Somewhere, Seagal is insanely jealous.
There's a pivotal scene towards the end of Mabrouk El Mechri's surreal 2008 character piece JCVD which finds our titular hero floating casually above the movie set, tearfully recollecting the ups and downs of his impossibly tumultuous career. It's an odd, unexpected moment in this strangely touching film, giving the usually campy Van Damme a chance to flex the acting abilities most of us never believed he possessed. It's at this very moment that you realize Jean-Claude Van Damme is taking this opportunity very seriously, pouring his heart and soul into a project that doesn't reek of lame desperation or single-minded monetary gain. Don't go into this one anticipating excessive action mayhem, cheesy one-liners, or a rapid series of escalating explosions -- all of that has been wisely replaced with depth, humor, and above all else, heart. However, there is plenty of levity on tap, though most of the light-hearted material is contained within the first 45 minutes of the picture. That's because JCVD is neither a bank heist flick -- as the trailers would have you believe -- nor a self-deprecating comedy. If anything, it's an off-beat cinematic catharsis for a man who has been chewed up and spit out by the proverbial Hollywood machine. After this drastic shift in tone, revisiting Van Damme's earlier endeavors should definitely prove interesting. Believe the hype, and give the man his money.
Recipe For Success: Van Damme's Career-Defining Performance + One Enormous Heart + Who Cares? Just Watch It Already
Courtroom Strategy: When your wife's lawyer is ripping you to shreds, don't take an unscheduled potty break.
Spin kick the glasses off his ugly mug, instead.
Stab 'em in the arse.
Since bloody, wannabe balls-out gangster films are as easy to construct as Lego Popsicle sticks, finding a title in this overcrowded genre that has an actual set of functioning testicles is damn near impossible. And if you do manage to locate the aforementioned motion picture within your local rental shop, chances are it features some low-rent hip-hop artist in the lead role and lots of pseudo male posturing, which, as you well know, is never a good combination. Despite having been saddled with a rather unfortunate title, Julian Gilbey's fantastic British mob flick Rise of the Footsoldier readily delivers the sort of old-school underworld thrills Guy Ritchie wishes he could muster on his best day. The film is, essentially, a flashy, blood-and-guts biography of infamous British tough guy Carlton Leach, football hooligan and professional criminal extraordinaire. Although the story treads on the same ground as the Sean Bean crime epic Essex Boys, Gilbey's snappy saga is of a higher caliber than its like-minded brethren, artistically engineered to please those in search of something mildly intelligent, yet unflinchingly violent. Veteran British actor Ricci Harnett understated performance keeps this series of increasingly savage situations cemented in reality, helping Rise of the Footsoldier achieve what other gangster flicks only dream of: mad respect.
Recipe For Success: Several Jaw-Dropping Scenes Of Intense Violence + One Wicked Sense Of Humor + Getting Knifed In The Pooper Has Gotta Suck
Hello, Captain Obvious: After watching this film, I've come to the realization that I'm a hideously gigantic pussy.
Which is why I have a blog.
Mr. Eastwood's neighborhood.
After one single solitary viewing, legendary actor-turned-director Clint Eastwood's powerful 2008 redemption saga Gran Torino has muscled its way onto my list of all-time favorite films, which, I might add, is not as easy as one might initially believe. This surprisingly contemplative tale of one gruff and grumpy widower's budding relationship with his Vietnamese neighbors could very easily have become a geriatric version of the man's hugely successful Dirty Harry franchise had it been dropped into another filmmaker's less than capable hands. Instead of going straight for the jugular, Eastwood smartly aims for the heart, skillfully crafting a handful of endearing, well-rounded characters who are brought to life by an amazing group of talented young actors. And while there are a few scenes which feature Clint going toe-to-toe with a number of violent inner city goons, the film is more concerned with the moral and spiritual aspects of this ill-fated dilemma than delivering cheap visceral thrills. Eastwood, a master of the human condition, strikes a delicate balance between action and drama, intolerance and acceptance, due in part to writer Nick Schenk's tightly-woven script. Gran Torino tackles the new American culture clash in a way we haven't seen before: through the eyes of an aging veteran struggling to cope with a strange, foreign world. More importantly, it proves why Mr. Eastwood is still a cinematic force to be reckoned with.
Recipe For Success: Several Powerful Performances + One Shocking Albeit Suitable Finale + You'll Want To Watch It More Than Once
Get Off My Lawn: If some old guy tells you to leave his friends alone, you may want to seriously consider doing so.
Otherwise he might kick your chubby face in.
The Man will always prevail.
Did you or anyone in your impossibly creepy extended family catch a showing of the independently-produced animated feature Delgo over the past weekend? I didn't think so. According to several articles I've perused over the past few hours, Marc Adler and Jason Maurer's ambitious little fanasty flick is now considered to be one of the biggest flops in cinematic history, grossing an embarrassingly small $511,920 in a whopping 2,160 theaters. The film, which boasts an array of varying talent such as Chris Kattan, Freddie Prinze, Jr., Jennifer Love Hewitt, Val Kilmer, Burt Reynolds, Eric Idle, and the late Anne Bancroft, was apparently a labor of love that, unfortunately, crashed and immediately burned when it came time to present itself to the world at large. Does this mean that Delgo is an artistic failure or atomic proportions? Since I've yet to see the film, I can't really say for sure. What it does mean, however, is that producing, distributing, and marketing your mainstream motion picture outside of the Hollywood machine is an increasingly difficult task to accomplish. More importantly, this depressing set of circumstances prompts us to take a peek at the other films which, for one reason or another, failed to make bank at the box office. Click right here to see what I'm rambling on about. Who knew P2 was such an astonishing failure? Everyone except me, apparently. Now I'm all ashamed and stuff. Thanks.
Don't worry Delgo -- I'll catch you on DVD.
Your mom is probably a tart.
Writer/director Shelli Ryan's 2008 dysfunctional family opus Jake's Closet isn't your typical, run-of-the-mill zombie flick. In fact, I'd be extremely hesitant to lump this thoughtful motion picture into the horror genre at all. Instead of utilizing the living dead for yet another painfully familiar exercise in flesh-munching madness, Ryan uses these iconic creatures as a means to express the trauma, the fear, and the unbridled horror that a messy divorce can inflict on a small, impressionable child. When Jake's mom and dad can no longer hide their venomous disdain for another, the two smartly decide to call it quits. The couple's problems, however, are far from over. As the two of them begin to adjust to the new lives they've haphazardly carved out for themselves, Jake, coincidentally, begins to suspect that there's a zombie living in his closet. Since both parents are too petty and self-absorbed to notice that their son is beginning to lose his mind, the little boy's fears quickly spiral out of control. The film's unconventional use of animated corpses and its admittedly abrupt conclusion may upset those hoping for something a bit more traditional, especially since the film ultimately leaves so many issues unresolved. Jake's Closet is as riveting as it is uncomfortable, powered by a handful of unexpected scares and several finely-tuned performances. Wholly unique and satisfying if you're in the market for something a little off the beaten path.
Recipe For Success: Anthony De Marco's Uncanny Acting Chops + Ryan's Refined Direction + Zombies Will Get You In Trouble
Kids Are Weird: Why do kids like to poke and prod at the busted guts of freshly deceased animals?
And why are they are in my backyard again?
Bowling pins as pelvic speculums.
In case you were wondering, writer/director Ryan Nicholson is one truly twisted individual. His goopy 2008 genre explosion Gutterballs is stacked to the proverbial rafters with all sorts of depraved insanity, the likes of which you're almost hesitant to share with others. If you can bravely wade through the film's needlessly overlong rape sequence, you'll encounter yet another run-of-the-mill slasher picture built upon explicit sex, empty-headed characters, and a plethora of nonsensical situations. Because it exists solely as an audio/visual assault on your gag reflex, chances are you won't appreciate the film's agenda unless you're a no-holds-barred fan of brutally revolting scenes of cleverly inventive murder. The kills range from mildly disturbing to jaw-droppingly putrid -- if you've ever wanted to see how, exactly, skilled surgeons transform a man's penis into a vagina, your wait is just about over. The actors keep the material campy and stupid for the duration, a fact which helps alleviate Nicholson's affinity for shameless, over-the-top perversion. And while I'm quick to recommend Gutterballs to those who consider themselves to be true horror fans, I won't go as far as to say that it's everyone's cup of tea. This is taboo-smashing gore euphoria at its finest, though you may need several piping hot showers afterwards.
Recipe For Success: Slasher Mayhem By Way Of John Waters + Malodorous Make-Up Effects + Suffocation By 69
Ignorance Is Bliss: The next time you go bowling, keep an eye on how many friends you have left.
Double-check the bathroom if anyone goes missing.
Take your money.
Around 30 minutes into the questionably monikered Dooty Brothers' half-assed 2006 urban mockumentary Jigga Jones, yours truly developed the sort of skull-splitting headache one generally associates with a head-on collision between a dump truck and a power scooter. To be perfectly honest, I'm not certain if it was Jiggaboo Jones' neverending stream of expletives, the man's penchant for incoherent rambling, or the overall lack of quality that induced this most heinous cranial painage. What I am sure of, however, is that watching this particular pelicula is not unlike listening to your demented grandfather crudely wax intellectual about the price of electric toothpicks in Zimbabwe. The film is split into a series of overlong skits revolving around the titular character's criminal activities, a curriculum which includes the creation and implementation of makeshift weaponry, car jacking white folks in the drive-thru at McDonald's, and, last but not least, copious consumption of alcoholic beverages whilst displaying a large collection of illegal firearms. I'm sure somebody out there will get this, though I'm almost positive said individuals are currently suffering from multiple drug addictions. Jigga Jones is to African-Americans as Larry the Cable Guy is to Caucasians. Feel free to skip it.
Recipe For Disaster: One Terribly Unfunny Shtick + Dangerous Levels Of Incoherency + ICP Fans Will Probably Love It
All About The Demographics: Maybe I didn't find this flick funny because I am a lame white nerd from Kentucky.
Or maybe it's because I just ran out of activator.
Nothing personal, just business.
About a week before Thanksgiving, a representative from genre-friendly Monsters HD contacted me with a proposal: Pimp their "Thanksgiving Day of the Dead" on my site in exchange for an interview with one of three individuals. Since I really do respect the guy as a make-up effects wizard, I selected Robert Kurtzman. Naturally, I was more than a little hesitant to choose Robert, especially since I referred to him as both "creepy" and "one of the worst scribes working in the genre today" in my review of The Rage. Double ouch. Despite my reluctance, I e-mailed the questions in a timely manner and waited patiently for an interesting response from Mr. Kurtzman. Several weeks later: nothing at all. A kindly inquiry to my Monsters HD representative proved fruitless; the message ended with "We'll be in touch!" which, as you may already know, is basically a thinly-veiled brush-off designed to keep morons like me waiting patiently for correspondence to arrive sometime in the near future. Needless to say, they've pissed me off a little bit. Had I not delivered on my end of the bargain, I could understand why they'd give me the shaft. Whatever the case may be, is a little digital communication really that much to ask for? Perhaps.
Regardless, I'm still pumped about Bump.
Super 8 is uber great.
B. Scott O'Malley's criminally unseen 1997 sci-fi comedy Bleak Future is, quite frankly, mind-spankingly hilarious. Obscure thespian Frank Kowal stars as Slangman, an uppity wasteland junk peddler who believes himself to be humanity's only hope in the bizarre post-nuclear landscape he calls home. His quest: to venture across the endless desert until he locates The Source, a mythological thingamabob which may or may not contain the holy grail of human knowledge. Along the way, he'll enlist the services of a tongueless savage and a would-be actress of questionable intelligence, as well as all sorts of deranged mutants, beat poets, and bald megalomaniacs. Every single gesture, facial expression, line of campy dialogue, and hideous mutant freak contained within this gloriously over-the-top motion picture is exaggerated to the point of absurdity, turning even the most mundane situations into giddy cinematic bliss. Kowal, of course, is the secret to the film's success; the man's ability to comically distort his face is second to none, recalling those bygone days when Jim Carrey wasn't in it strictly for the paycheck. Bleak Future is as close to brilliant as no-budget sci-fi comedies can get. At any rate, it's a hell of a lot better than The Postman. If you enjoyed Bad Taste, you'll probably die masturbating over this one.
Recipe For Success: Snazzy Make-Up Effects + O'Malley's Tromafied Direction + Dystopia By Way Of Monty Python
In The Future: Egg beaters are very important objects.
See, I told you so.
Cyclic assassination disorder.
For most people, the idea of a repetitive, back-tracking, David Lynchian film noir may seem a bit too much to swallow, especially when said concept is littered with moody camerawork, overlapping plot points, and a slew unnerving visuals. Shawn Linder, who makes his directorial debut with the captivating 2007 mind game Nobody, somehow manages to keep all of this craziness in good working order, never allowing his heady tale of one assassin's mind-boggling evening within the bowels of the underworld to completely to sink into the bottomless bog of experimental film. However, the picture is somewhat of a challenge to consume, especially since several key scenes are repeated two or three times over the course of the picture. Linder clearly understands that nobody (no pun intended) wants to see the same thing over and over again; to keep things interesting, the scenes in question are tackled from a variety of different angles to keep you from either falling asleep on the sofa or firing off angry messages to the director on IMDb. Naturally, none of this inspired weirdness would have been possible without the assistance of a sharp group of actors, including veteran character guy Ed O'Ross and the always engaging Costas Mandylor. If you fancy yourself a cinematic maverick and don't mind a few lingering questions, Nobody should pickle your complex little brain perfectly.
Recipe For Success: Linder's Creative Use Of A Limited Budget + Creative Camerawork + Blind Old Ladies Scare Me
An Intriguing Question: If you're unexpectedly shot by your other self, is it still considered suicide?
These things are important, you know.
Moontrap isn't that bad, you know.
The good news: Bruce Campbell's enormously entertaining self-deprecating horror/comedy My Name is Bruce -- which finds our titular real-life hero battling a blood-thirsty Chinese God in Smalltown, America -- should help you forget all about The Chin's last directorial endeavor, namely The Man with the Screaming Brain. The bad news: If you're not a fan of Campbell's work, in particular the Evil Dead series, chances are this unruly little farce isn't going to elicit anything but mild irritation and sudden outbursts of crude, vulgar language. Then again, if you're not a fanatic follower of Campbell's career, you probably shouldn't bother with this one to begin with. Most of the jokes, of course, are aimed directly at Campbell, who uses this oddball opportunity to poke fun at his rabid legion of pasty, basement-dwelling admirers, the proverbial Hollywood machine, and, most importantly, himself. Campbell pulls absolutely no punches when it comes to bashing his own body of work; Cave Alien, as mind-numbingly campy as it sounds, could easily be in development somewhere within the bowels of the Sci-Fi Channel's low-budget headquarters. My Name is Bruce marks a return to form for Campbell, proving once again why he's the undisputed king of B-grade silliness.
Recipe For Success: Bruce Campbell's Raging Ego + Ted Raimi In Three Separate Roles + MILFs Love Them Some Ash
One-Liners Galore: If you enjoy quoting movies, be sure to keep a pen and paper handy at all times.
Bruce loves to hear them over and over again at horror conventions.
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