, George Finn, Amin Joseph, Jason Spisak, John Rhys-Davies

Review By Greg Klymkiw

So you're an artist (Matt O'Leary) living with your gorgeous girlfriend (Danielle Panabaker) and best bro-mantic bud (George Finn) in a nice ground floor suite where you make a comfortable-enough living as the apartment complex caretaker. When the eccentric old guy who (John Rhys-Davies) lives in the suite directly across from yours mysteriously disappears, you enter his place and discover that the walls are covered with Polaroid photos of your front window that have been taken by a mysterious looking contraption pointing straight though the tenant's window at yours.

This is creepy enough, but when you check his storage locker, you discover his rotting body lying on the floor.

Most people would be calling the police, but you don't, because you've discovered that each photo the machine spits out is, in fact, a shot revealing one day into the future - your future and of those who live with you. Even better, is that your bro-mantic bud is a layabout gambler with a penchant for dog racing and with a few modifications, it looks like the machine will determine the future based upon how one poses for the daily pictures.

This is what faces the protagonist of Bradley King's clever, compelling and suspenseful low-budget science fiction thriller Time Lapse. Making the absolute most out of limited locations and a small cast, it's as good, if not better than most studio pictures that might have similar high concept approaches. Unlike most studio efforts, the accent is on character, a genuine building of suspense and a cool twist that takes us into genre hybrid territory of the coolest kind.

Add to the mix, a mega-scumbag bookie (Jason Spisak) and his tough psycho henchman, a curious security guard turned cop (Amin Joseph) and mounting tensions twixt the central trio that dip into film noir territory of sexual tension and backstabbing and you've got a genuinely original and solid entertainment.

King's screenplay (co-written by B.P. Cooper) always keeps you guessing and watching with rapt attention. As well, King's sure-handed direction and a first-rate cast guarantee a good time will be had by all. In a perfect world, the film should have been about fifteen minutes shorter and jettisoned a whack of unnecessary material for even greater punch. I suspect you'll find, like I did, that the last third occasionally feels like it's spinning its wheels, but happily, it delivers a killer denouement that will satisfy in ways that the best dystopian science fiction and dark crime pictures demand.

THE FILM CORNER RATING: ***½ Three-and-a-half Stars

Time Lapse enjoyed its Canadian Premiere at the 2014 edition of the FantAsia International Film Festival in Montreal.

THE EXPENDABLES 3 - Review By Greg Klymkiw - Finally, a major studio action film that's actually well-directed.

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MEL GIBSON - a man among men in The Expendables 3 - MEL RULES!
Amongst the many smelly fellas is MMA Champ
and MAJOR BABE who KICKS ASS - Ronda Rousey
The Expendables 3 (2014) Dir. Patrick Hughes
Starring: Sylvester Stallone, Jason Statham, Antonio Banderas, Jet Li, Wesley Snipes, Dolph Lundgren, Kelsey Grammer, Randy Couture, Terry Crews, Mel Gibson, Harrison Ford, Arnold Schwarzenegger, Kellan Lutz, Ronda Rousey, Glen Powell and Robert Davi

Review By Greg Klymkiw

There are no two ways about it. The Expendables 3 is unbelievably moronic, but this will hardly matter to anyone, especially those who love a first-rate action movie, because for once, a major studio picture of this ilk is so superbly directed, that your jaw will continually be dropping at the astounding set pieces. The first five minutes alone is worth the price of a full admission (for those so kick-assedly inclined).

Involving a heavily armed speeding train, a heavily armed helicopter and, lickety-split, a runaway speeding train headed for a maximum security prison, there is not a single shot or cut during this sequence that doesn't milk your gonads dry.

From the opening sequence to the last, there are no sloppy compositions, no stupid herky-jerky camera-operating and no useless quick cuts just for the sake of cutting fast, though the fast cuts employed are done so for good reason - all that remains onscreen are bulky, buff men with guns, knives, machetes, formidable fisticuffs, superior firepower all-round, several astounding rescues, a superb sense of spatial geography during the ludicrous amount of carnage and, need we even mention, lots of shit blowing up really, really good.

For some reason, it took three writers to come up with the plot to this movie. That alone seems unbelievably stupid, but no matter. All three scribes (including star-producer Stallone) have gone to the wall to come up with a suitably flimsy excuse to generate action sequences. If they were dreadfully directed action sequences like you'll find in most blockbusters these days, that'd be one thing, but they're not, so don't blame me if you walk out of the theatre saying, "Fuck, that was stupid!" It's no more or less stupid than anything else you'll see and it's at least made by a real filmmaker who knows how to deliver in a classical fashion blended with some of the contemporary nods to ADHD-afflicted audiences.

Stallone and his expendables (with the addition of Wesley Snipes to the team) are on a mission to nail a scumbag for the CIA. That's original, mais non? They hightail it to Somalia (where else?) and though they appear to decimate the entire population of the country, they're unable to capture their quarry. It turns out that he's the turncoat who formed the expendable team with Stallone and whom everyone thought was dead.

Not only is he not dead, he's Mel-fucking-Gibson!

Given that one of Sly's team is badly wounded and near death and that new CIA-head-honcho Harrison Ford is mightily pissed off, Sly decides this job is personal. He refuses to risk the lives of his dear team members, fires them, and signs up a whole new team. That the team includes the ravishingly gorgeous MMA Champ Ronda Rousey means you have yet another good reason to see the film - this lady is thoroughly scrumptious, kicks ass better than any of the buff senior citizens and she will inspire major boners (or wetness for lassies so inclined) when she's holding and firing any number of hot, glistening rods o' death.

Add an unbelievably obnoxious Antonio Banderas to the mix, one idiotically hilarious one-liner after another, Jet Li doing no martial arts, Arnold Schwarzenegger smoking cigars and madman Mel Gibson chewing up every available piece of scenery as the loathsome villain and you've got a movie for the ages (or at least, Saturday afternoon).

And don't fret, the three screenwriters were smart enough to make sure the original team of expendables are not left out of the eventual carnage. After an insanely delightful skirmish without them in Bulgaria, the whole kit and caboodle go up against an entire army in the middle of some godforsaken country which might be Kyrgyzstan (or some other country with "stan" on the end of it).

It might also be worth mentioning that the three screenwriters came up with a line of dialogue to rival Stallone's famous "Crime's the disease, I'm the Cure" quip from Cobra. At the last minute, Sly finds out he has to capture Mel Gibson alive so he can be taken to face a war crimes tribunal in The Hague.

Stallone's response: "I AM The Hague!"

THE FILM CORNER RATING: ***½ Three-and-a-Half Stars

The Expendables 3 opens August 14, 2014. Fuck the pirated download. See this movie on a big screen. If you love action, it'll be worth the big bucks.

THE SATELLITE GIRL AND MILK COW (AKA "Wuribyeol Ilhowa Eollukso") - Review By Greg Klymkiw - Lovely Anime from Korea @FantAsia2014 - Treat for kids, adults alike. Moving & imaginative tale of love. A new IRON GIANT.

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A girl loves her milk cow. Only in Korea!
The Satellite Girl and Milk Cow (2013)
Dir. Chang Hyung-yun
Starring: Jung Yu-mi, Yoo Ah-in

Review By Greg Klymkiw

I detest most contemporary American animated features. They're annoyingly all the same twaddle, with identical/interchangeable characters, similar thematic elements, way too many dumb, ephemeral AMERICAN pop-culture references and -ugh!- lessons learned. I wonder if any American animated features and the pathetic, desperate, moronic children, plus their idiot parents would ever, respectively, showcase and accept, a love story between a girl and a cow? Not just any girl, mind you, and not just any cow.

Writer-director Chang Hyung-yun takes a well-worn Asian tale (completely mismatched lovers against a fantastical backdrop) and, unlike most American animators with their own stock ideas, shakes it completely upside down and creates a movie that's as original in Asian culture as it will most certainly be to any viewers in the Occident. The Satellite Girl and Milk Cow is a thorough delight and comes across as a Korean answer to crossing Hayao Miyazaki (Spirited Away, Princess Mononoke) with Brad Bird (The Iron Giant, The Incredibles). If you don't believe me, get this:

A forlorn Korean satellite is about to be replaced with new-fangled machinery and faces an eternity of sad, lonely obsolescence until "she" hears a lovely, heart-rending tune from Earth. This transforms her into a teenage girl robot called Il-Ho. Powered with jets in her feet (not unlike Astro Boy's), she travels to our green planet in search of the melody's source. The music, comes from Kyung-chun, a hapless, struggling composer and musician whose longtime girlfriend has dumped him.

His broken heart transforms him into a milk cow and his life is in danger from two horrible foes. First off, there's a nasty teleporting slime bag with a magical bathroom plunger that removes organs from the bodies of brokenhearted humans turned into animals that he sells to a black market dealer. Secondly, and perhaps even scarier, is a horrifying monster called the Incinerator who trolls the streets of Seoul looking for broken-hearted humans transformed into animals so it can plunge them into his fiery, gluttonous mouth, devouring them in flames.

Thankfully, our Milk Cow is befriended by a roll of toilet paper who is, in actuality, the haplessly-transformed Merlin the Wizard and, of course, the kind, friendly and lovely Il-Ho, the satellite who just wants to be a real girl and most of all, to love and be loved by Kyung-chun who could be transformed from his milk cow state if he could just fall in love with her.

Now how's that for a great story? It's certainly the sort of thing we don't get to see in our soul-bereft North American multiplexes. It's a gem of a movie, however, and I urge all parents and kids to seek it out. They won't quite know what hit them, but when it does, they'll know they want it a lot more than Madagascar 3. That's a guarantee.

THE FILM CORNER RATING: **** Four Stars

The Satellite Girl and Milk Cow enjoyed its international premiere at the 2014 edition of the magnificent FantAsia International Film Festival in Montreal. In the meantime, feel free to order any of the following animated titles directly from the Amazon links below and in so doing, supporting the ongoing maintenance of The Film Corner.

BLOOD GLACIER - DVD Review By Greg Klymkiw - Don't forget to wear your adult diapers while watching this!!!!!

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BLOOD GLACIER (a Raven Banner presentation of a home entertainment DVD release from Anchor Bay Entertainment Canada and Anchor Bay) has it all. Check this out. It's got: Germans, mutants, Alps, a cute dog, a blood glacier, a balding unkempt alcoholic hero, snow, ice, weasel-like scientists, weird-ass shit under microscopes, thickly proportioned mean-ass German hausfraus, people who say "Ja" and "Nein!" a lot and who do things they shouldn't be doing because we know they're going to die but for some reason they can't figure that out, beefy hunks (for the ladies and light-in-the-loafers gents), babe-o-licious babes for the fellas and bull-dykes ('natch), mutants, guns, drills, claws, sharp teeth, open sores, English subtitles for those who do not sprechen ze deutsche and much, much more. Have I mentioned the mutants yet? Oh. Sorry. I have. BUT, have I mentioned the mutant Ibex? I thought not. Where else will you see a mutant Ibex? Only in Germany.

The majestic Ibex has a noble tradition in German Cinema. To the left you will see the lovely Leni Riefenstahl, former interpretive dancer and eventual
director of Triumph of the Will, clowning about with an Ibex on the set of a
Bergfilme by the legendary Dr. Arnold Fanck and to the right you will spy a
hungry Mutant Ibex in the bloody German shock-fest BLOOD GLACIER.
Blood Glacier (2013)
Dir. Marvin Kren
Starring: Madita (AKA Edita Malovčić), Hille Beseler, Gerhard Liebmann, Wolfgang Pampel, Brigitte Kren, Peter Knaack, Michael Fuith, Murathan Muslu, Adina Vetter, Coco Huemer, Felix Römer, Santos as Tinnie the dog

Review By Greg Klymkiw

Ladies and gentleman, in honour of Marvin Kren's utterly insane alpine thriller Blood Glacier, please join me now in raising - not our right hands, but, our heads, hearts and voices to the heavens to sing the following ditty to the tune of the stirring German National Anthem:

Deutschland, Deutschland über alles,
thank you for this very fine film,
we will worship all you have to offer,
even when it inspires incontinence,
we will spew forth,
from our sphincters,
whilst you do scare the living shit from us…"


Good creature features need BABES!
Luckily, as this is German, it has a fair share.
I believe, quite strenuously, that Raven Banner and Anchor Bay, the respective visionary international sales agents and distributors of genre films, both need to score a promotional tie-in with the Kimberly-Clark Company to provide free Depend® products so that audiences will not soil themselves whilst viewing such bowel-and-urinary-movement-inspiring scary movies not unlike the new mutants-in-the-Alps horror shocker Blood Glacier, courtesy of some (no doubt) crazed, yodelling, lederhosen-adorned German filmmakers. This is one fun ride and it's infused with more than enough elements to inspire unfortunate accidents of the voluminously expulsive kind.

Poor Tinnie, So Cute,
So utterly DOOMED!
A group of persnickety scientists studying the effects of climate change upon the glaciers of the Alps and Janek (Gerhard Liebmann), their slovenly, drunken jack-of-all-trades-technical-dude encounter difficulties with their communications satellite dish. Upon investigating the mystery they discover a huge glacier that looks like it's covered in frozen blood. Samples are taken, the satellite is repaired and - uh, oh - Janek's sweet, loyal and super-cute dog Tinnie is bitten by something in a cave. Getting back to the base station, Janek puts Tinnie under some covers, assuming his canine pal might have been bitten by a rabid fox. We in the audience know differently though, since we've seen many movies like this before. Even Janek suspects otherwise when the ice sample is discovered to be a mysterious entity that creates mutations.

The scientists express grave concern, not over a rabid fox or even other animals outside that have more than likely been infected by this mysterious entity. Rather, they're worried that a visiting delegation might decide not to come the next day if there's any hint at all of danger. More scientists, guides and an influential German Minister (a porcine battle-axe hausfrau type) are headed up to inspect the team's progress in order to assess the extension of funding for the environmental research activities at the alpine base station. Janek is appalled these supposedly good men and women of science would dare risk the safety of everyone for funding.

LOVE
means never having to say:
"
Bitte erlauben Sie mir,
Ihnen meine
 Wurst geben."

Well, things go deliciously awry from this point on. Needless to say, the conflict twixt Janek and the others mounts. Best of all, when one does the quick math on the delegation making its way up the mountain and the members of the research station, the movie yields more than enough characters to ensure an excellent body count. Both the monsters and situations are delightfully derivative of both Alien and John Carpenter's The Thing with just enough originality and environmental thematics to keep things fresh. The group dynamics are especially well evoked and as we meet more and more monsters, we're deep into this affair with more than a few dirty shirts.

We even get some perfunctory romance since the chief scientist coming for a visit is Janek's former lover - a babe, naturally.

Director Kren (Berlin Undead) more-than-ably handles the suspense, elicits strong performances from his cast and makes excellent use of the real alpine locations. He also juggles the character dynamics of Benjamin Hessler's decent screenplay (one which offers just the right balance of smarts and entertaining stupidity). The special effects are also a big treat - a total blast of the ingenious low budget variety mixed with a few dabs of cheesiness (nothing too egregious, though). All the picture's technical credits including cinematography, cutting and a cool score all rank above and beyond the call of duty for a semi-by-the-numbers creature feature.

There's nothing more DEADLY
than a hausfrau with a DRILL!
For me, as a fan of both horror movies AND the insane Bergfilme genre, best rendered by Dr. Arnold Fanck and starring Hitler's and Goebbels' favourite Aryan minx Leni Riefenstahl, Blood Glacier rendered me happily apoplectic. Kren's picture has more than its fair share of psycho touches to please any devoted, kitsch-seeking Teutophile. One of the film's most pleasurable moments involves the aforementioned porky hausfrau and her stunningly deft ability to wield a deadly and humungous drill. Most of all, the movie features what I believe to be a cinematic first - a vicious mutant Ibex. An IBEX, people! What in the bloody hell are you doing at home? Get out and see Blood Glacier. How often in your life will you experience an out-of-control Ibex in the German Alps?

Yeah, I thought so.

THE FILM CORNER RATING: *** Three-Stars

BLOOD GLACIER, a Raven Banner presentation of an Anchor Bay Entertainment Canada and Anchor Bay Films DVD on Aug. 19, 2014 with a fine new transfer. Sadly, the only extra feature is the original trailer. I'd have given my left testicle for a Marvin Kren commentary track. The movie enjoyed its World Premiere at TIFF's 2013 Midnight Madness. Here's some Amazon links to order Blood Glacier and some other delightful titles.







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HALLOWEEN THE COMPLETE COLLECTION
BLU-RAY™ BOX SETS

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THE Blu-ray™ Box Set Event of 2014!

Michael is Coming Home September 23

ANCHOR BAY ENTERTAINMENT CANADA OFFERS THIS EXCITING ANNOUNCEMENT. AMAZON PRE-ORDER INFORMATION COMING SOON TO THIS WEBSITE FOR THIS………


ANCHOR BAY ENTERTAINMENT
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