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CAPSULE: NADJA (1994)

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FEATURING: , , , , Jared Harris

PLOT: Dracula’s estranged son and daughter reunite after his final death.

 

COMMENTS: A remix of Bram Stoker’s original text haunted by the influences of prior adaptations, Nadja is an atmospheric homage to the Universal monster flicks of the 1930s filtered through the East Village art scene with deadpan Brechtian cool. Bela Lugosi portrays Dracula through clips of old footage. For half the film, the image appears distorted by an aura of supernaturalism, thanks to a pixelating camera. The rest of the cinematography is crisp black and white, interiors cloaked in Expressionist shadows, exteriors swathed in shrouds of fog.

When André Breton met the woman who called herself “Nadja,” she had left behind one life and arrived in Paris seeking another. We meet Almereyda’s Nadja in a similar scene, on a date with a random guy who asks her the usual questions. “Do you work?” “No.” Her father provides for her. What does he do? He has money, family money – old money that goes back all the way to Romania. But she left Europe because it’s like a small village, whereas New York City is the world. She talks of how she wants to change her life. She can sense the potential for change but, as Renfield will remind her, changing your life is easier said than done, even when you’re undead.

The guy asks if she wants another drink. A dangerous question to ask a vampire but apparently the old Romanian money didn’t tip him off. He takes Nadja back to his place and she has that second drink, disappearing before he even knows what happened.

But then she feels it: her father is dead. Van Helsing has staked him, and Nadja knows immediately that Dracula is gone for good. She experiences a sense of relief, the impetus for change she’s been looking for. But first, she has to risk a reconciliation with her estranged brother, Edgar, who for unknown reasons, wants to kill her.

Nadja was one of a slew of existential vampire films released in the early to mid-1990s. It makes a perfect double feature with ‘s The Addiction (1995), which features a similarly impressive cast, set in New York City just before it drowned beneath a tide of Starbucks lattes. But while Ferrara focuses on gritty street reality, Almereyda’s style is more Pictorialist, providing impressions of a city that never seems quite real. It’s all about the atmosphere, the vampire as symbol, as philosopher, though these musings are delivered with tongue-in-cheek humor, preventing the tone from ever becoming too ponderous or heavy. The story follows the basic outline of Stoker’s plot, but Almereyda introduces additional entanglements and family secrets to a pared down cast of characters. Peter Fonda’s Van Helsing is the embarrassing drunk uncle of Jim (Donovan), a Harker-esque character whose marriage to Lucy is on the rocks. When Lucy catches Nadja’s eye in a bar, she unwittingly sets Van Helsing on the trail of Dracula’s children.

The ending sees the characters, somewhat improbably, whisked away to Transylvania, after some of them inexplicably survive an explosion, but don’t expect an action-packed, blood-soaked finale. The always lovely Suzy Amis delivers a moving monologue on humanity’s bereftness in the modern world, and Nadja finds the change she was looking for.

Nadja largely succeeds as arthouse horror through its unusual visual style and subtle surrealism, enhanced by the strengths of its cast. Löwensohn captivates as Nadja, and plentiful shots focus on her unique face framed by the dark folds of a hooded cloak. She and Martin Donovan were regulars in Hal Hartley’s early ’90s films, where both perfected the technique of delivering emotionally resonant lines with minimal modulation of voice and facial expression. Fonda provides much needed energy as a zany and eccentric Van Helsing. For fans of , his brief cameo as a morgue security guard is a nice little bonus.

Arbelos Films recently completed a 4K restoration of a director’s cut approved by Michael Almereyda, which has just finished its run in select theaters and will see by a physical media release in mid-October.

WHAT THE CRITICS SAY:

“Stylish, eccentric and occasionally deliciously weird, it is a film for audiences who like their horror served with humour and their vampires with personality. With a runtime of under 90 minutes, for those willing to embrace its peculiar rhythms, Nadja reveals that even creatures of the night can have a sense of humour.”–Romney Norton, Dirty Movies (re-release)

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Nadja

Nadja

  • Director Michael Almereyda and Executive Producer David Lynch conjure a rare vampire film.

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It Came from the Reader-Suggested Queue

IT CAME FROM THE READER-SUGGESTED QUEUE: FLESH OF THE VOID (2017)

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DIRECTED BY: James Florian Quinn

FEATURING: Man Without a Face, Kmsura, Dead Flesh, Elektriking

PLOT: The last words of a man on his deathbed are followed by a nihilistic nightmare seemingly representing humanity’s greatest fears.

COMMENTS: Flesh of the Void is a low-budget, experimental horror film that bagged an award for Best Overall Feature and a few nominations—including Best Cinematography and Best Director—at the Nightmares Film Festival in 2017. The fact that its cast is mostly anonymous should raise no eyebrows, considering that the movie includes sexually explicit material and extremely violent scenes.

Shot on both Super 8 and 16mm film, James Florian Quinn employs different techniques that give his work a timeless feel, such as black-and-white photography, film grain effects, intertitles, and a creep– and sleep—inducing soundtrack. In that sense, and in its frequent religious imagery, Quinn’s creation inevitably reminds one of ’s (in)famous experimental horror film Begotten (1991), which gives viewers a similar impression of being witness to an old, taboo recording.

Flesh of the Void has no linear plot or conventional narrative, but it does have a sort of theatrical structure, since it is divided into three acts alongside a prologue, an interlude, and an epilogue. It all begins with a surprisingly lyrical and unsettling monologue whispered by a dying man offscreen (“And it all started, to my dismay, soon to set in the state of decay. What just still was will never be again, as I’m still lying in my bed, breathing my last breath”). Then, chaotic images with occasional voiceover ensue, and the viewer is presented with a parade of grainy images depicting increasingly grotesque scenes.

At first, there seems to be a preoccupation with industrial, urban landscapes and the sinister occurrences taking place therein. Afterward, however, violent situations and religious imagery feature more prominently, without any clear links between them and the aforementioned urban landscapes—this overall meaninglessness perhaps being part of the movie’s presumably nihilistic message.

Such haphazard sequences often involve explicit sexual action, and because of these the viewer may get easily sidetracked. At the risk of waxing intellectual, one may regard the combination of sexuality and suffering that the movie presents as the tension between Eros and Thanatos, that is, the two opposing forces that make up human life, with Eros standing for (pro)creation and Thanatos standing for destruction and death. Indeed, whoever decides to watch Flesh of the Void will be assailed by disturbingly brutal situations—including cannibalism and rape—interspersed with numerous masturbatory scenes, often involving the clergy. The latter scenes—which look good on paper as representations of Eros—drag on unnecessarily. They would have greatly benefited from condensing, for their meaning—or lack thereof—is equally impactful after just a glimpse. Such lengthy scenes detract from the overall disquieting atmosphere of the movie and border on the gratuitous.

Nevertheless, occasional shots are genuinely enjoyable despite the budget limitations, especially at the beginning and the end of the film. There is also some respite from cruelty, sex, and interminable onanism in the interlude (titled “Agony”), which is the most theatrical part of Flesh of the Void, with actors moving in ways reminiscent of Greek tragedy at times. This is the most eeriely intriguing and even—dare I say it—tranquil part of the movie, taking place between two acts that feature a great deal of the above-mentioned perversities.

Those who relish experimental movies that feel like inexplicable waking nightmares, no matter how low their budget, may be inclined to give Flesh of the Void a shot. Yet, I must give them a heads-up that their patience is going to be tested, and possibly not rewarded, for the movie as a whole frequently meanders. While opinions will surely differ, for me the nihilistic takeaway from Flesh of the Void seems to be that religious systems and promises of an afterlife are hollow, and we should only believe in the reality of human suffering and the void of death. Suitably for this interpretation, the black-and-white cinematography of the movie is maintained until the very end, when blood suddenly gushes in a vivid red. Cheerful stuff!

WHAT THE CRITICS SAY:

“This film is not for everyone… [Quinn’s] hellishly depraved and nauseating depictions of the macabre were, in a weird way, eerily satisfying. Because when you really stop and think about it, death is no doubt the scariest thing that will ever happen to us,” Jared Letourneau, The Horror Syndicate

(This movie was nominated for review by Vlad Gligor, who called it “very similar to Begotten.” Suggest a weird movie of your own here.)

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Capsules, It Came from the Reader-Suggested Queue

IT CAME FROM THE READER-SUGGESTED QUEUE: LATE AUGUST AT THE HOTEL OZONE (1967)

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Konec srpna v Hotelu Ozon

DIRECTED BY: Jan Schmidt

FEATURING: Beta Poničanová, Ondrej Jariabek, Magda Seidlerová, Hana Vítková, Jana Novaková, Vanda Kalinová, Natalie Maslovová, Irena Lžičařová, Jitka Hořejšías

PLOT: In the wake of a nuclear apocalypse, a group of women wander the desolate landscape in search of life and sustenance, eventually discovering an old man living in the shattered remains of a hotel.Still from Late August at the Hotel Ozone (1967)

COMMENTS: There wasn’t a whole lot of software available for the early iterations of the Macintosh computer, but one of the more popular and memorable programs was a simulated game of diplomacy called “Balance of Power.” As leader of either the United States or the Soviet Union, you were tasked with responding to world events in a way that burnished your own country’s reputation and boxed out your opponent. Of course, this leads to political brinksmanship, with each escalation inching the two powers ever closer to the ultimate conflict. If you misjudged the situation, the game concluded with a black screen that provided a particularly chilling finale: “You have ignited a nuclear war. And no, there is no animated display of a mushroom cloud with parts of bodies flying through the air. We do not reward failure.” It was a real gut-punch to a 15-year-old who only wanted to prevent the USSR from Finlandizing Austria.

I hearken back to this example of video game shaming because it matches the mood set by Late August at the Hotel Ozone. The suggestions of familiar tropes—the post-nuclear landscape, a group of young women fending for themselves, small traces of the world before—set expectations that this film is only too happy to crush. Director Schmidt crafts a stark future with a documentarian’s eye, depicting a world cleaved of hope, where even death loses its power to shock—because there’s nothing else left.

Most of the film is spent in the company of Dagmar, an older woman who recalls the times before the world ended and hopes there might be enough people left to rebuild humanity. In her charge are a group of young women who have learned the fundamentals of survival but have had little opportunity to develop their souls. They don’t say much, but their actions speak volumes. Finding a drum of petrol, they refill their canisters, but then one of them decides to set it on fire, for fun. Another takes the cache of bullets she has found and throws them into the flames, again for amusement. We’re quickly learning that life holds little allure to this group, something reflected in their treatment of animals. A girl rips apart a snake with her bare hands. Another teases a hungry stray dog before killing it with a bullet to the head. When they find a cow that they can kill for sustenance, the women tear at the flesh like ravenous hyenas. (The film’s lore says that none of these animal encounters are faked; if true, we’re also dealing with a snuff film.) Whatever rules we think society should have, they don’t matter here.

So stumbling across the old man at the hotel is like crossing a generational gap. Despite everyone around him having died, Hubert has persisted, maintaining the place in expectation of the day when guests will return as part of a pleasure trip. Dagmar and Hubert find some comfort in their shared experiences, and their very tastes mark them as alien. The girls are repulsed by the idea of drinking milk, and they are clearly baffled by the rituals of a dinner with silverware and candles. Reportedly, several of the performers were not professional actors (one account suggests they were members of the Czech military), and there’s something chilling about their sense of detachment. Hubert’s proudest possession, a Victrola with a recording of “Roll Out the Barrel,” is notable as the one thing that inspires something deeper in the women, a piece of art amidst the desolation. Naturally, it’s more important than life itself. 

While the two old people are our connection to the familiar, the fact is that this is not their world. It belongs to the young women who have inherited the dying wasteland, and the violence that ends the film is woefully inevitable. This is an apocalypse for a reason, and this film takes the position that the world will not end with gut-wrenching action or even tear-stained melancholy, but rather with ignorance laced with id-fueled apathy. If we leave our children nothing, nothing is what they will take to their hearts. There will be no reward for failure.

WHAT THE CRITICS SAY:

“… this trek though the post-apocalypse wastelands is far more Stalker (1979) than Road Warrior… a bleak film but ultimately a rewarding one.”–Kevin Lyons, The EOFFTV Review

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

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The End of August at the Hotel Ozone

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    It Came from the Reader-Suggested Queue, Shorts

    CAPSULE: LOT IN SODOM (1933)

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    DIRECTED BY: James Sibley Watson,

    FEATURING: Friedrich Haak, Hildegarde Watson, Dorthea House

    PLOT: In ancient Sodom, young men revel in sensual choreography, inspiring the Lord’s anger.

    Still from Lot in Sodom (1933)

    COMMENTS: The first wave of the American cinematic avant-garde developed between 1919 and 1945. According to some of its pioneers, like Herman Weinberg, it encompasses everything except typical Hollywood productions. There is already a review of a compilation of American experimental films ranging from the movement’s early days till the 1970s on this site, which you can check it out if you are interested in learning more about this scene. It is in this context that we examine “Lot in Sodom.”

    This short silent—only about thirty minutes in duration—combines a familiar Old Testament setting with a modernist stylistic approach, diffuse sensuality, and a heavy innuendo. The plot revolves around Lot and his wife, the only honest people in a town full of perverts immersed in immorality. But the narrative isn’t as important as the way it is used to create an atmosphere of depravity. Human—mostly male—bodies dance semi-naked across the screen. The camera is voyeuristic, eager to consume and fetishize their bodies. Along with an underlying hint of violence, “Lot” can be viewed as a predecessor of contemporary performance art in the vein of ” Dead Dreams of Monochrome Men” (1989) .

    In the film’s latter half the female body makes its appearance, similarly sexualized. Through Latin intertitles comparing the woman to a temple and symbolic Bible imagery (a snake, white pigeons), the film implies a sexual climax and an immoral desecration of the female body.

    The scenery, often quite pointy, is a tamer version of German . High contrast black and white lighting, along with distorting effects that multiply figures and objects, create a collage-like, almost cubist aesthetic. Archaic techniques like rear projection and superposition are also used extensively for a similar purpose. When examined in the correct historical context, this work is transgressive and daring. There is a pretense of moralism here, however, which makes it feel a bit dated. “Lot in Sodom” remains important because of its unique stylistic approach, but today its audience is mostly technicians interested in the history of visual effects.

    WHAT THE CRITICS SAY:

    “…one of the weirdest movies of the early 1930s.”–Phil Hall, Film Threat

    (This movie was nominated for review by Sal U. Lloyd, who called it ” Disappointing but weird nonetheless.” Suggest a weird movie of your own here.)

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    Salome / Lot in Sodom

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      Capsules

      CAPSULE: THE MAN WHO WASN’T THERE (2001)

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      DIRECTED BY: Joel Coen, Ethan Coen

      FEATURING: , , , , , Tony Shalhoub

      PLOT: A stoical barber develops a plan to blackmail his wife’s employer, which spirals out of control.

      Still from the Man Who Wasn't There (2001)

      COMMENTS: The Coen Brothers began their career in film noir with Blood Simple (1984), and much of their subsequent work has either referenced or revolved around noirish themes. Blood Simple, alongside Fargo (1996) and No Country for Old Men (2007), are classic neo-noirs in rural settings. Non-noir offerings like Miller’s Crossing (1990) and Barton Fink (1991) still feature doomed, alienated heroes and challenging ethical dilemmas, and even The Big Lebowski (1998) flirts with noir themes with its complicated crime caper in an LA setting. But The Man Who Wasn’t There is their one take on the classic formula: post-war period setting, chiaroscuro cinematography, carefully-planned crime that goes horribly wrong, moral corruption, and a flawed protagonist increasingly resigned to his dim fate. Who wouldn’t want to see the brothers give their straightforward take on film noir, with all the moralistic nihilism that implies?

      The plot is a classic noir knot: a “simple” act of blackmail leads to a pair of unintended murders, which leads to the wrong person being put on trial, which, in a roundabout way, eventually leads to misplaced but ironically appropriate justice. Our antihero, Ed Crane, is a disaffected barber who is only slightly more engaged with the world than Mersault. He tolerates his job; he likes his wife and their passionless life together well-enough, even though he suspects she may be cheating on him. His descent into crime happens on a whim, to garner investment funds after hearing a pitch by a dry-cleaning entrepreneur. He’s a man of few words, except when it comes time to deliver expository voiceovers.

      In some sense, there isn’t a lot there in The Man That Wasn’t There. Although there are twists, the plot often drags, like Ed Crane’s own mundane suburban life. But for a single bad decision, Ed would not have left much of a mark on the world: he would have glided through life silently cutting hair and smoking cigarettes, dispassionate and content to watch life slip by. He’s a barber by profession, but it’s just something he drifted into; really, “that'”barber” is too much of an identity for him. As he says, he “just cuts the hair.” In the course of the film, he develops exactly two passions: once, his brief interest in dry-cleaning, and a more substantial interest in the teenage daughter of a drunken customer (it’s not what your dirty mind is thinking; he’s charmed by her faltering rendition of a Beethoven piano sonata). Both times, his sudden engagement with the world leads him to unwitting tragedy.

      The Man Who Wasn’t There is, mostly, a solid, authentic rendition of the classical noir style. It only departs from the 40s formula in a few particulars. Homosexuality is acknowledged and plays a role in the plot; Ed’s slightly inappropriate fixation on Birdy also crosses a line that would have barely been hinted at by the previous cinematic generation. Further, the film is more obviously and artily existential than its forebears. The Coens humorously reference Heisenberg’s Uncertainty Principle (absurdly, Ed’s trial lawyer wants to make it the centerpiece of his defense), which presages their more thorough exploration of the enigma of Schrödinger’s famous feline in A Serious Man. Finally, the movie’s weirdest element (perhaps its only weird element) is the mysterious usage of UFOs as a metaphor for…. something (modern man’s futile search for meaning in the universe?) But these eccentricities hardly depart much from the source homage, making The Man Who Wasn’t There a satisfying throwback to a simpler age, when people were more complex.

      WHAT THE CRITICS SAY:

      “…a curious mix of tragedy and humor filmed in stark black and white… succeeds in establishing a mood of existential absurdity..”–Robert Roten, Laramie Movie Scope (contemporaneous)

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

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      The Man Who Wasn't There (Criterion Collection)

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