REVIEW: Fantastic Planet

As I've gotten older, I've developed a growing fascination with outsider animation. Don't get me wrong, I still greatly enjoy the annual fare from Disney and Pixar, but there's something special about the outlandish, surreal, and decidedly more adult-oriented animated films of the 70's and 80's; something that was definitely lost around the time of the Disney Renaissance. With Disney cornering the market on squeaky-clean family fun, there existed a clear niche for animation that explored themes and ideas that the House of Mouse wouldn't dare touch; a niche that was soundly filled by filmmakers like Ralph Bakshi and Don Bluth. It was imagination unrestricted by the limits of the MPAA, and it pains me to see such fantastic examples of creative expression dragged down by the most braindead form of praise art can possibly recieve; "woah, they must have been on drugs to think of this!" Whenever anyone says this, it essentially means that they have such a limited imagination that the only conceivable way a human could create anything even the slightest bit innovative or out of the ordinary is by way of a hefty dose of psychedelics. Which, to clarify, doesn't mean that drug-use didn't influence some of these films (especially considering the era they were born from). But the fact of the matter is that movies like today's film, Fantastic Planet, have far more to offer than just some trippy visuals. Behind all the surreal imagery and whacked-out animation lies subtext, and it's this vital facet of storytelling that elevates films like Fantastic Planet above simply being the cinematic equivalent of a lava lamp.

An adaptation of the 1957 French novel, Oms en série, the film takes place in the distant future, on the far-away alien world of Ygam. Long after wiping out their own civilizations on Earth, humans were brought to Ygam by the Draags, an advanced race of blue giants. On Ygam, humans (known as Oms, a play on the French word "homme") are regarded as little more than common vermin; while a good number of Draags have domesticated Oms they keep as pets, there are also roaming colonies of savage Oms who are routinely exterminated (not unlike rats or mice). The film follows one Om in particular, Terr (voiced by Barry Bostwick in the English dub); orphaned as a baby, he finds himself adopted by the daughter of a Draag diplomat, eventually escaping and joining a wild colony of Oms with the intent of ending the oppression of his species once and for all.

The most immediately striking aspect of the entire movie (and the detail which lead me to eventually watch it) is the art design, care of painter/writer Roland Topor. Given the setting and themes of the story, it's immensely important that Topor was able to create a world that looks truly and honestly alien in nature; none of the creatures on Ygam even remotely resemble anything on Earth, and the eerie landscapes help foster an atmosphere of unfamiliarity and foreboding. It all really adds to the situation the Oms find themselves in; you're able to get a powerful sense of how far humanity has fallen and how separated they are from the civilization we know today (even if their base instincts and motivations remain more or less the same, but more on that later). Admittedly, there are moments here and there where the design falters and aspects of the Draag civilization end up looking as though they're simply meant to appear strange for strange's sake; this isn't a film like Treasure Planet where every single aspect of the film's visuals are designed with the idea that it must serve some sort of in-universe purpose. Then again, one must think of the artist's intent when judging aspects like this; world-building isn't exactly meant to be the main takeaway of Fantastic Planet. The subtext is meant to be the primary focus here, and in that area it very much succeeds (but again, more on that later).

My only other gripe with the design of this film is the limited animation. Whereas films like Yellow Submarine give the impression of a watercolor painting brought to life, Fantastic Planet feels much more akin to the work of Terry Gilliam (who, coincidentally, would release his animated short, The Miracle of Flight, just a year later). While Topor's designs are hauntingly beautiful, the animation at play simply doesn't do them justice; everything moves in a very stilted, deliberate manner and character movements tend to lack any and all sense of weight. I also wasn't overly fond of the soundtrack (care of French jazz pianist, Alain Goraguer); while some praise the psychedelic atmosphere the score brings to mind, I found that it just didn't work for me. This is a thoughtful, surreal experience filled with haunting visuals and themes drenched in existential dread. It feels like exactly the sort of concept that would be best complimented by an equally eerie orchestral or prog-rock score, only to be undercut by a dated and altogether unfitting collection of funky beats and wah-wah guitars. This is a score that would have worked perfectly in just about any other film, but just feels wrong here. Then again, it could also be argued that the ill-fitting music and limited animation only serve to enhance the existing atmosphere of unfamiliarity and unease, so these are aesthetic details that (much like the all-important subtext) are free to be left up to the viewer's individual interpretation.

As I mentioned before, inspired visuals can only support so much. While it's very much true that film is a visual medium, it is the way that movies are able to combine all manner of sensory expression that sets film aside from other artistic outlets. When a film ignores any of the tools provided, focusing purely on visuals and ignoring its story (or vise-versa), it is doing itself a disservice. In the case of Fantastic Planet, you come for the tripped-out visuals, but stay for the thought-provoking subtext. The film raises a number of intriguing (and, depending on your perspective, uncomfortable) questions about the nature of life and sentience. What makes the life of one being inherently more valuable than another? By what standard do we judge if a living thing is sentient, or civilized, or even alive? There's obviously a clear "how would you like it?" aspect regarding man's relationship with the natural world, but in truth there's so much more here to unpack and explore. It's very easy to feel inherent sympathy for the Oms, the same way it's very easy to feel a deep resentment towards the Draags. We want to side with the downtrodden and oppressed humans over the beady-eyed, emotionless aliens, despite the fact that the Draags are us. They adhere to their own, odd social rituals and exert callous control over the natural world without a care, simply because they've deemed themselves the most advanced race and that gives them the right to do as they please. 

There's an obvious environmentalist tilt to the whole thing, but it never feels so cut-and-dry, so narrow in scope. One could also easily view the conflict between the Oms and the Draags (in which one species, deemed inferior by those with more power and technology, is systematically exterminated) as an allegory for genocide and racism. The Draags don't think much of the Oms until the Oms become educated and organized; then the downtrodden and oppressed suddenly become a legitimate threat to their oppressors, and only then is peace and equality considered to be an option. Personally, I took the film as a metaphor for how humanity is often manipulated into destroying itself by any number of higher powers (be it competing governments, religions, or what have you); the Draags often make their domesticated Oms fight for each other's amusement, inspiring internal conflict and squabbling among the oppressed, preventing actual progress from being made towards freedom, enlightenment, and prosperity. Whatever your personal interpretation, they all feel equally valid. Not in a half-baked, lazy kind of way, as though the filmmakers didn't put enough thought into what they actually wanted to say with this film, but rather in a sense that denotes extreme care taken on the part of the filmmakers to ensure that the underlying messages could be conveyed to any number of perspectives. The fact that this film is open to so many interpretations could easily come off as needlessly vague in theory; in practice, however, it feels like anything but, and it's this kind of potential for exploration that represents what I consider to be Fantastic Planet's true worth as a film.

In terms of entertainment, I'm not 100% certain I'd recommend Fantastic Planet to just anyone. While I definitely took a lot away from it, I wouldn't exactly call this an "entertaining" movie; despite being just over an hour long, it's quite slow-paced and very dense from a conceptual standpoint. It's not the kind of thing I see myself ever throwing on to unwind after a long day at the office. That said, as a film, I consider this to be mandatory viewing, especially if you consider yourself a fan of animation. The art direction is worth the investment alone and the underlying themes and messages are sure to stick with you well after the credits finish rolling. This is the kind of movie I can't help but recommend everyone watch at least once (although I'm sure repeat viewings will do nothing but enhance one's overall experience). If you feel as though you're in the proper mindset for something in this wheelhouse, you'd be hard pressed to go wrong with giving Fantastic Planet a watch.

REVIEW: A Futile and Stupid Gesture

The practice of tackling a biopic is often an interesting beast. Like with adaptations of fictional works, filmmakers need to find ways to skirt around the inherent conflict that tends to arise between staying accurate to the source material and the story's ability to stand on its own as a work of film. It's (usually) not enough to just reenact real-world events without some kind of creative spin; this was one of my main issues with The Disaster Artist. A tremendously well-acted and entertaining movie, yes, but with disappointingly modest ambitions. Some of my favorite films of all time, such as Ed Wood and American Splendor, find unique and interesting ways to tell the (mostly) true stories of notable individuals. Even though the bulk of the story has been written by life itself, it's still the filmmaker's responsibility to turn someone's life into a story worth telling (and more importantly, worth watching). Which brings us to one of the more recent independent films released through Netflix, A Futile and Stupid Gesture.

The film tells the story of the life and times of Doug Kenney (Will Forte), the main creative force behind the iconic humor magazine, National Lampoon. The film covers Kenney's rise and fall, from his time at Harvard through the creation of films like Animal House and Caddyshack. I will admit, I wasn't exactly well-read on the subject of Doug Kenney before watching this movie, and I feel my overall experience was better off for it. I'd recommend at least being familiar with the classic Lampoon films, as well as the early days of Saturday Night Live to fully appreciate the context that the story takes place within, but any research into Kenney's actual life risks spoiling the movie. Shocker, I know; if you already know the true story, then you'll be able to predict how the biopic ends. Without going too deep into spoiler territory, I'll simply say that, taking certain narrative devices the film uses into account, entering altogether unfamiliar with Doug Kenney as a person (as I did) will only serve to enhance the viewing experience. I'll say this and nothing more.

When you're working with adapting a real-life story, it's important to understand that your main character needs to function as more than just an excuse to adapt the events of their life to the screen; it doesn't matter how fascinating their situation is if they don't work properly as an engaging protagonist. Thankfully, director David Wain (of Wet Hot American Summer fame) understands this and spends ample amounts of time building Kenney up as a complex and nuanced character. As a human, he's deeply flawed; we see the darker side of a humorous personality, as he's always starved for attention and affirmation. This underlying desire to be loved is the driving force that fuels nearly all of the misfortune Doug manages to make for himself over the course of the film. At the same time, we also see why Doug is like this; every creative choice he makes seems to be either an appeal or attack directed towards his estranged father (played here by Harry Groener). This doesn't excuse the less-savory decisions Doug makes, but it does offer some insight as to why he makes them. That trace amount of context, explaining his actions without attempting to condone them, is what allows us to effectively sympathize with our protagonist. Although this is the story of the man behind the National Lampoon, it's worth noting that this story is much less a comedy and moreso a sardonic tragedy.

Don't get me wrong here, there are a good number of jokes in this film, they're simply not the main focus. The humor present in this film is a symptom of its subject matter rather than the primary focus, so anyone looking for something as bombastic and laugh-out-loud funny as Animal House is going to be left wanting (and likely a little depressed). The film uses comedy to effectively paint a portrait of a man who, deep down inside, is hurting. My only complaint is that we don't get too many "real" moments with the extended cast; to be fair, I almost feel as though that's what the filmmakers were going for. Every other comedy writer at the Lampoon has a hard time turning it off, spitting out one-liners even when a situation clearly calls for anything but. It illustrates how an environment of sarcastic misfits and misanthropes often isn't the best place for someone who truly needs help (sharply contrasting with the camaraderie we see among the endearing slobs of Animal House and Caddyshack). At the same time, this also leaves Doug Kenney and Henry Beard (Doug's college collaborator, played by an unrecognizable Domhnall Gleeson) feeling like the only fleshed-out, three-dimensional characters in the entire movie. Suffice to say, it's something of a double-edged sword.

Speaking of, I also foresee some of the casting being quite hit-or-miss for some people. The main cadre of lead actors is relatively airtight; Forte continues to demonstrate his chops as a legitimate dramatic actor, giving us a raw, decidedly un-Hollywood look at the kind of misanthropic personality that is usually obscured behind a series of well-meaning gags. Kenney strikes you as the kind of class-clown personality everyone wishes they knew; quick with a joke, down to party, and chock full of potential for amazing stories down the line. But Forte manages to pull the curtain back and expose just how much pain and damage is hiding behind such a bombastic facade. This is where Gleeson compliments Forte perfectly, keeping all of his frustration inside. We see Henry forced to clean up after Doug time and time again, making their friendship feel much more flawed (and much more realistic) than the frat boy antics one might expect going in. The two work in tandem, illustrating just how dangerous it can be to have something to prove without the perspective needed to understand when a lifelong passion devolves to just being work. We also have Martin Mull, but I don't want to say too much; he's very much a part of that narrative device I mentioned earlier, and the less you know about his purpose in this film going in, the better. But it's Martin Mull, so of course he does a good job.

On the more controversial side, we have every other supporting cast member portraying comedic icons like Gilda Radner (Jackie Tohn), Chevy Chase (Joel McHale), and Christopher Guest (Seth Green). The film even breaks the fourth wall (as it frequently does) to address the audience and point out how these actors don't look exactly like the people they're meant to be portraying (before presenting a lengthy list of other creative changes the filmmakers made over the course of production); while not everyone is going to be totally sold on these performances (there's nothing here that even comes close to Martin Landau's take on Bela Lugosi, for example), I still had my fun picking out who was meant to be who. It almost feels like voices played a greater role here than appearance; while some members of the cast definitely look the part (Lonny Ross and Rick Glassmen are dead-ringers for Ivan Reitman and Harold Ramis), there are others who definitely struggle to blend in. Joel McHale looks nothing like Chevy Chase; really, he looks more like Joel McHale about to attend a 70's theme party in a wig he bought for $5 at the local Spirit Halloween. At the same time, when he reads off his lines on the The National Lampoon Radio Hour, he does sound startlingly like Chevy Chase. The same goes for Jon Daly as Billy Murray; there's little to no physical resemblance, but damned if he doesn't have Murray's Lounge Singer voice down perfectly. Like I said, these performances are going to be much more hit-or-miss depending on who's watching, but I definitely had my fun with them. You get the impression that everyone is having fun paying tribute to the comedic minds that influenced them from an early age, and that sense of fun and reverence really elevates these performances beyond the simple impressions they appear to be at first glance.

While I definitely foresee the slow pace, dry humor, and offbeat presentation alienating some, I still found A Futile and Stupid Gesture to be anything but. I can't emphasize enough; this is not a comedy. It is a drama about comedy. All that said, there's still an oddly feel-good undercurrent to the whole thing. It's a bittersweet story with all manner of emotional ups and downs, the kind of film where the viewer is left either feeling touched or depressed or both (depending entirely on who happens to be watching it). That kind of parity makes it a challenge to recommend to just anyone, so I'll close by saying this; this is a film about creative types, for creative types. Beneath every comedian and class clown, there's often years upon years of bottled-up pain. A deep-seated need for not only attention, but affirmation and acceptance. It's a film about insecurity, abuse, and the kind of humor that, to this day, makes the upper-crust of society spit out their champagne and clutch at their pearls. We see a man with a clear set of goals and aspirations build himself up, then question if he's strong enough to continue living the dream he himself has made. If you've ever wondered if your work truly matters, regardless of what field you're in, you owe it to yourself to check this one out.

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REVIEW: Alien (2003 Director's Cut)

Film, being an art form, is largely a subjective medium. Different movies appeal to different people with different tastes. The vast majority of things I write about here is entirely opinion-based, built off of my own thoughts and personal experiences. However, there are some instances where a film's quality can be measured on an objective scale (for better or for worse). Ridley Scott's 1979 film, Alien, is one such movie, in that it is unquestionably an objective masterpiece, seamlessly blending the genres of horror and sci-fi. The late 70's saw something of a revival for sci-fi movies; the novelty of space travel had worn off in the years since man walked on the moon and most science fiction was regarded as childish and cornball. Much like the titular creature in Alien, the genre was primed for rapid and radical evolution. Star Wars brought the concept of space adventures back into the public eye, re-framing classic story elements in a fantastical and imaginative world. Kubrick's 2001: A Space Odyssey presented a view of a future that could very well happen, albeit in a far-out, shiny, and sterile fashion. Out of all the films of this sci-fi resurgence, Alien was the first to approach the concept of futuristic space travel as something not only mundane, but as something we might want to reconsider altogether.

The plot is as classic and straightforward as can be, incorporating age-old haunted house tropes in a new and fascinating locale. The crew of the space-freighter Nostromo is awakened from hyper-sleep after the ship's computer picks up a distress signal. As per company guidelines, the crew is required to investigate, touching down on a barren, primordial planet. An away-team is assembled to explore the source of the signal, a massive and foreboding derelict space craft. Once the crew is back on the ship, they discover that a hostile alien creature has stowed away on the Nostromo, skulking through its claustrophobic corridors and picking people off one by one. It's essentially a slasher in space, but to simply describe it as just that and nothing more would be a gross oversimplification, ignoring just why this film works as well as it does.

The most immediately striking element is the set design, care of Michael Seymour. The Nostromo is an industrialized maze, filled with tight hallways, dangling wires, and deceptive shadows. It's the perfect hiding place for a biomechanical creepy-crawly like the Xenomorph, in that we never know what could be lurking around each corner (or in the walls, or in the ceiling, or in the vents, or, well, anywhere for that matter). By contrast, the derelict ship (designed alongside the creature by the brilliant H.R. Giger) takes inspiration from Gothic architecture, boasting high, vaulted ceilings and intricate details. We spend the first part of the film getting acquainted with the cramped, manmade halls of the Nostromo; by the time we enter the derelict, the change in scenery is so radical that we immediately know something isn't quite right. The film revolves around a fear of the unknown and exhibits a tremendous talent for subverting audience expectations.

Alien is very much a slow burn; it isn't until a good half hour in that anything even remotely out of the ordinary happens. This sense of routine, of making space travel into something totally mundane, plays a big part in just what makes the movie work. The Nostromo isn't an intrepid starship in search of adventure and discovery, so much as it is the outer space equivalent of a big rig, hauling freight from one destination to another. The crew isn't a gang of strange and exotic spacemen; instead, they're simply a bunch of blue-collar working joes. The first time we meet them, they've just woken up from stasis and are making small talk over the breakfast table, discussing their pay and the quality of the coffee, cigarettes in hand. The film goes a long way to sell the audience on its premise by making the world feel both believable and organic. In doing so, the premise becomes that much more real, a vital component of any effective horror movie. 

The film is also masterfully adept in manipulating an audience's expectations. I've said before that a well-crafted horror film will find a way to "train" the viewer to respond subconsciously to specific cues, only to subvert those expectations when delivering the scare. For example, there's a scene early on in the second act in which Ripley (Sigourney Weaver), Parker (Yaphet Kotto), and Brett (Harry Dean Stanton) are looking for the newborn alien. The tension builds and builds as they open up a locker, only to find Ripley's cat, Jones, instead (in what is possibly the movie's only totally pedestrian jumpscare). Soon after, Brett wanders off to find the cat, only to come across the newly-grown alien instead. By now, a subconscious pattern has been established; looking for the alien means that they'll find the cat, looking for the cat means that they'll find the alien. Which is why, near the end of the film, we fully expect Ripley to run into the alien when she hears a noise she assumes to be her cat. Instead, the noise actually was the cat this time; cut to the alien menacing Parker and Lambert (Veronica Cartwright) instead.

For this particular Review, I decided to revisit the 2003 Director's Cut of the film, seeing as how I usually just default to the 1979 theatrical version. For all the praise I could heap upon this film, there's just very little that hasn't been said before; entire books have been written on why Alien is one of the greatest films ever made. That said, I find the Director's Cut to be quite intriguing in its own right (even if I still prefer the original version that released some 38 years ago). The changes are largely superficial and, for the most part, totally inconsequential. A few shots are added, some are removed, but there are only a handful of changes that drastically affect the picture itself. There's a shot that Ridley Scott decided to add back in that I sincerely wish remained in the theatrical version, in which we see the creature hanging from the rafters just moments before it attacks Brett. I'm a huge fan of the multiple "hiding in plain sight" moments in this movie, and this shot completely took me by surprise; the effect is chilling. There's also a strong moment where we see Lambert attack Ripley for not opening the airlock; while it helps feed the tension of the scene, it's understandable why it was cut, as it tends to draw attention away from the recently-facehugged Kane (John Hurt).

Most notable of these changes is a moment during the climax, in which a fleeing Ripley discovers the cocooned bodies of Brett and Dallas (Tom Skerritt). This scene was originally cut because it completely killed the pace of Ripley's frantic escape, but its inclusion in Scott's personal Director's Cut of the movie says something interesting, I feel. In the scene, we see Dallas and Brett slowly turning into alien eggs; from a modern context, we can say that this somewhat clashes with the since-established mythos of the creature (since the sequel, Aliens, introduces the idea of an egg-laying Queen). Scott has often referred to Alien as his baby, and expressed his distaste that the series has gone on to be nothing more than cheap, action/horror schlock. The Director's Cut was released in 2003; by then, the Alien franchise had long since gone down the drain with critical flops like Alien 3 and Alien: Resurrection (not to mention, the utterly braindead Alien VS Predator was but one year away). By reinstating the cocoon scene in the Director's Cut, Scott is separating his vision from everything that came after it; there is no Queen Alien, there are no Colonial Marines, there is no Dog Alien or Predalien or anything of the sort beyond that which he himself created. Just as with Prometheus, the inclusion of this cut scene feels like an attempt by Ridley Scott to exert some degree of personal control over his creation that has long since gotten away from what he originally intended it to be. 

Alien is a bonafide classic, one of the greatest films ever made both in terms of horror and science fiction. Everything about it, from the subtle, sweeping camerawork, to the naturalistic performances, to the beautiful and horrfying art design and special effects work of artists such as H.R. Giger, Carlo Rambaldi, and Ron Cobb, is just an unending joy to take in. The Director's Cut, while just slightly inferior to the original theatrical version, offers a fascinating look at what could have been. We can see not only what was originally planned for the film, but what Ridley Scott might have done differently after nearly 30 years of gestation and rumination. No matter what way you shake it, the film is mandatory viewing for anyone who loves the art of cinema. If you somehow haven't seen this one yet, turn out all the lights and settle in for a gorgeous nightmare that remains unrivaled to this day.

REVIEW: Wizards

Cult classics are a tricky lot, especially when it comes to psychedelic cinema. There's always the chance that a film with a large following will simply fail to live up to the hype when viewed without the assistance of a bag of hallucinogens. All the same, there are times when one comes across an entry in this genre that amounts to more than just a trippy collection of pretty colors set to acid rock. 1977's Wizards is definitely responsible for blowing the minds of more than a few burnout college kids, I'm sure, but that's not to say that there isn't something worth exploring beneath the surface. One of the more tame creations of animation legend Ralph Bakshi (who proved that animation could be used for more than just cheery Disney children's films with such X-rated fare as Fritz the Cat and Heavy Traffic), Wizards paints an extraordinarily out-there portrait of a far-off, fantastical future over a subtextual exploration of morality and the power of propaganda.

The plot in this is a bit much to take in, but I'm going to do my best to sum it all up as succinctly as possible. In the future, the Earth is annihilated by nuclear weapons and terrorism, eradicating all life on the planet. However, over the next two million years, human life begins to re-emerge; those who populate the idyllic good lands regress into humanity's true ancestors, fantasy races of elves, dwarves, and fairies. In the heavily irradiated bad lands, humans devolve into hideous mutants, ogres, and goblins. After thousands of years of peace, two wizards are born; the good and kindly Avatar (Bob Holt) and his brother, the sinister mutant, Blackwolf (Steve Gravers). After many years, the two eventually do battle, with Avatar emerging victorious. His brother leaves for the dark lands of Scorch, vowing to return one day and reap his vengeance. If this sounds like the entire plot of the movie, I think it's worth noting that this is all mere backstory, established within the first five minutes. 

The incredibly dense prologue sets the tone for the adventure to follow, letting the viewer know that they're watching something that's about to get very strange very quickly. We then flash a few thousand years further into the future; Blackwolf is still consolidating his power and Avatar has grown old and somewhat cynical. The peaceful kingdom of Montagar has long since outlawed science and technology while Blackwolf  reigns as the ruler of Scorch, excavating ancient relics from a time before the nuclear holocaust. One such relic is an old film projector loaded with Nazi propaganda; using the ancient footage to motivate his dimwitted troops (and to traumatize his enemies), Blackwolf puts his plan into motion and declares war on the peaceful free states. It is up to Avatar, the fairy princess Elinore (Jesse Welles), the reprogrammed robot assassin Peace (David Proval), and the elfin spy Weehawk (Richard Romanus) to seek out and destroy the "dream machine", putting an end to Blackwolf's sinister machinations and preventing the second coming of the Third Reich.

I did say that this film went to some far-out places, didn't I? It would be very easy to simply brush this film off as hyper-stylized stoner fodder, packed to the brim with Tolkien-esque fantasy creatures and rotoscoped footage from World War 2 movies, but there's really a great deal more this has to offer just beneath the surface. To write Wizards off as "something cool to watch while high" (or even worse, with the old-as-time "woah, they must have been on drugs to come up with this!") is a tremendous disservice to the clear amount of deliberate thought and imagination Bakshi and company implemented when making this film. There's a reason the plot creates a false sense of build-up towards an anti-science moral, the same way there's a reason so much Nazi imagery is used throughout; Wizards is a puzzle, and it's up to the viewer to put the pieces together. Just about everything we're given serves some sort of a greater narrative purpose, even if it doesn't appear so at first glance.

At first, it appears as though the film is going for the classic "nature trumps technology" theme we've seen so many times before. The villains all use WW2-era panzers and rifles while the barefoot forest creatures fight with swords and arrows. However, the film gradually subverts the audience's expectations, espousing the merits of pragmatism and compromise. The World War 2 parallels are plain to see; the downtrodden mutants are clearly in dire straits, forced to reside in an unforgiving hellscape where both the air and water are toxic. However, they end up rationalizing their misfortune as justification to adopt the ideals of the Nazi party, lashing out at those they deem as oppressors. Meanwhile, the peaceful fairy-folk have outlawed science and put all their faith in peace and harmony and happy feelings of oneness with nature. This essentially makes for a population of complacent layabouts who fall into disorganized shambles the second their leaders are compromised; when asked why they can't simply fight back and win, a fairy mother tells her child "because, they have weapons and technology. We just have love."

It seems to be a recurring theme in fantasy fiction that there is no greater force in the universe than generic feelings of love, but Wizards is having absolutely none of that. Make no mistake, love matters a great deal, but the film shows the importance of balance in both beliefs and morals. The good creatures place far too much reliance on love, peace, and harmony, and are thus wholly unprepared for the ruthless enemies that seek to do them harm. Meanwhile, the slovenly mutants are completely devoid of such emotions, and thus end up nothing more than dull cowards with no drive or conviction. This is where the power of propaganda comes in. The propaganda used by the villains is so overt, it's easy to miss that the "good" creatures make use of it as well, albeit through subtler means. It's fascinating how quickly one is able to accept something as egregious as outlawing science and technology as no big problem at first glance; perhaps it's because so much media exists warning us of the dangers of valuing technological progress over nature, but Wizards shows flat-out that both sides of the primary conflict are equally indoctrinated in their respective dogma. 

This is, again, where a sense of balance comes into play. The film pokes fun at the superstitions and rituals associated with organized religion, yet also levels with the audience, stating that a silly, complicated moral code is better than no morals at all. We see countless creatures slaughtered by superior firepower, despite their belief in love, magic, and the natural world. In the end, the side that claims victory doesn't win because of their superior morals, but because they are willing to bend and change as is necessary, without losing a sense of who they are. This is a story where the most powerful weapon is literally the use of propaganda; it can be used to inspire both hope and fear, to keep populations complacent or rally them to commit acts of violence. The film inspires the viewer to take a hard look at their own beliefs and ponder whether or not the viewer is just as indoctrinated as those they would call enemies. By painting morality as anything but gray, the nuances of a given conflict are buried and obscured, all in favor of saber-rattling and battle cries, ensuring that a peaceful resolution remains elusive to those who need it most.

While Wizards certainly offers a lot to think about, there are other aspects of the film that don't hold up quite as well. Ralph Bakshi is a legend of animation for a reason, yet while the character designs and backgrounds are sheer works of art, the animation quality tends to wildly fluctuate from good to bad and back again. The voice acting is also relatively hit-or-miss and the plot completely falls apart when viewed as anything other than a surrealist parable on the dangers of indoctrination. It's definitely a cult film for a reason, as I could very easily see someone not picking up what the film is putting down. Personally, I was somewhat lukewarm on it at first, yet I find myself loving and respecting this film more and more the more I think about it. While it's not for everyone, Wizards is most definitely a well-crafted, thoughtful, and thoroughly bizarre work of art that has earned its place of recognition in the annals of animation history.

REVIEW: The Texas Chainsaw Massacre (1974)

As time goes on, movies are going to end up looking better and better. It's an inevitable side-effect of technological progress and, while such progress may sound like an objectively positive thing, I can't help but feel that some things may be lost as our films become cleaner, brighter, and all-around better looking. Take for example one of the granddaddies of the slasher genre, Tobe Hooper's The Texas Chainsaw Massacre.

Inspired loosely by the real-life story of serial killer Ed Gein, the story follows a van full of twenty-somethings as they drive across Texas to visit a family grave. There have been mysterious reports of vandalism and grave-robbing, so Sally Hardesty (Marilyn Burns), her crippled brother, Franklin (Paul A. Partain), and three of their friends (Allen Danzinger, William Vail, and Teri McMinn) decide to take the ride to investigate the scene and make sure their grandfather is still in the family plot. After a tense encounter with a disturbed hitchhiker, the group decides to visit the old Hardesty family homestead; they poke around and trespass like the meddling kids they are, attracting the attention of a disturbed family of cannibals. As one might expect from a classic slasher flick, the kids are picked off one by one until the lone survivor is left to make a tense and daring escape.

The first thing that struck me about this movie is the overall look of it. Visual style is a tremendous aspect of what makes this movie work so well; it was made on a budget of only $300,000 (just under $1.5 million by today's standards), utilizing relatively unknown actors who were local to the area in which it was shot. There's not a lot of spectacular special effects or gore, the music is mostly ambient, and everything from the props to the film itself has this grainy, gritty feel to it. It's a very low-key kind of horror movie (compared to more bombastic fare that would follow, your Nightmare on Elm Street or your Friday the 13th), and that really helps to establish a strong sense of tone and atmosphere. Much like Alien, this is a horror film that succeeds mostly because of how it is able to immerse the viewer in the events that are playing out on screen. However, unlike Alien, The Texas Chainsaw Massacre is so scary because it feels like a story you could very well see on the news tonight. This movie is for roadtrips what Jaws was to summertime trips to the beach.

This is also due (in no small part) to the wonderful performances of Gunnar Hansen, Jim Siedow, and Edwin Neal as Leatherface, Old Man, and Hitchhiker. These aren't your usual scenery-chewing loonies you often see in the psycho-hillbilly genre; they come off like actual disturbed individuals, taking sadistic glee in the atrocities they commit. They manage to display the requisite amount of crazed energy you might expect, but they stay just reserved enough to come off as starkly believable. It's this delicate bit of nuance and reservation that makes the whole thing that much more real; they remain a lot more coherent and "in control" than the usual on-screen psychopath, and that extra touch makes their actions all the more disquieting. 

By the same token, the film comes off very much like a cautionary tale about the dangers of unchecked industrial growth. As Hitchhiker explains, new advances in technology led to large-scale layoffs at the local slaughterhouse. As a result, the lower, working class is forced to (literally and figuratively) eat each other to survive; industry has abandoned them and now they are forced to survive by doing the only thing they know how to do. Once our gang of youthful yuppies trespass on the family's property, their fate is sealed. The oppressed become oppressors in their own right, reducing those whom they deem more fortunate to nothing more than meat in a similar (albeit more visceral) way that they themselves were taken advantage of by big business. Horror films have a wonderful way of discussing serious issues of manmade society and human nature by way of copious bloodshed and horrendous acts of violence, and that is specifically why I adore this genre the way I do.

Despite the grainy look of the film and the thoroughly 70's wardrobe of the cast, The Texas Chainsaw Massacre is very much a timeless classic of the horror genre. It's a shining example of how restrictions and reservations can help elevate a film to unseen heights. A slasher film in which the main killer uses a chainsaw doesn't exactly come off like the most low-key concept, but it's this subversion of audience expectations that helps sell the unsettling realism that makes this movie work. Even the brilliant, climactic chase doesn't play out as you'd expect; everyone's limping along, it's framed in a long shot, and yet you're able to cut the tension in the air with a steak knife. It's a horror film that isn't afraid to slow down and linger on itself, rather than attempting to create a synthetically scary situation. It simply lays its cards on the table and invites you to be terrified, and that works surprisingly well.

REVIEW: Suspiria

Suspiria is a film, like Sleepaway Camp, that I had heard touted as essential viewing for any fan of the horror genre, one of the most frightening films ever made. Having witnessed it firsthand for the first time, I can't exactly say I'm disappointed. Released in 1977 and directed by Italian giallo filmmaker, Dario Argento, Suspiria is most definitely effective, if not consistently coherent.

The story focuses on Suzy Bannion (Jessica Harper), an American ballet student pursuing further education at the illustrious Tanz Dance Academy in Germany. Following her arrival, Suzy begins to notice a number of strange occurrences; after a string of murders, she begins to suspect that all is not what it seems at her new school, and that something much more sinister may lurk behind the walls of the aging academy. To be perfectly blunt, the plot is not this film's strongest suit. While the pace hardly ever drags, plot points are introduced whenever it's convenient for the story and the progression of events is not always the easiest to follow. There's a good deal to nitpick in regards to the plot (the most glaring flaw being an exposition dump involving a psychiatrist near the beginning of the final act), but this is not a film that is famous for its story. To focus on the plot of Suspiria would be the equivalent of focusing on the sense of realism in Army of Darkness. That is to say, anyone who focuses on the plot of this movie is completely missing the point.

The thing that makes Suspiria such an effective horror film is its aesthetic. Everything from the set design to the color to the soundtrack (care of the band, Goblin) works in tandem to keep the viewer in a constant state of unease. It was one of the last feature films to be shot in Technicolor, and the process lends everything a vivid, sometimes garish, quality. It feels like something out of a nightmare; primary colors (particularly red) seem to pop out of the screen, and the lighting can shift tones and hues at any time. There's abundant manipulation of darkness and shadow, so you're never quite sure where someone or something might be lurking. The cinematography helps sell the scares, as tight angles instill a feeling of claustrophobia and paranoia. There's no telling what could be waiting just outside of the frame (rest assured, the film knows this is a concern of the viewer and exploits it wholly).

It would be impossible to talk about this movie without mentioning the sound design. This is easily one of the best horror scores I've ever heard, providing just the right tinge of unease to the atmosphere. The gentle chimes, backed by sinister vocals and chants, can become deafening at times. In a stroke of genius, the film makes it impossible to not take note of the score; this makes it all the more unsettling when we are met with total silence. The movie actually trains the audience to fear a lack of sound. Before the end credits roll, silence becomes the most sinister, suspicious noise of all. I've always believed that the key to good horror is the ability to manipulate the viewer's expectations; to, over the course of the film, condition them to subconsciously fear specific subtleties. Suspiria is a film that demonstrates its mastery of this concept with aplomb.

If there's one thing I must criticize the film for (aside from the plot), it's the ending. The mystery presented is an engaging one; the film enchants you with its dreamlike qualities, it makes you want to know what's going on. The result isn't disappointing, per-say, but I didn't find the climax quite so terrifying when compared to the rest of the film. Make no mistake, the tension is thick and the suspense is killer, but, as the American tagline for the movie said, "the only thing more terrifying than the last 12 minutes of this film are the first 92". The scariest scene by far happens within the first fifteen minutes; it's a haunting, iconic sequence, but the climax just didn't feel worth the incredible amount of build-up during the third act. I would recommend going in with tempered expectations; it's well-done and will certainly send a chill down your spine, but I can't help but find it a tad anti-climactic.

If you're looking for a horror film that will play with your senses and envelop you in its distinct atmosphere, you'd be hard pressed to find a better candidate than Suspiria. It's no wonder that this film is considered a classic entry in the genre; I honestly can't think of anything I could even compare it to. It manages to be unorthodox and incoherent, yet it's still able to hold your attention and leave its mark thanks to the engrossing visual style (backed up by the chillingly enchanting soundtrack). If you consider yourself a horror hound like myself, you owe it to yourself to check this one out. There's also talk of a remake, to be released next year. I'm rarely keen on remakes as it is, but this is a film that is defined by the style of the era it was made in. It's the epitome of pointless; take if from me, the spine-chilling original is the only one you'll ever need. 

REVIEW: The Star Wars Holiday Special

The Star Wars Holiday Special is the kind of thing that honestly sounds like a joke the first time you hear of it. Why wouldn't there be a Star Wars Holiday Special? It's just a stupid enough idea that it has to be real; sure enough, in November of 1978, the world was introduced to Chewbacca's family by way of an utterly baffling television event that appears to be the product of every ounce of cocaine the decade had to offer.

The special operates around the framework of Chewbacca (Peter Mayhew) attempting to return home to his family on Kashyyyk for Life Day, a non-secular Wookiee holiday that can be marketed to Star Wars fans of all creeds and religions. While his wife, son, and father wait for Chewie to arrive, viewers are "treated" (I can't put enough quotation marks around that word, so I won't even try) to a number of variety show-style segments. There's an alien cooking show (hosted by Harvey Corman), an art-deco space circus, an android instructional video (hosted by Harvey Corman), a performance by The Jefferson Starship, a look inside the Mos Eisley Cantina (starring Bea Arthur, but featuring Harvey Corman), and many more. Each of these segments is about ten minutes longer than it has any right to be; this is saying something, considering most of these segments are about five minutes long. It's just such an awful premise. When one hears the phrase "Star Wars Holiday Special", a number of things come to mind (most of them completely idiotic). One would hope that, if this special positively needed to exist, the creators would take the absurd "He-Man and She-Ra" route. Something involving the cast of Star Wars all uttering the phrase "CHRISTMAS? WHAT'S THAT?", a plot where Darth Vader tries to stop Santa Claus from bringing joy to the galaxy, and maybe Han Solo ends up delivering presents in the Millennium Falcon; something that, while awful, is at least so absurd that it becomes entertaining. What we got instead basically amounts to "Wookiees watch directionless skits on various monitors with Art Carney for over 90 minutes, not including commercials".

It honestly makes you wonder, what kind of diseased mind came up with the segments found in this special? Who sat down with the intention of writing an entertaining comedy sketch for the whole family, only to end up with a sequence in which an elderly wookiee watches virtual reality porn starring Diahann Carroll? Or perhaps this was written by some unfortunate, yet altogether sane soul who was simply forced into a position of having to deliver a finished script, the first twenty or so pages consisting of nearly nothing but remixed animal noises? The mystery isn't why The Star Wars Holiday Special exists; Star Wars was (and still is) a cultural phenomenon. It makes perfect sense that such a profitable property would be milked dry in any way possible, no matter how ridiculous. No, the real question here is why did the people who made this decide to make it... like this?

Now to be completely and totally fair, I will say this; the special is not entirely without worth. Aside from satisfying my morbid curiosity and being generally fascinating in a horrifying, circus sideshow kind of way, there are a few bits here and there that I actually appreciated. First off is a cartoon animated by Canadian studio, Nelvana. While the short itself is nothing to write home about (considering it looks like a budget kids' show version of Heavy Metal), it's worth noting that it was this special which featured the totally canon first appearance of Boba Fett. To be frank, Boba Fett does way more in this shoddily animated short than in Empire or Jedi combined; while he's essentially reduced to the role of a Saturday-morning villain of the day, it's fascinating to think that one of the most popular Star Wars characters of all time got his start in something as ridiculous and infamous as this special.

If I had to name a part of this special that isn't quite as awful as every other part, I'd definitely have to go with the segment taking place in the cantina in Mos Eisley. Bea Arthur appears as the gruff, singing bartender who serenades her drunken patrons after the Empire imposes an immediate curfew on the entire planet. The only reason the bit works at all is directly due to Bea Arthur herself; it seems that she and Harvey Corman are the only people actually trying here. For most of her screentime, she's working off of extras in mute, emotionless alien costumes. It's like a bizarre one-woman show that actually manages to be somewhat engaging and heartwarming, all because Bea Arthur is just giving it her all. I think it's important to let what I've just said sink in for a moment; out of all the segments in The Star Wars Holiday Special, the best moment is the Bea Arthur musical number with all the puppets. If a Bea Arthur musical number is the best thing your special has to offer, it's probably a reasonable idea to scrap everything and start over. Or just scrap everything and never try anything remotely like this ever again.

With all this talk of wookiees and Bea Arthur and Harvey Corman, one would be forgiven for forgetting that the actual stars of Star Wars make appearances here. We have Mark Hamill as Luke Skywalker (obviously recovering from his tragic car accident, as he's positively caked in makeup), Carrie Fisher as Princess Leia (who appears to be riding high on literally every illicit substance under the sun), and Harrison Ford as Han Solo (who really wishes he was anywhere else). Peter Mayhew, Anthony Daniels, and Kenny Baker appear as Chewbacca, C-3PO, and R2-D2 as well, and I feel as though the only reason we can't see their shame is because they are for the most part obscured by their costumes (though there is a legitimate kind of sadness to be found in Mayhew's eyes).

The Star Wars Holiday Special is a genuine curiosity to me. It's objectively terrible in every way, yet I can't not recommend it. It's just too insane, something that must truly be seen to be believed. It's the television equivalent of those Silver Age comic books where Superman fights Mohammad Ali; someone decided that there was money to be made, so common sense was thrown clean out the window. It's just so mind-bendingly stupid, to the point that it's almost kind of amazing. If you consider yourself a real Star Wars fan, you owe it to yourself to mix up a strong glass of eggnog and give this baffling, confusing, absurd thing a watch at least once.