Tag Archives: 2003

IT CAME FROM THE READER-SUGGESTED QUEUE: GORY GORY HALLELUJAH (2003)

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DIRECTED BY: Sue Corcoran

FEATURING: Angie Louise, Tim Gouran, Jeff Gilbert, Todd Licea, Joseph Franklin

PLOT: Four aspiring actors on their way to New York run afoul of increasingly dangerous obstacles, including a group of rowdy Elvis impersonators, a backwards fundamentalist hick town, and a zombie apocalypse.

COMMENTS: Satire, the playwright and Algonquin wit George S. Kaufman opined, is what closes on Saturday night. Nevertheless, aspiring filmmakers frequently turn to satire as a means to walk the line between mass-appeal populism (near-parodistic references to familiar material) and fringe-appeal provocation (harsh critique of sociopolitical foes). All of which is to say, Gory Gory Hallelujah has the aspirational sweat of satire all over it. Unfortunately, Kaufman seems to have its number; Gory Gory bleeds out quickly.

Gory Gory has so many targets for its smug disdain that it plays like a sketch film. The opening salvo takes on the insular and pretentious world of theater, which is admittedly made even more amusing with the reveal that this delusional production of the Gospel is being staged in the theatrical mecca of Seattle. But that’s all forgotten once we set off on a road trip, a genre that revels in wacky mismatched personalities. From there, the targets are set up like the shooting gallery at a fair: here’s the crazy fight with a gang in a bar, here’s the hypocritically moralistic small town, here’s the evil lurking in the woods. The scenes are mileposts, rather than logical stops along the way.

This is a film that is not the slightest bit interested in nuance. Consider our central quartet of heroes, who check an impressive collection of boxes for character stereotypes: militant black man who nonetheless endures countless indignities; self-proclaimed feminist whose sexual and materialistic impulses frequently overrule the cause; nebbishy Jew who finds every opportunity to remind you of his faith; blissed-out hippie flower child whom the film wants to position as closeted, but who is actually ravenously omnisexual. That’s all there is to them; barely 24 hours after having watched the film, I’ve completely forgotten their names, and that’s just fine. They’re not characters; they’re trope delivery systems.

Title notwithstanding, Gory Gory Hallelujah isn’t really a horror film. The screwed-up small town feels like a low-rent retread of Nothing But Trouble, the witches’ coven is just an excuse to take a jab at man-hating lesbians, and the undead are lumbering actors with Green Goddess dressing smeared on their faces. I suspect if you asked director Corcoran and screenwriter Louise, they’d tell you they were making a comedy, a -esque everyone-is-awful romp that lets them flirt with edginess without having to catch any flack. Every once in a while, the film threatens to go somewhere truly daring, like the smarmy land baron’s reference to some “accidental lynchings” that hints at a truly vengeful motivation for the zombie uprising. Most of the time, though, the targets are only the most obvious, offering variations on the theme, “Aren’t these people just awful?” They are. It’s not a revelation.

The closest the film gets to a point-of-view comes in the admittedly unexpected finale, when the death of absolutely everyone presages a revival-hymn closing number that suggests we’ll all be equal in the great beyond. Whereas before everyone was greedily nasty to each other, now they’re all dancing arm-in-arm, united in brotherhood after they’ve cast off the pesky need to breathe. It would make for a solid mission statement if there’d been even a hint of it prior to the closing minutes of the film. As it stands, it’s just one more radical shift in tone for a movie that has already lurched awkwardly from one setpiece to the next. Gory Gory Hallelujah has a lot to be angry about, but just doesn’t have the heart for it. Maybe in the next life.

WHAT THE CRITICS SAY:

“Tripping over the line between silly and stupid, camp comedy “Gory Gory Hallelujah” — the title is the best part — emerges more sub-Troma than subversive…aims for bad-taste hipster satire in the John Waters vein. But co-creator/editor/thesps Sue Corcoran and Angie Louise should have left at least one job — screenwriting — to a third party.” Dennis Harvey, Variety (contemporaneous)

(This movie was nominated for review by Christopher Fox. Suggest a weird movie of your own here.)         

IT CAME FROM THE READER-SUGGESTED QUEUE: “AFRAID SO” (2003) AND THE SHORT FILMS OF JAY ROSENBLATT, 2001-2011

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Recommended

DIRECTED BY: Jay Rosenblatt

FEATURING THE VOICE OF: Garrison Keillor

PLOT (“AFRAID SO”): A series of questions are proffered, each of which elicits the unspoken title as a regretful affirmative, accompanied by a visual snippet reinforcing the dreadful outcome.

COMMENTS: With the advent of VHS tapes and later DVDs, a long-running market for the distribution of educational films and documentaries on 8mm and 16mm reels dried up in an instant. Schools and other institutions suddenly had storage closets full of unneeded film reels, and most were unceremoniously tossed in the trash. This development meant little to most people, but was a vital discovery for one man in particular: filmmaker Jay Rosenblatt, who rescued the unwanted footage and, for three decades, has repurposed that castoff celluloid into new forms, using images from the past to provide ironic counterpoint to the fears and anxieties of the present. We have seen this kind of resurrected montage before, most notably in “21-87”, Arthur Lipsett’s influential assemblage of rescued cutting-room-floor effluvia. (Among those who carried the torch was a very young film student named George Lucas, who drew upon Lipsett’s technique in his first work.) But where Lipsett used clips to carry the weight of delivering his message, Rosenblatt often deploys his found footage to serve a larger narrative, as subtext rather than text.

Consider the film recommended to us: “Afraid So,” unusual in Rosenblatt’s oeuvre for being an adaptation of Jeanne Marie Beaumont’s poem, which derives grim humor from the escalation of stakes, the questions it asks rising in significance from “Was the baggage rerouted?” to “Do I have to remove my clothes?” and eventually to “Is the bone broken?” Garrison Keillor’s trademark lethargic Minnesota demeanor (originally recorded for radio) is a good match for the piece, delivering a ruefully funny air of resigned doom, so it’s fair to think that visuals won’t add much to the poem’s impact. Initially, Rosenblatt seems to prove this thesis true. “Is it starting to rain?” yields drops in a puddle; “Are we out of coffee?” leads to a filling cup. But as Keillor progresses, Rosenblatt heightens the tension, choosing pictures that make the negative outcomes so much worse than what Beaumont’s words imply. “Will this go on my record?” is accompanied by footage of a man clubbing someone from behind in a public place, a crime distinct from the mere speeding ticket you might suspect. Similarly, “Will it leave a scar?” hints at a medical procedure, but Rosenblatt’s chosen clip makes it clear that the operation at hand is a mastectomy. Once we reach “Will this be in the papers?” and “Is my time up already?,” the title answer is not just worrisome, but deathly. Appropriate, then, that the only sound aside from Keillor’s voice is the piercing tri-tone of a weather alert. Yes, bad things are coming.

“Afraid So” was released on home video as part of a compilation of Continue reading IT CAME FROM THE READER-SUGGESTED QUEUE: “AFRAID SO” (2003) AND THE SHORT FILMS OF JAY ROSENBLATT, 2001-2011

IT CAME FROM THE READER-SUGGESTED QUEUE: THE HANDS OF GOD (2003)

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DIRECTED BY: Alyson Levy

PLOT: Participants at the 9th Annual International Festival of Christian Puppetry and Ventriloquism in Kankakee, Illinois explain the role of puppets in their evangelism and their faith.

Still from The Hands of God (2005)

COMMENTS: I will never forget the jaw-dropping moment some years back when a late evening spin ‘round the dial landed me on public access television just in time for one of the most bizarre sights that had ever flickered across my retinas. It was a green space alien puppet singing in a warbling baritone about the power of Jesus, while random intro-level chroma-key wipes revealed an assortment of inanimate puppets waiting for their turn in the spotlight alongside the barely animate human hosts staring blankly into the distance. I had stumbled upon Mr. Grey Spaceman, one of the stars of the legendary “Junior Christian Science Bible Lesson Hour,” a kind of kids’ show for kids who had been raised in a cave and then fed quaaludes before being plopped in front of the TV set. The inexplicable mind behind this entertainment (that ran for over two decades) was David Liebe Hart, who built and operated all the puppets in the show, using the same voice for all of them and singing in unthinkable lugubrious tones. Hart’s was a talent so singular that Tim Heidecker and Eric Wareheim invited him onto their “Awesome Show” to just be himself.

There is nothing quite as weird as Hart’s material in The Hands of God. (There is probably nothing as weird as Hart’s material in the world.) But there’s a spirit that runs through the “Junior Christian Science Bible Lesson Hour” that is present here, an earnestness to spread the word of the Gospel and an innate certainty that the best way to do so is through sub-Henson puppetry. The Lord works in mysterious ways, and this is certainly among the most impenetrable of His mysteries.

Director Levy is part of the PFFR collective, the folks responsible for the outrageous children’s-TV parody “Wonder Showzen” as well as the scripts for the twisted anthology Final Flesh. So it’s natural to assume that her goal is to exploit these guileless rubes for all they’re worth. And that may be, but having arrived at this week-long gathering of devout felt, she clearly realized that nothing she did could be more remarkable than what these performers were willing to do themselves. Aside from pointing the camera at the stage, Levy is careful to let the action speak for itself.

One of the things the action says very loudly is that the message is vastly more important than the medium. The puppeteers are uniformly terrible performers, so dedicated to reminding us that Jesus died for our sins that they never come within a country mile of the rhythm or wit we expect from a comedic sketch. One puppet duo consists of an old man in overalls and a primly dressed little girl, but the characters are irrelevant because they’re only here to trade Christian aphorisms that they already know, echoing the way they themselves are performing for an audience that has already been converted to the Good Word. When there is a message, it’s usually a reminder of the flawed world we all share. One puppet troupe dances in front of signs reading “Oprah No” and “Jesus Yes.” Four puppets wrapped in keffiyehs slam into each other in an orgy of Muppety violence until they are thrust apart by the arrival of a puppet Jesus. Most cringe-inducing is the sweet-looking woman whose hippie-girl puppet Yolanda is just back from Mexico, where she “never knew it would be so poor.” Certainly they mean well, but absolutely no one is concerned how they will come across. The Lord is on their side.

An interesting storyline in The Hands of God is the connection between the puppeteers and their puppets. In interview segments, when the subjects are explaining their understanding of the functionality of faith, the humans frequently turn to seek approval from the very figures they are controlling. The puppets authentically become independent personalities, separate in character but fully aligned in mindset. Perhaps the most insightful moment comes during the closing credits, when the interviewees attempt to answer the question of whether there are puppets in heaven. For the first time in the picture, there is a schism in the dogma, as the absolutists who reject any physical manifestation in the Great Beyond run up against those who are clearly heartbroken at the mere thought of being without their companions for eternity.

The Hands of God is proof that weirdness is in the eye of the beholder, as the behavior of these righteous performers can be interpreted as either wildly psychotic or charmingly quirky. But like their spiritual ancestor David Liebe Hart, no one here is doing a bit. Levy’s short documentary is a fascinating look at a group of people for whom touching the face of God is as easy as talking to the hand.

WHAT THE CRITICS SAY:

“Creepy looking Christians in all weird shapes and sizes. None of these people really look normal.,,, This was pretty damn funny — but insanely scary as well.”–Claire CJS, Clint’s Blog

OTHER LINKS OF INTEREST:

Depraved Puppetry: Is There Any Good News in Dark Humor? – A perspective from a Christian who’s also a fan of PFFR

(This movie was nominated for review by Brad. Suggest a weird movie of your own here.)

IT CAME FROM THE READER-SUGGESTED QUEUE: FEAR X (2003)

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DIRECTED BY: Nicolas Winding Refn

FEATURING: John Turturro, James Remar, Deborah Kay Unger

PLOT: A mall security guard travels cross-country in an effort to find the man who killed his pregnant wife.

Still from fear x (2003)

COMMENTS: Mall cops get no respect. And if you’re judging them by the standards of heroic crimefighters, well, they don’t deserve any. As officers without portfolio, the most they can hope to do is serve as glorified hall monitors. But that actually highlights their most essential skill. They are watchers, ever on the lookout for wrongdoing. It’s a talent that is both passive and invasive.

From what we can see, Harry Caine (Turturro) is good at his job. He readily spots small-time crooks on the prowl, he’s got a billfold crammed full of mugshots to help him pick out known miscreants, and a bottomless well of patience. So it’s his peculiar curse that his wife’s murder took place at the very place he works, giving him access to grainy video footage of the crime to obsess over. And it’s an equally striking coincidence that an inspection of the house across the street produces a critical clue that might just lead Harry to the killer. For someone with the ability to look closely, finding the answer is surely just a matter of time.

The first half of Fear X (a meaningless title that might as well be gibberish) is a portrait of obsession at a low-but-steady simmer, and it’s intriguing to watch Turturro play quiet and insular. The milieu is familiar; in a sparse apartment, he pores over a wall of photographs that is only missing red yarn to connect them. But there’s a gutting hollowness to his pain. He’s not interested in revenge, he insists. He just wants to know why.

Act II shifts the action from suburban Wisconsin to rural Montana (the film was shot in and around Winnipeg), but in truth, the location is an entirely different movie. Once he arrives in the small town in the Big Country (with its five-story motel), he enters a world filled with intricate mysteries out of a John Le Carré novel, long red hallways that would be at home in “Twin Peaks”, and images of roiling seas of blood crashing outside an elevator that are positively Kubrickian. It’s as stark a transition as Dorothy’s arrival in Oz, and while Turturro tries to maintain his internal devastation, he’s ultimately forced to confront the progression of strange occurrences, culminating in a circular argument with the likely assailant. That proves to be Fear X’s undoing, because while there’s nothing wrong with a film that leaves its mysteries unexplained, there’s something very unsatisfying about a story that suggests it’s foolish to look for answers in the first place. Turturro gets the exact opposite of what he wants—revenge without understanding—and as he tosses his meticulously accumulated pile of clues into the wind, there’s more than a whiff of condescension about his belief that he could ever hope to figure it all out.

In some respects, Fear X is an embarrassment of riches. In his first film on North American soil, Refn not only benefits from Turturro in the starring role, but he also enlists the services of Brian Eno to contribute to the score, Larry Smith (Stanley Kubrick’s cinematographer for The Shining) behind the camera, and a co-scriptwriter in the form of novelist Hubert Selby, Jr. (of Last Exit to Brooklyn and Requiem for a Dream notoriety) turning in some of his last work. It’s a lot of talent thrown at a story that doesn’t really add up to much. It begins as a showcase for Turturro, then becomes a platform for Refn to show off his appreciation for the avant-garde masters. And if all you want to do is passively watch, it’s interesting. But we are not all mall cops. Sometimes, audience members are looking for a little more respect.

WHAT THE CRITICS SAY:

“This is one hell of an interesting film… Refn continually proves he’s got vision, willing each subsequent project to be weirder and wilder than the one it follows…” – C. H. Newell, Father Son Holy Gore

(This movie was nominated for review by burner. Suggest a weird movie of your own here.)

Fear X
  • Factory sealed DVD

CAPSULE: DESPISER (2023)

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DIRECTED BY: Phillip J. Cook

FEATURING: Mark Redfield, Doug Brown, Gage Sheridan, Frank Smith, Michael Weitz, Tara Bilkins, Mark Hyde

PLOT: A near-death experience pulls a down-on-his-luck artist into Purgatory, where a rag-tag team are waging a losing battle against the Despiser.

Still from Despiser (2003)

COMMENTS: Phillip Cook loves action: gunfights and explosions abound. He also loves metaphysics: purgatory is real. He loves, too, hearty doses of ambiguity: is this death-world really purgatory, or just another dimension? Most of all, though, he loves his CGI: its delineations, its vibrancy, its rudimentality—its ubiquity. Despiser will cater to any number of genre enthusiasts, but if you’re not on board with his late ’90s, classic-Windows era aesthetic, you should just keep walking.

Personally, I was fully on board with watching the action-machinations of a gang of do-gooders, who exhaust any amount of bullets, burn any amount of tire tread, and quip any amount of one-liners, as they careen through an uncanny world of angular churches, Day-Glo lava, and boxy sports cars. Despiser‘s backdrop is an odd and exciting one, contrasting greatly with the humdrum doings in the living world of our reluctant hero, Gordon: unmotivated painter, failed graphic designer, and, in the end, savior. His dreams—and a near-death experience or two—may be a flashy, dark, and stripped-down nigh Hellscape, but that sure beats his (and our) ho-hum, beige existence. The visual clash is bold, as observed by Gordon himself: “This place doesn’t look real”, he muses upon arrival. And no, it does not. Thank goodness.

The plot twitches along from action set-piece to action set-piece, with religious overtones not quite saturating the atmosphere. The gun-toting team of righteous actioneers who take Gordon into their fold is led by a wisecracking, scripture-quoting Army Ranger from the turn of the 20th century: Carl Nimbus, who never met a Bible passage he couldn’t twist into a badass threat. Despiser almost comes across as something of a gotta-be-cool Christian movie, but Phillip Cook has it both ways (indeed, he has it several ways). Just when the God-and-Thunder motifs threaten to show their hand, Cook deflates them, most notably when Carl quotes, “Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death—Psalms: 23”. Gordon rejoins, “We’re on a highway to Hell. AC/DC: 1980.” This is not a movie to take entirely seriously.

But the characters do, and that’s key for us being on board with the imaginative nonsense which unravels, re-ravels, and ultimately ends up as an entertaining crochet of in-your-face foolishness, bullet-flying fantasy, and desperate characters going to desperate measures to thwart the titular Despiser. (A being so evil, it could only have been properly voiced by author/producer/director Phillip Cook.) I spent two bucks renting this diversion, but golly if I’m not tempted to buy the modestly priced super-duper Blu-ray. Not to sound too religious here, but it’s a small blessing that this singular cinematic extravaganza (made for video though it was) came around the first time, but also to be released in tip-top form on a disc featuring all the great love for the material that makes Despiser the funtime oddity it is.

WHAT THE CRITICS SAY:

“… weird, convoluted, all around dumb and yet completely fucking awesome…. [Cook’s] bizarre fetish for low quality CGI and green screens spreads through his entire work history and you gotta respect a guy for sticking to his guns. If you want low budget action that’s determined to be itself and be refuses to take itself anything less than seriously, you’ll love what the guy has to offer…” — Mikey Ward, Mondo Exploito