May December and What We Mean by “Camp”

Thoughts on hot dogs, Twitter fingers, and taking abuse seriously.

If you’ve been online the past week or so, you’ve probably seen the arguments about Todd Haynes’ May December. The film is – at its face – a story about an actress, Elizabeth (Natalie Portman) travelling to Savanah to interview and observe a woman, Gracie (Julianne Moore) who was involved in a tabloid scandal almost two decades ago. Said scandal is that she had an “affair” with a 13-year-old boy named Joe (Charles Melton, we’ll get to it), got pregnant, went to jail, and then subsequently married and had more children with him. All this is very clearly based on the Mary Kay Letourneau scandal from the 90s; lots of Cannes coverage mentioned this, as well as talking up how funny the movie was in addition to things like its psychological complexity. From the trailers and that coverage I had been eagerly awaiting it, especially curious to see multiple people I know and trust say it was one of the funniest movies of the year.

And make no mistake, Samy Burch’s screen play does make several jokes throughout. But I didn’t find it as funny as it was hyped. As I’ve said on Letterboxd and a few other places: while I laughed at things like Julianne Moore opening a fridge to a dramatic sting of music (aka, “I don’t think we have enough hot dogs”), it was frequently much more of an uncomfortable sort of laughter. Things like Elizabeth (the actress) remarking how none of the kids auditioning to play Joe in her movie are “sexy” enough, as you’ve just witnessed some VERY young boys. Or Gracie (the woman) telling her daughter how brave she was to show her arms in a dress in what must be the least subtle backhanded compliment anyone’s ever given. I found the movie to be a showcase of extreme repression and denial, where just hinting at the truth would be too much to bear psychologically.

The word that keeps popping up in all the discussion around the movie is “camp”. Now, I frankly do not have time to really get into what camp is – there’s been enough of that – but the way I see it: Katy Perry wearing a burger outfit to the Met Gala is not Camp. Katy Perry hurriedly attempting to get back into the burger outfit so that she can catch someone passing by is Camp. The word at its base implies some sort of artifice, a blowing up of things to heightened reality; the “tragically ludicrous” and “ludicrously tragic”, as it were. All this has lead to things like Netflix posting a screenshot of the two women with the opening to the Zola tweet thread, as well as numerous Letterboxd reviews about “mothering” and “slaying”. May December in that sense has become a sort of queer movie to some, something I can only describe as a “yass queen” type thing.

Buried under all of this is a central conflict: the implication of “badness” within the work. To me at least, “campy” means that you know something is bad or unintentional, and you celebrate that by pushing it up. “Camp” is not really made, it’s sort of the process that happens within some sort of failure or a general queer sensibility. Notably, Todd Haynes himself has disagreed with the label, and honestly if anyone would know it’s him. I don’t think it’s camp either. In fact, I think calling the movie “camp” or reducing it down to just a display of actresses actressing is sort of turning it into a metacommentary of sorts on the very scandal its adapting.

Charles Melton is the heart and soul of the movie as Joe. He practically steals the movie away from the two women and in a way, it’s really more about him and the ways he’s manipulated by the two of them. At the center of May December is the simple fact that a 36-year-old woman had sex with a 13-year-old boy and had his child. She did this multiple times; she convinced him they were in love, she maybe even convinced herself of it. The whole thing feels tawdry because it’s a sex and cheating scandal; it feels ridiculous because they were pet shop employees. That doesn’t mean it’s not deeply serious though. It’s more accurate to call May December a melodrama: these aspects are heightened to draw out the emotions of the situation, and draw your attention to the dark reality that everyone seems to be exploiting one way or another.

In a strange way, the reception to the movie is mirroring the tabloid scandal of years past. It’s easy to focus on the weird elements, the odd details, the way Julianne Moore says “I’m secure”. These are all great parts of the movie and it would do as big a disservice to dismiss them as insignificant. But it’s important not to lose sight of the man who never seems to fit in with the kids nor the adults. Someone was harmed both in real life and the context of the film; we should be able to look it straight on and call it for what it is. Men are often glossed over when it comes to abuse by women. Joe deserves to have the depth of his pain heard.

A Roundup of the 32nd Philadelphia Film Festival

In the midst of ever chaotic times

When the lineup for this year’s fest was announced, I confess to feeling pretty disappointed. It’s been a pretty good year for movies – at least as I observed from the outside – and this fall especially was looking to be jampacked. So you can understand my eagerly opening the page and feeling some of that enthusiasm deflate: no Ferrari, no May/December, Priscilla. Anatomy of a Fall and The Killer both ended up at the Ritz Five during the fest, and Killers of The Flower Moon was already out. Which isn’t to say it was a bad festival mind you; PFS managed to snag the latest from Hirokazu Kore-Eda, Ryuichi Hamaguchi, and Aki Kaurismaki among others, and the more obscure picks still managed to surprise me. But one does have to stare in jealousy as their friends at other fests get to see The Zone of Interest early after convincing yourself it’d be there.

I managed to see a lot more movies this year than almost any other, thanks in part to taking time off. Because of personal issues, I unfortunately had to miss some (The Holdovers, Dream Scenario) and I missed American Fiction due to a concert. With such expanded viewing, it felt as though my scores tended to become more even; call it growing older and wiser, or perhaps trying to be more evenhanded. I still managed to find quite a few that blew me away, and at least a couple to watch out for later. Making a top 10 actually felt hard for the first time in a long while; I can only imagine that the year end list will be murder. A few of those will end up on that list, some will be pushed to next year. As always, everything listed here is worth checking out, and a sign that PFS can still push beyond the crowd-pleasers to find something more unique.

1. Riddle of Fire – dir. Weston Razooli

Michael Lehrmann’s description of “if the kids from The Florida Project made a movie for $2 and it was fucking hilarious” might sound like a warning to some. I fell completely and totally under the spell of this wild blend of kids fantasy, S/NES RPGs, and Adult Swim style deadpan that had me laughing pretty much constantly. The key is a total control of its tone: taking place in Wyoming in some anachronistic vision of today as it follows 3 hellions on a quest to get their sick mom the perfect slice of blueberry pie so they can play video games. So many ways it could go wrong, but Razooli wisely dials back the anarchy to something a little more placid and avoiding easy intrusions of the adult into the fairy tale (not that it doesn’t happen). I can’t articulate it any better than how much the sight of them running through a grocery store in a silly pose had me guffawing; three perfect child performances in their occasional stumbling and crack timing, and a willingness to just go for it.

2. Monster – dir. Hirokazu Kore-Eda

The other side of a film starring children. Kore-Eda’s first Japanese film since Shoplifters unfolds at first as a mystery surrounding a conflict between a young boy and a teacher at his school. Shades of Asghar Farhadi creep in as more layers are revealed, more sides to the story shown. Where it truly shines is in its depiction of burgeoning gay love, the terror that it will be revealed, the need to destroy it despite that being the last thing you want. It’s a wonderful showcase for the child actors and a great mystery that blossoms the more context you receive.

3. The Settlers – dir. Felipe Gálvez Haberle

Chile’s submission for Best International Feature is a haunting revisionist Western drained of almost any thrills. Across a beautifully desolate landscape, three men – a Scottish soldier, an American cowboy, and a mixed-raced indigineous worker – trek on a mission to eliminate any native they see at the behest of the landowner. Haberle captures the various contradictions of colonialism: the hypocrisy, the need to consume everything despite “worth”, the rigidly enforced order no mater how much you give yourself to the empire. Bleak, brutal, and absolutely scathing towards the Chilean national mythmaking.

4. Red Rooms – dir. Pascale Plante

A techno-thriller that dangles a sordid little hook at the start: the trial of a serial killer who filmed himself torturing and murdering three young girls and sold the videos online, and a mysterious woman with an interest bordering on the obsessive. Plante’s film is horror in the way We’re All Going To The World’s Fair is, in that the subject matter itself is horrific but the director is far more interested in the type of person who chooses to follow it. Similarly, it’s smart about technology, not just in its depiction of process and things like ArchLinux, but in how the Internet can turn people into abstractions to be fanned over. Rather than sounding an alarm, it admits that there is something alluring about staring into the void, but warns that some things are unspeakable for a good reason.

5. Evil Does Not Exist – dir. Ryusuke Hamaguchi

It may be the shortest of Hamaguchi’s recent films, but by no means is it the lesser. While the title suggests something more sinister, the conflict between a remote community and the developers who want to build a glamping site falls in line with the director’s emphasis on quiet moments and relationships. Not to mention it’s unexpectedly one of the funniest films of the year (sample, after one of the developers compliments an udon cook for the soup warming him up: “That’s got nothing to do with taste.”) At it’s heart, it’s a film about how there really isn’t malice involved, but incompetence and impatience; things that can’t be applied so easily to nature, no matter how much control we think we have.

6. Tótem – dir. Lila Avilés

Another submission for Best International Film – Mexico’s in this case – follows a family as the gather together to throw a celebration for a gravely ill family member. Avilés presents small slices of life as seen through the eyes of a young girl coming to terms with the idea of death, captured with warmth and, yes, love. A wealth of animal imagery and superstitious elements lends an air of the mysterious, as if to highlight their importance to children whether they’re aware of it or not.

7. The Taste of Things – dir. Tran Ahn Hung

Cooking and food as an act of the deepest possible love. Tran Ahn Hung’s culinary fable has been the delight of critics since it premiered at Cannes (where he also won Best Director) and it’s easy to see why. The kitchen sequences alone are well worth the price of admission: vegetables sizzling, decadent lamb roasts, mouthwatering baked alaska. France chose it for submission at the Oscars and for the food alone, it should probably win, but it’s the love story between Juliette Binoche and Benoît Magimel that raises it beyond simple food porn.

8. The Breaking Ice – dir. Anthony Chen

Stark, beautiful winter landscapes form the backdrop for Chen’s story of three disaffected youth in China on the border of North Korea. A sort of romance, sort of friendship story, it has the power to sneak up on you if you aren’t careful. At its heart, it’s a tale of three lonely people coming together to share company and bond amidst personal and economic ruin, when living can be so hard. Simplistic, yet deeply affecting and in the end, hopeful.

9. The Green Border – dir. Agnieszka Holland

Extremely controversial in Holland’s home country of Poland, and for good reason: here’s an absolutely unsparing portrait of the hell faced by migrants coming into Europe, lured by promises of asylum then subjected to the world’s worst game of ping pong by guards and countries that see them as little more than bargaining chips and annoyances at best. It’s an angry film, and that anger at times threatens to dip into impotent rage at seeing a person who didn’t do anything get dragged through the mud. But Holland ultimately issues a call to arms of sorts, reminding us that we all have choices to make in this system, and pointing to something of a brighter future for those willing to fight for it.

10. This Closeness – dir. Kit Zauhar

Philadelphia native Zauhar’s second film is as claustrophic as its title, taking place in one single, nondescript apartment. She also plays one half of a couple, staying at an AirBnb for the weekend so her boyfriend can attend a high school reunion. Tensions are already high enough thanks to their rocky relationship, but they rise even higher once they learn that their awkward host will also be staying with them. Zauhar showcases a deft hand at composition, framing some exceptionally off-kilter and unique shots that nonetheless bring a sort of – if not beauty, than aesthetic pleasure – to the single space. Amidst jokes about getting prix fixe in Philly (side note: girl fuck you!!!!) and sequences of ASMR emerges a narrative about vulnerability and what it means to actually get close to someone, exploring whether staying in a relationship to not be alone is worth it in the end.

A few honorable mentions (because I can’t help myself): Upon Entry, Late Night With The Devil, Fallen Leaves, Sleep, Smoking Tigers

Review: The Past Looks A Whole Lot Like The Present in Blue Jean

A stunner of a debut following a lesbian teacher in Thatcherite England

We like to think that we’re better than the past. It’s just the way of the world: as time goes on, we make progress. Things improve and we learn to be more tolerant. Films about minorities tend to fall under this a lot, and it’s understandable to want to show someone fighting for their rights, or there being one person who was on the right side of history, so that the viewers can walk out of the theater shaking their heads and chattering about how awful it was back then and isn’t it nice we’re not like that anymore?

What I’d like to suggest is… maybe we’re not?

Blue Jean, the debut film from Georgia Oakley, is set during the late 80’s in the midst of Thatcher’s England. Section 28 – which banned the promotion of homosexuality within schools – has just become law. Characters will talk about this but otherwise it hangs over the movie like a cloud, a warning. The titular character of Jean Newman (Rosy McEwan) is a high school PE teacher who also coaches a girls netball team. She is also a lesbian, and at nights she transforms into the proper attire and hangs out at a gay bar with her friends and especially lover/girlfriend Viv (Kerrie Hayes), a leather butch in contrast to Jean’s more androgynous appearance (it’s a wonder she doesn’t get more rumors behind her back).

There’s some suggestion that Jean’s sexuality is a somewhat new development for her; while she doesn’t have that self-loathing that so many queer films gravitate to whenever they take place pre-1995 or so, Jean is rather happy and seemingly carefree in her carefully regimented life. Despite this, there’s a sense she’s still a little bit afraid to embrace herself, hiding Viv from her sister when she makes an impromptu visit in an early scene, and shying away from bonding with co-workers (who chitter about the law during lunch).

All of it threatens to come crashing down when she gets outcast and loner Lois (Lucy Halliday) to join the team, then subsequently sees her in the same bar where she finds such freedom. It’s here that Oakley shifts the tone to something akin to a horror film, though it never fully tips over. A terrible dilemma begins to present itself: both student and teacher know about the other. One desperately wishes that Jean could be something of a mentor to Lois, perhaps even shield her more from the bullies. But as an earlier scene makes clear – in which Jean tells Viv how she pretended to be her boss when calling a parent about one of the girls – she can never show anything that could be construed as favoritism. Not only that, but anything that could even remotely suggest she might be forming a relationship with a student beyond what’s appropriate. What the film lays bare is that laws like Section 28 create a cycle of oppression and more fear in both the adults and the youth. These moral panics about groomers discourage teens from seeking help, and adults from standing up for them and themselves. Because it’s not just her job that’s at stake for Jean, it’s everything. But what tilts it into greatness is the ease at which Oakley also expresses Lois’ point of view, depicting an understandably angry youth caught in the worst sort of rock and hard place.

Blue Jean‘s final moments bring a note of grace and understanding for both characters, while doing its best not to put too neat a bow on things. There are perhaps moments when it feels a little too blunt, too tuned into what feels like contemporary moments. At its very best, Oakley reminds us that the struggle is forever ongoing and what seems like a new low has really always been here. Those in power do their best to stamp out queer history, to make mentorship a liability and keep us at each others throats. In balancing this joy with dread, it reminds us why the fight is worth it, and who it’s all for.

The Best Films of the 31st Philadelphia Film Festival

"31st Philadelphia Film Festival" text imposed over red theater seats, with "SEE SOMETHING YOU'LL NEVER FORGET, OCTOBER 19-30" in the bottom right corner.

Back at it again.

It feels so good to be back at a festival. For about 5 years or so – pretty much since I started college – I’ve been attending the Philadelphia Film Festival in some form or another; a small blip occurred in 2017 for the 26th edition because of my co-op schedule. And of course, the 29th edition was remote thanks to COVID, while I missed the 30th because I had moved back home temporarily.

But finally, things have come back to some semblance of normality and looking back, it was a pretty great festival. I didn’t really find any new or off-the-radar picks, and there wasn’t a Tremors or a Thoroughbreds – aka, something that really knocked my socks off – but the established greats were still pretty great. Like every year previously, I’ve probably seen enough to formulate my end of year list but that of course will be held off until the other heavy hitters see fit to come to this city. At least one – Nanny – I missed due to technical issues on my first screening, and then the second and third overlapping with ones I’d bought tickets to (Women Talking) or decided to prioritize due to unsure distribution (Huesera).

For now, here’s a rough ranking of the best films I saw at the fest. Some of these are coming out imminently, other the next year. All of them are my definite recommendations.

1. How To Blow Up A Pipeline – dir. Daniel Goldhaber

The second film from Goldhaber (technically a film by Goldhaber, Ariel Barrer, Jordan Sjol, and Daniel Garber) makes good on his promise from Cam to marvelously entertaining effect. Their adaptation of Andreas Malm’s 2021 nonfiction expands it into a heist movie while still retaining the core message of direct action. Like all good heist movies, the cast is distinct and filled out. And Garber’s editing keeps things moving at a steady clip while deftly inserting flashbacks in often thrilling ways. But most importantly, it’s just a damn good film, adaptation or no.

2. Aftersun – dir. Charlotte Wells

One of those films that’s so deceptively simple yet powerful that trying to capture what makes it special in words feels futile. In short: it follows a father and daughter (Paul Mescal and Frankie Corio) on a vacation to Turkey, as filtered through the eyes of the daughter looking back on old camcorder footage. Wells mixes those camcorder segments along with slow-motion footage of the father at an otherworldly rave to capture the feeling of peering through memories trying desperately to understand one’s parents. Mescal is simply stunning, while Corio makes a promising debut, nailing that edge between adolescent and teen. This is a film of deep, emotional power, and when it connects, it hits like a hurricane.

3. Glass Onion – dir. Rian Johnson

While the novelty may have worn off a little bit compared to the first (and – admittedly – some of the satire can be a little cringe), Johnson’s much-anticipated sequel proves to be every bit as good. Riffing off the locked-room mystery, it’s suspenseful but much more of a comedy, and thankfully the hits are high. Most importantly, I’m thankful Janelle Monae finally has a role worthy of the talent she showed off in Moonlight, while Daniel Craig confirms he’s having an absolute blast as Benoit Blanc.

4. All The Beauty And The Bloodshed – dir. Laura Poitras

What could’ve been a standard (yet righteously angry) advocacy doc about the Sackler family’s art world reputation laundering becomes a devastating memoir when combined with Nan Goldin’s own photoslides and voice over. Goldin’s activisim itself is wonderful to see, but it’s this added context – this merging of past and present, of the things she’s lived through and fought against – that give her crusade its overwhelming power. It’s also a marvelous work of queer history, giving a personal look at one person while remembering everyone lost along the way.

5. The Banshees of Inesherin – dir. Martin McDonough

As if McDonough saw the doubts scattered in the wake of Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri and decided to remind everyone that, no: he is, in fact, the real deal. Returning to his playwright roots and to his home country of Ireland proves a much needed reset, as does the reunion of Colin Farrell and Brenden Gleeson (the former giving what might be a career best). This deeply allegorical tale of a disintegrated friendship is emotional, yes; but it’s also by far one of the funniest films of the year, padded out by wonderful supporting performances from Kerry Condon and Barry Keoghan.

6. Return To Seoul – dir. Davy Chou

Kim Jee-Min is an absolute force as a Korean-born Frenchwoman reconnecting with her biological family in Davy Chou’s second film (inspired by a real life anecdote). She communicates so much with her face alone and flips on a dime while remaining intensely charismatic and watchable throughout the various timejumps of the film. Wanna know what’s crazy? This is her debut performance. Chou’s script – with it’s mix of awkward comedy, luscious nightlife, and split cultures – ain’t too bad either.

7. All That Breaths – dir. Shaunak Sen

Sen’s documentary follows a group of brothers in India who run a makeshift hospital for New Delhi’s black kite population. Frequently lyrical and poetic, with lots of shots of birds flying, garbage strewn around the streets, mosquitos floating above water, it’s as much a sensory experience as it is a portrait of dedication. More that that, it connects India’s political struggles to environmental damage to give a grander picture of a nation itself at odds. Worth it alone for that magnificent bird footage.

8. Burning Days – dir. Emin Alper

Slow burn Turkish political thriller following a prosecutor assigned to a remote village in the midst of a trial over a water crisis. It takes its time setting up the dominoes but once in motion it’s gripping and morally complex, diving into aspects of corruption and toxic masculinity as scandals emerge and the pressure on him increases. A complicated film for sure, with an enticing thread of ambiguity running throughout.

9. Holy Spider – dir. Ali Abbas

I seem to be a bit of an outlier in liking this serial killer/jounrnalism movie so much; which is just as good, considering that I was a bit of an outlier in disliking Abbas’ last movie, the troll fable Border. This one is based off a real life Iranian serial killer and follows a journalist (Zar Amir Ebrahami) as she investigates along with the killer himself, proclaiming he is on a holy mission. It’s blunt about the misogyny at play, but perhaps even more potent is the idea that for the journalist, every man could be just as dangerous as the killer, especially in a society that largely believes he’s done nothing wrong since he’s killing prostitutes. It’s damning, but in more places than some would like to believe.

10. Next Exit – dir. Mali Elfman

My favorite part of film festivals is getting to discover those hidden gems, especially in the genre space. So in lieu of Decision To Leave (Park doesn’t need any help from me), I wanted to spotlight Mali Elfman’s debut feature. Opening a few months after the ghosts are proven – in a similar logline to Charlie McDowell’s The Discovery – the film follows a mismatched pair (Katie Parker and Rahul Kholi) traveling from New York to San Diego to take part in an experiment that will allow them to peacefully commit suicide. There’s a small bit of indie quirk to the proceedings, and it’s a little predictable at times. I was caught off guard by how deeply I’d become invested into the characters by the end, and before you know it, it’s become a slow burn romance that earns it. Can’t say I wouldn’t have liked a more philosophical film, or scenes like one reminiscent of The Leftovers, but it’s a rather promising debut. If anything, see it for Kholi to prove his range.

Spooktober ’22 #1: The Blair Witch Project

An existentialist horror classic

“There’s no one coming to save you! That’s your motivation!”

Thoughts on a horror film every week for the month of October, both new and old.

No one will ever be able to replicate The Blair Witch Project. This is true in the broadest sense, in that audiences will no longer believe a movie is truly “found footage”, especially after the myriad rip-offs and knock-offs in the early 10s. But in the most literal sense, the very methods and form used to create the movie have been supplanted both by higher quality video and audio, as well as the fact that, well: the cast was essentially psychologically terrorized over the course of weeks in a sort of “Method filmmaking”, as directors Daniel Myrick and Eduardo Sanchez described. Watching The Blair Witch Project almost 25 years out – long past the hype cycle and a few attempts at turning into a proper franchise – have only strengthened the core of why it still resonates so strongly. Marketing gimmicks are temporary. Bone deep mental disintegration worms its way deep inside your mind and festers.

Of course, not everyone sees it that way. While praised by critics, it’s proven much more divisive amongst audiences in part because of how barebones it is. There aren’t really any overt scares, at least nothing that we can see. We sure hear a lot: snapping twigs, a baby crying, maybe someone being horribly killed. Among the genius of the movie (something that’s been cited time and time again) is how much is really left to your imagination. Even the thing that could be chasing college kids Heather, Josh, and Mike isn’t set in stone. Myrick and Sanchez offer everything from the Blair Witch herself to a child serial killer and even float the possibility of the locals fucking with the kids. One thing’s for certain: there’s something out there, and it means harm.

As we get further and further away from 1999, the idea of reality has only evaporated further and further. So much of the discourse surrounding The Blair Witch Project was the idea that these events actually happened; it was heightened by the actors each using their own names for characters and by staying out of the spotlight once the film debut. There were documentaries, websites devoted to shaping the central myth that what you saw was real, even though it still carries normal credits and disclaimers (not to mention that were it actually true, it would have amounted to a snuff film, and while Hollywood is amoral, it’s not that amoral). Found footage itself has basically lost the veneer of reality through establishing tropes and casting familiar faces. But in a paradoxical way, this makes it easier to slip into the world of the film. The footage is all handheld consumer grade film, the kind college students would be able to get. It looks rawer because it is, all the imperfections and “amateurness” kept in. Cameras have only gotten better and in some sense, we’ve lost this sort of scuzzy feel. The footage just looks too good. But then again… how many times have you scrolled by a video reuploaded through 3 different social media platforms, degraded by compression, showcasing a purportedly real-life event? More things are staged than ever before, so what does it even matter if it’s not real to begin with? Josh calls it a “filtered reality” and later, suggests that Heather keeps filming because it makes it easier to pretend it’s not happening. Judging by the way she screams back “It’s all I have left!”, he may have a point.

What matters is that it’s convincing, and the movie does not work at all if you don’t believe the actors. A recurring criticism (especially of Heather) is that they’re all annoying college kids goofing off but look at the opening scenes. Here, they’re casual, laidback, playful even. There’s an unforced chemistry and charisma to all of them, little touches like zooming into some marshmallows or Heather declaring she hates scotch. These establishing scenes give the later ones when they turn on each other a great impact, because we know that’s not what they’re normally like. Josh’s especially is upsetting, because we see his friendship with Heather earlier on, and his repeated shouts of “There’s no one coming to save you” pour more and more salt into the wounds of her mistakes. Heather herself – it should be said – has proved a competent director, despite what the public opinion says. After all, she got them the interviews, filmed openings, lead them to Coffin Rock. Perhaps she got them lost but if she did, well… there’s also a demonic presence insistent on torturing them, so you can’t blame it all on her. Heather Donohue is willing to make her abrasive as things get worse, but there’s a deep sense that she knows she fucked up and she’s being constantly reminded of it, but she can’t change it as they spiral closer and closer to her doom. Her final confession is iconic in part because of her despair and terror, of seeing how frayed she is and how she wishes she could’ve made a better decision. It’s possible that wouldn’t have helped anyways. Maybe you can’t hate her if you don’t believe that she could exist.

The Blair Witch Project is a psychological drama masquerading as a horror film. It’s not necessarily “scary” so much as it is deeply upsetting and uncomfortable to witness. Part of that is knowing that – yes – the cast really were operating on little sleep and food, being tormented by the directors (one line late in the film could be aimed at either the spiritual presence or the directors themselves). But that weariness translates into a sort of existential dread that comes with knowing you’re deeply lost in the woods and that every day will bring more of the same. It’s in seeing people turn on each other in some of the most vicious ways, clawing at each other while gripping tightly for support. The lines between reality and fiction dissolve as much as their own sanities until by the end we’re seeing pure, animalistic terror. You can’t recapture that. Maybe you shouldn’t try to.

Available on HBO Max, Hulu, and digital rental platforms.

Rebecca Hall Self-Destructs in the Tense, Wild “Resurrection”

The second film from Andrew Semans, available on VOD

Hall gives one of the year’s best performances.

“Trauma” – alongside “grief” – has become something of a trend lately within culture. It comes up in interviews about Marvel properties, it’s the main theme “elevated” horror movies or a new reboot of an 80s property. None of this is new of course: horror is especially fruitful for examining loss or processing something that happened to you. But there is a sense that it’s a little sanitized. The victim is strong; they build defenses and ultimately overcome it.

In Andrew Semans’ Resurrection, the trauma of Rebecca Hall’s character manifests itself in a physical reaction. Her character – Margaret, a pharmaceutical executive – is attending a conference, looking bored. She fidgets, attempts to stay awake, turns her head and catches sight of a man sitting a few rows down. Suddenly, her eyes widen and as she stumbles out of the room, she takes off at a run that turns into a sprint. We don’t yet know who this man is but immediately we can tell he’s bad news.

As the movie starts, Margaret is the quintessential image of the high-powered executive. Steely, determined, there’s an intimidating air to her but with a hint of warmth shown as she gives an intern relationship advice. She has a daughter – Abbie (an excellent Grace Kaufman) -17, and about to head off to college. Her love life consists of calling up a married co-worker for no-strings sex that always happens at her place. Hall plays her as a woman in complete control over every aspect of her life, dominant but not domineering. Naturally, this brief moment of panic sends her spiraling as the man (Tim Roth) reappears around her, always from a distance. Something bad has clearly happened to Margaret in the past, but is it going to happen again?

Resurrection follows a similar path of woman-on-the-verge films like Repulsion or Possession by staying ambiguous about Roth’s character. In a stunning 7-minute monologue in which the background slowly fades to black, Hall details a shocking history of violence, gaslighting, and abuse that sounds too insane for anyone to make up. Her performance in this moment is a tour-de-force: completely absorbing and impossible to turn away. That she’s giving this to her intern who reacts in horrified confusion is what turns the movie on a dime. Semans puts us directly into Margaret’s increasingly paranoid headspace through some savvy camera work and an unnerving score from Jim Williams as Hall’s perfect composure crumbles throughout. It’s a gripping performance, matched perfectly by Roth. He plays David as chillingly polite, almost rational; we know he’s a madman but his reserved tone almost makes us fall for his gaslighting as Margaret regresses more and more.

Perhaps the most devastating plot point – and, in my mind, the key to the film – is through Abbie. Margaret exerts more and more control over her as a means of protection, going as far as to do whiskey shots with her to keep her from leaving their apartment. Logically, she should tell her daughter who this mysterious figure from her past is and explain herself, but she can’t. Her behavior manifests as irrational and frightening, for all intents and purposes looking like a complete mental breakdown. Semans doesn’t turn either side into a villain so much as portray how this unexamined trauma can manifest cyclically; it’s heartbreaking because Abbie clearly sees her mother is suffering but in the process is making her unsafe.

For some people, this movie may not hold together. The ending takes a gigantic leap that – although set up – shifts things into an entirely new direction that clashes with the tone of realism from before. Admittedly, there are some scenes I wish were slightly different, if only to keep it on a more symbolic or psychological level. But there’s something to be said about a movie that fully commits to its premise, logic and sense be damned. Hall is the stand-out, of course: it doesn’t work if we don’t believe her, and I believed her. This is a bold feature, a tightly coiled work of anxiety and tension up to its startling climax. When the filmmaking is this good, what do a few flaws matter?

Celebrating 20 Years of Rez

One of my favorite games of all time

In honor of Rez’ 20th anniversary, a repost of something I wrote about it for a Facebook group.

The world wasn’t ready for Rez.

In 2001 with CRTs maxing out at 480p, no one was getting the optimal experience, and even then it probably wouldn’t have been a smashing success coming out on the tail end of the Dreamcast era. It’s a miracle it even came stateside at all – albeit in a PS2 port and without the infamous “trance vibrator”. Rez ended up being Tetsuya Mizaguchi’s last original product for Sega before he decamped to Q Entertainment (his final would be a sequel to Space Channel 5). By all means it should’ve been a weird footnote among the many weird footnotes of that era when Sega was throwing everything at the wall, knowing the end was near. Somehow it managed to get two separate ports and an extra level in the form of Area X (which, sidenote, contains the first official work from Tetris Effect composers Hydelic. It is the platonic ideal of EDM), not to mention a spiritual successor in the form of Child of Eden, made during the Kinect Frenzy of motion gaming. In more ways than one it’s the perfect VR game; it’s certainly the one I think of first if I were to demonstrate it to someone.

The gimmick of it all is that everything you do is tied to a sound in someway: the numbers tick up as you highlight enemies, and shots fire off bloops and tones as they make contact. Locking on to the maximum 8 causes a chorus to sound when you release. Handclaps sound if nothing is targeted. A voice counts down every time you hit the node and the music shifts into the next phase, building as if in a rave. A ship times its shots so that when they release they sound like percussive elements.

Describing Rez to the uninitiated is a bit of a struggle – which perhaps speaks to how Sega clearly didn’t know how to advertise it. Most people describe it as a rhythm game but that’s not entirely accurate. Broadly speaking, it’s a rail shooter: you control an on-screen cursor as a wireframe avatar floats through surreal landscapes, holding down X and moving the left stick to lock on to objects on-screen. Releasing X fires up to 8 shots at enemies on screen. Powerups come in the form of blue spheres that add life, and red spheres that allow you to automatically target everything on screen. Each layer level (as its called) is broken up with a Network Node in the form of a cube you must first break off of, then target with 8 shots.

Unlike a rhythm game where everything is mapped to a specific moment and missing penalizes you, every shot you make stays on beat no matter how late you are targeting or in what order. Rez’ goal is that of synesthesia, like many of Mizaguchi’s other games (Lumines, Tetris Effect). Enemies explode into bursts of color, into hieroglyphics or tigers and lions. They fly by on small bikes, the paths making lines that spiral across your vision. In the background, statues beat in time with the music as does your avatar. More than anything Rez is an ultimate expression of aesthetic art, every action you take heightening the confusion of the senses and pushing you further into a hypnotic state.

Of course, there is a story to Rez but you could be forgiven for not noticing it. The short version is that in the future, an advanced AI named Eden has a mental breakdown due to information overload, threatening the world. You play the hacker that’s sent in to try to free her, battling enemies and taking down bosses in the form of firewalls and security systems that attempt to protect her. While the overall story of world peace and metaphors of life may not pop up until the final level, the hacking motif is all over the game: enemies you target scroll down on the left side with. Getting a new form causes “File system: updated” to sound in a robotic voice. Targeting the cube is called “cracking password”, with the phrase “Security Breached” circling you. In no way is it realistic but it fits in with the charm. It’s like someone decided to make a game out of the hacking sequences in Neuromancer, something you can actually simulate in VR mode with a headset. It’s a more optimistic vision of computer hacking, a very early 2000’s view that’s only got more charming as time goes on.

The best expression of this synesthesia is in Area 1, with the track “Buggie Running Beeps” by Sega in house sound designer Keiichi Sugiyama. It builds like a rave, starting with a droning tone and moving into slow beats before it explodes into a full on party. Elsewhere, tracks like Area 4’s “Rock Is Sponge” from Joujouka nervously drill on until suddenly guitars kick in as you’re flying through an arena, chasing after a running man made out of cubes, a truly mind blowing moment. Area 5’s Fear Is The Mind Killer from Adam Freeland and Coldcut brilliantly matches the title phrase to enemies, speaking the title as you shoot them. Describing Rez in words is honestly rather useless. You have to experience it for yourself, controller vibrating in time, to really get the sensation.

Spooktober #4: Censor

For the good of the people?

I’ve always been bizarrely fascinated with censorship codes. Maybe it’s living in America, where we don’t have that sort of legal control over media unless it’s like, abuse material (historical examples notwithstanding). Of course, it’s not like America’s own censorship board doesn’t wield a large amount of control over theatrical releasing; think about how the NC-17 – supposedly for more “adult” movies that weren’t porn – ended up becoming near exclusively associated with sexual content to the point that it basically doesn’t exist. All this is done in the name of protection, but who is it really protecting? How does one even determine the right amount of vein slashing and rape that’s acceptable for a motion picture? It’s all very technical stuff.

As you can imagine, Prano Bailey-Bond’s Censor was catnip for me, following – as it does – a censor for the BBFC during the 1980’s video nasty moral panic. In brief, “video nasties” were extremely violent (often sexual) exploitation films that burst in popularity when VHS became popular. The credits show that they included everything from more “classy” pictures like Abel Ferrara’s The Driller Killer to infamous faux-snuff film Cannibal Holocaust; it falls in part to Enid (Niamh Algar, in the titular role) to determine if the film is releasable, and what cuts could be made to allow it in. She takes her job extremely seriously; as she tells her parents, she’s not doing it for entertainment but to “protect people”, as much a product of Thatcherite conservatism as it is lingering guilt over the disappearance of her sister. That deeply repressed guilt starts to bubble back up after viewing a film that strongly resembles the circumstances of that disappearance, throwing her off kilter and beginning a descent into mental collapse.

Bailey-Bond’s film is first and foremost about “vibes”, specifically in capturing the specific era of 80’s Britain in the midst of a moral panic. The BBFC offices here are all drab washed out lighting betrayed by the recurring screams from the women in the films the censors watch. These films themselves are shot in a squarer aspect ration complete with VHS grain to recreate that exploitation aesthetic. Interspersed are hallucinatory sequences reflecting her own fractured state of mind, awash in neon lighting, consciously returning back to the scene of the crime. Although it’s critical of the idea that exploitation movies caused a rash of violent, Bailey-Bond and Anthony Fletcher’s script doesn’t argue that they’re totally harmless. After all, the censors themselves have to expose themselves to some truly awful scenes day in and day out, fake though they might be. Enid professes to not be affected by them, treating it purely as a job, but the film suggests she’s internalized more than she wants to admit.

It all comes to a head in a brilliant final act, in which her two worlds collide and her denial comes spilling out. All this time, Algar has become convinced – without much in the way of evidence – that her sister is actually the actress in the film, and without spoiling, it becomes a cutting statement on conservative hypocrisy and the need to convince oneself that they’re the good guy here. Censor could’ve been a touch longer – I personally would’ve loved to see more of the censorship process itself – if only for Bailey-Bond and Fletcher to expand on their ideas more. Still, this is an audacious debut, one that establishes Bailey-Bond as a filmmaker to watch and Algar as candidate for Best Actress.

Spooktober #3: Noroi: the Curse

A movie I haven’t quite been able to get out of my mind.

The mockumentary – and, to a lesser extent, found footage – is a surprisingly underrated format when it comes to horror. Perhaps it’s due to the genre’s main association with comedies. Or perhaps the cheapness and extensibility of found footage created a default state for filmmakers. After all, why go to the trouble of drafting a world when you can just pretend someone stumbled upon this horrifying video footage (never mind the question of “who assembled this footage just so”). A true fake documentary holds greater potential, because of the nature of having to assemble something. Think Ghostwatch, where a British television special on hauntings accidentally becomes something realer. Or Lake Mungo – beloved by many, more appreciated by me – which uses a talking head format as a starting point for a ghost story.

Noroi: The Curse commits fully to its premise, presenting itself as an unreleased documentary by paranormal researcher Masafumi Kobayashi. It blends typical documentary footage and in person interviews along with archival footage of variety shows and news reports, all shot on 2005 era video cameras with the according VHS tracking from old tapes. Perhaps it’s just my love of analog horror in general, but I do think found footage and mockumentaries of this nature lose a little something when the quality is too good. Recent found footage films like Gonjiam: Haunted Asylum enhance themselves with corruption or streaming drops where the audio continues while video freezes. The goal in my mind is to look like something conceivably made outside of a studio, save for the clips used from live television. Seen today, the quality of the footage makes things look even eerier, in part because it feels “realer” in a way.

Of course, aesthetics aren’t everything. You can only do so much with low quality cameras and shaky audio before you actually need to provide a story. And this is where Koji Shirashi’s film shines. Initially, we appear to be following three different unrelated tracks: there’s a woman named Junko Ishii who’s neighbors are unnerved by her and her son. There’s Kana Yano, a girl with seemingly legitimate psychic abilities demonstrated on variety shows. Finally, there’s the actress Marika Matsumoto (the voice of Rikku in Final Fantasy X!) – playing herself – who has a terrifying encounter at a shrine.

It Slowly, Shirashi and co-writer Naoyuki Yokata begin connecting the strands. There’s a man named Matsuo Hori, a psychic also suffering from some form of mental illness, who had dealings with both Kana and Marika. Strange loops make begin to appear, as do a creepy looking mask. Kobayashi begins to research a demon named Kagutaba, and the trail of death following Junko Ishii, all leading back to a village and a ritual that has gone wrong. While a little long and perhaps prone to highlighting the creepy things in the background (something that could be explained as just Kobayashi’s style), the film casts an unnerving feeling throughout. Once the stories begin intersecting, a sense of dread starts to enter, and it builds it up slowly but steadily. It’s riveting as you put the pieces together, and Shirashi’s style cultivates a genuine feeling of authenticity. There are no winks to the camera, no cheats in the concept. It builds to a finale hinted at in the beginning that explodes in horrifying power, leaving you completely unsettled. If nothing else, you’ll never see masks – or hear a baby’s cry – the same way again.

Spooktober #2: Audition

A movie about lies that is itself a big lie.

One of the most iconic images in horror cinema

Spoilers for Audition, but if you’re reading this you probably already know what’s up. Additionally: Spooktober will take the form of 4 posts about horror films I really love (because a post a day was far too ambitious). Look forward to them!

Audition is a film about deception. There’s, of course, the thrust of the inciting incident of the narrative itself: a producer holding a fake audition to find the perfect wife. More infamously, there’s the structure of the film itself: at this point it’s probably more known for starting out as a serene Japanese drama before suddenly shifting into gory horror. Takashi Miike’s breakthrough film doesn’t exactly lie to the audience, and neither does the marketing. But through near total restraint and careful pacing, Miike and screenwriter Daisuke Tengan take protagonist Aoyama’s ignorance of red flags and implant it into the audience themselves. There are signs sprinkled all throughout that things are not what they appear to be. The fatal flaw is that the characters would rather live in the lie than get off the path to ruin.

Talking about Audition is naturally a little bit hard, but at this point the ending is as infamous as Psycho‘s first grand kill. It’s essentially impossible to view it in it’s pure, first time format unless – as Mike D’Angelo suggested – you hand someone an unmarked DVD containing the film and nothing else and have them watch it right there. In broad strokes, the film is about a widowed producer, Shigeharu Aoyama (Ryo Ishibashi), who – with prodding from his friend – holds a fake casting audition to find himself the perfect wife. He finds this in Asami (Eihi Shiina), who at first appears to be everything he could ask for. There’s just something “off” about her…

Having advanced knowledge actually presents quite an interesting shift in viewing – one that probably occured for all who were familiar with Miike before this film: surprise at how un-Miike like it is. Miike has of course directed over 100 films at this point, ranging from bizarre and violent to family-friendly; in the West – perhaps due to the inherent publicity from controversy over the most extreme of them – he’s famous for violence and a slightly hyper-active style. Audition, by contrast, stays almost completely rooted in a rather naturalistic and quiet mood for the first half or so. This is the key to the whole thing working, and the key to the film itself. Just after the titular audition scene, Aoyama is contacted by another worker, who reveals some mildly troubling news: he can’t seem to find any of the references Asami has left on her application. This is a rather mild slip, but Miike consciously shoots it as an omen of things to come. Time and time again, Aoyama is given an out: his friend even explicitly tells him that something about Asami unnerves him and that it would be a bad idea to continue things further.

Both Aoyama and Asami are, in some ways, lying to themselves as much as they lie to each other. Aoyama would rather believe in the non-existent perfect wife, despite the many deeply troubling signs. Asami – to a lesser extent – is willing to believe him when he says that he will love only her (it’s unclear whether she knows at this point of both his son and his dog). Seen from this angle, Aoyama’s punishment in the finale almost comes across as justified for his hubris: he’s unwilling to believe Asami is anything other than perfectly compliant and submissive, that she could ever be capable of violence until she finally turns it back on him.

Perhaps the greatest deception of all is that Audition is “torture porn”. On the one hand, it’s easy to believe given how infamous (and graphic) the finale is. Strangely enough, that finale is actually kind of bloodless if you compare it to something like Hostel, with all its guts and gore spilling across the place. It helps that Shiina underplays Asami’s psychopathy: she calmly straps herself into an apron, preparing her surgical field with deadpan efficiency. Her manner of speech is as if she’s just administering punishment, not revenge (a point for the “it’s all in his head” team). This isn’t to say there’s no blood, but rather compared to Miike’s reputation, it actually feels somewhat realistic for the actions taken. He even cuts away from the needles entering Aoyama’s eyeballs, letting us see Asami and imagine for ourselves what’s happening.

Miike has never made another film like this, though he surely has it in him from a formal perspective. What makes it so effective after all these years is the sheer nature of it as a deceptive film, tying us back to the characters themselves. We can wish all we want that it’ll end at him waking up, that someone will make different decisions, that it was all just in his head. Reality won’t let that happen, and as Aoyama does, we accept the punishment for thinking things could end any other way.