Boris Karloff: The Man Behind the Monster

So many horror icons were actually, kindly genteel men. Karloff was truly a perfect example. He was the Frankenstein Monster, the Mummy, the Fu Manchu (for better or worse), and the Grinch. Everyone should already be a fan and their appreciation will increase after watching Thomas Hamilton’s Boris Karloff: The Man Behind the Monster, which opens this Friday in theaters (just the way Karloff’s films used to).

For many fans, Karloff’s life starts with Frankenstein in 1931. Naturally, that is where the film starts, but Hamilton does a nice job rewinding to cover his early years as a contract character actor and his British-Indian family’s origins and the discrimination they faced after emigrating to the UK. A good deal of time is dedicated to his silent period, including The Bells, arguably his first horror film.

Naturally, the Universal horror movies get a great deal of attention and despite its awkwardness, The Mask of Fu Manchu gets a long analysis and even a bit of a guilty, shrugging defense, for being so over-the-top lurid, in a pre-Code way. There is also plenty of time devoted to the Roger Corman-produced movies he appeared in, especially The Terror (which in true Corman fashion, had no screenplay, but incomprehensibly re-purposed some extra footage he filmed with Karloff) and Targets (Peter Bogdanovich’s contemplation of the horror of the UT Tower shooting, as seen through the eyes of an aging horror star, very much like Karloff).

Hamilton and company also nicely cover Karloff’s Broadway stint in Arsenic and Old Lace, as well as his extensive TV work, including a TV remake of Arsenic and of course, The Grinch. They cover most of his career highlights, including his classic Val Lewton horror movies and Thriller, which some critics still consider the best horror anthology ever. Even The Black Room, the best of his Columbia releases, gets its just credit.

Arguably, the only real omission would be his James Lee Wong mysteries, which have been somewhat unfairly dismissed as “yellowface,” given Karloff’s own South Asian heritage. More importantly, Wong is far and away the smartest and most dignified figure in these films, while the white cops are basically moronic thugs. (Maybe there will be a fuller defense of the series here sometime in the future.)

Li Yu’s Ever Since We Love

It would be much harder to produce this film in China today than it was in 2015. For one thing, it stars Fan Bingbing, who was the first target of Xi’s crackdown on movie-stars, for having movie-star values. It was directed by Li Yu, who faced state censorship issues early in her career. As a capper, it adapts Feng Tang’s sexually explicit novel (a bestseller in HK). However, fans of Fan and the novel should be pleased by the sexy, tragic melodrama of Li’s Ever Since We Love, which is finally getting an American release this Friday thanks to distributor Cheng Cheng Films’ commitment to her work.

Qiu Shui is like the Hawkeye or Trapper John of his 1990s Beijing medical school. The slacker largely cruises through classes, spending more time writing the knock-off Kung Fu novels that pay his tuition than actually studying. In contrast, his classmate girlfriend Bai Lu is a model of studiousness, but Qiu is incapable of properly committing, because he has yet to recover from being dumped by his hometown girlfriend.

One fateful day, Qiu happens to meet Liu Qing, a mysterious older but strikingly beautiful woman—and suddenly all bets are off. Despite attempts to keep his options open with Bai, it is pretty clear he is obsessed with Liu, who equally clearly already has her own share of shady lovers in the picture.

Li and cinematographer Zeng Jian (who lensed several Lou Ye films) shot ESWL like an art film, but the narrative is a weird blend of randy student antics and weepy soap opera fare, sort of like a throwback to 1980’s films like St. Elmo’s Fire and Cocktail. That also makes it an unexpected guilty pleasure.

Skinwalker: The Howl of the Rougarou, from Small Town Monsters

It is Louisiana's native variety of wolfman, so presumably it would taste great blackened with Cajun spices. Unfortunately, according to traditional lore, if you kill one, you assume its curse. Sometimes it is a predator of souls and other times it is a guardian of the natural bayou environment, but either way, you do not want to tangle with one, according to the eye-witnesses in Seth Breedlove’s Skinwalker: The Howl of the Rougarou, which releases tomorrow on VOD and DVD (from Breedlove’s Small Town Monsters).

It has a canine head, but walks on two legs, haunting the swamps, particularly the wetlands of Terrebonne Parrish. Rougarou mythology is inherently tied to the legends of the Houma people but it also explicitly reflects the influence of the Francophone Cajuns. Its very name evolved from the French “loup-garou.” However, the Louisiana Rougarou continued to incorporate mythos of other cultures, such as those of the Micmac people (with whom the Cajuns had been closely allied with), as well as Italian and Haitian immigrants to New Orleans.

The best part of Skinwalker is the way Breedlove and co-writer-researcher Heather Moser trace all the various cultural strands that make the Rougarou so distinctively Louisianan. They also recruited some wonderfully colorful local storytellers to give their personal Rougarou testimony. After listening to them, you’ll be apt to see the Rougarou yourself, if you ever find yourself in bayou country late at night, especially if you are up to no good.

Like Breedlove’s Mark of the Bell Witch, Skinwalker is a cut above the average paranormal “documentary,” due to its facility for presenting the underlying folkloric material. This isn’t the kind of film you would ever watch in a theater, but it is leagues superior to most of uncanny programming you find on Discovery+. Frankly, they ought to make a deal with Breedlove’s STM to bring their regional Americana monster project to the streaming service.

Gunfight at Dry River : Co-Starring Michael Moriarty

You might be surprised how many westerns were filmed in Spain, particular a number of classics generally described as being of the “Spaghetti” variety rather than “Serrano.” In this case, the action ostensibly takes place south of the border, but it was indeed filmed in the old Spanish country. In its decrepit village, water is more precious than gold, but the villainous Ryles family is still looking for the latter anyway throughout Daniel Simpson’s Gunfight at Dry River, which is now available in theaters and on VOD.

Technically, it is more of a dry well than a dry river, but that wouldn’t sound as good in the title. Regardless, the Ryles family, gunslinging Verne, Cooper, and Reid, along with their Bible-thumping mama Etta, have taken over this nameless town and strictly limit the locals access to the well. That would be the well Alonzo Murrieta’s grandfather dug, so the Ryleses can immediately tell it will be bad for business when he rolls into town to reclaim his abandoned ancestral home.

Murrieta and the Ryles Brothers warily eye each other for what feels like forever, while he patches up his grandfather’s old roof and they continue to dig up the town in search of lost gold supposedly buried by a Spanish priest. However, conflict is sure to heat up when Murrieta starts flirting with Clarissa Hawkins, whom the crude Cooper also lusts after. At least her gringo father, John Boone Hawkins, is played by the great Michael Moriarty, giving us someone to watch, but this film is not the best vehicle for his talents.

The crumbling mission-style buildings and the parched landscape make for an effective western setting, but Etta Ryles’ hypocritically moralizing quickly becomes abrasively annoying. Even weirder, Fe Valen’s screenplay suggests the Ryleses are Northern Unionist sympathizers, who are concerned by threats of a Confederate patrol. Hey guys, you remember the Union Army were the ones against slavery, right?

Admittedly, that is a minor, but awkward issue. More fundamentally, Gunfight is just too slow in its slow-burning for its own good. Without question, this is a more stylish and ambitious film than Simpson’s prior horror movies, Hangar 10 and Spiderhole, but its didactic point-scoring against old-time religion and its molasses-pacing undermine the viewing experience.

9/11: Four Flights

If you want to prevent something from happening again, you have to understand how it was allowed to happen the first time. That is as true for Covid-19, despite the CCP’s best cover-up and censorship efforts, as it was for the 9/11 hijackings. On a micro level, we clearly learned lessons from the terrorist hijackings. On a macro level, perhaps not so much—at least not anymore. It is important to remember what happened for many reasons, so History Channel’s special 9/11 twentieth anniversary programming is timely and useful. The fateful hijackings are chronicled and a number of brave passengers and crew are profiled in 9/11: Four Flights, which premieres Saturday (9/11) on History Channel.

It is hard to watch this special, because of the perverse cruelty of fate. There are scores of stories regarding passengers who decided at the last minute to take an earlier or later flight, with tragic consequences. It is important to keep in mind the fourth hijacked flight, United 93, took off just before the first, American Airlines 11, crashed into the World Trade Center. It was also the pre-smart-phone era, when flying necessarily implied disconnecting from media and communications.

As the on-camera experts explain, the airports security systems did not really fail. In fact, they duly flagged the terrorists for extra screening. The problem was nobody properly envisioned a kamikaze-style attack of such magnitude.

Hearing tapes of the air traffic controllers that awful day will give viewers an appreciation for their dedication and professionalism. The same is true of the Air National Guard pilots who were scrambled. It seems like a handful of passengers have received the majority of media attention. We do not begrudge them any posthumous tributes, but it is nice to hear more about some of their fellow passengers here.

INFF ’21: Chico Mario—A Melody of Freedom

Everyone has heard of the girl from Ipanema, but not as many Gringo ears are familiar with the tradition of guitarists from Ouro Preto, in the state of Minas Gerais. João Bosco is one and Chico Mario was another. Both have documentaries that screen (online) during the 2021 Inffinito Brazilian Film Festival—and they both have some lovely guitar playing.

Pedro Pontes’s João Bosco e Aldir Blanc: That’s Partnership is a short doc that features Bosco reminiscing with Blanc, his longtime lyricist, who could be considered his Bernie Taupin. It’s pretty straight-forward filmmaking, but it is great fun for Brazilian music fans to listen to Bosco play some of their songs for his partner—one of which he had not yet heard in its current form.

Alas, Francisco “Chico” Mario is no longer with us, so he deserves a more substantial feature treatment in Silvio Tendler’s Chico Mario: A Melody of Freedom. Perhaps during his lifetime, Mario was somewhat overshadowed by his illustrious brothers, Betinho the sociologist and Henfil the artist. The trio were not just mutually accomplished. They also all inherited the hemophilia that ran in their family.

Mario’s time was limited, but he still inhaled Brazilian music, from choro to samba to classical, synthesizing all his influences within his own songs. Fittingly, we hear several of Mario’s solo performances and several more from Minas guitarists he influenced. Yet, in a something of an irony, the absolute standout musical segments feature the Ouro Preto orchestra playing symphonic orchestrations of his songs. They sound fantastic and they prove just how rich his work is, by transposing it into a radically new setting.

Even though Tendler sometimes lets the talking heads soundbites extend a bit too long, he gives the doc a very cinematic vibe by the inventive way he incorporates striking family photos and motion-comic-style pastel art. As a result, the film is visually pleasing and truly an audio treat.

Rise and Fall: The World Trade Center, on History Channel

It took New Yorkers several years to warm up to the Twin Towers, but when they were gone, we really missed them. The World Trade Center was an engineering feat and a symbol of Western commerce and industry that made them abhorred by the fanatics of social backwardness. The construction and horrifying destruction of the Twin Towers are chronicled in History Channel’s Rise and Fall: The World Trade Center, which premieres tomorrow.

Before he was selected to design the World Trade Center, Minoru Yamasaki’s tallest constructed building was a 20-some-story office complex. The Detroit-based architect never really knew why the Port Authority invited him to bid on the project, but when he submitted his plans, he wowed everyone. Subsequently, his designs changed a great deal, especially to meet the practical demands of building over the conventional 80-story limit.

In fact, some of the most revealing segments explain aspects of the innovative construction process. The truth is there was much to admire about the building’s engineering, which arguably saved a great many lives. Frankly, nobody bothers to address the skepticism of 9/11 conspiracy mongers, like Spike Lee, who fancy themselves armchair structural engineers, after majoring in post-structural literary theory. The idea that fire can twist and deform steel is painfully obvious to them, because they are trained in the science.

However, Rise and Fall raises one construction issue that should have been more widely aired. It turns out the substandard fire-proofing was subcontracted to a reputed John Gotti associate, who was wacked in the underground parking lot during construction.

American Rust, on Showtime

Fayette County, Pennsylvania is classic rust belt country. The historical landmarks include an early 1800’s blacksmith forge, a late Eighteenth Century iron foundry, and Frank Lloyd Wright’s Fallingwater. Buell Police Chief Del Harris doesn’t have much time to visit any of them. He must investigate the murder of a former officer he fired for incompetence in creator Dan Futterman’s American Rust (based on Philipp Meyer’s novel), which premieres Sunday on Showtime.

Harris is doing his best to maintain law and order, while trying to ween himself off the painkillers he has been hooked on, because of injuries he sustained during the Gulf War and his service on the Pittsburgh PD. He is also trying in an aw-shucks kind of way to pursue a relationship with divorced mom and aspiring labor organizer Grace Poe. Her son Billy Poe is not thrilled with the idea, even though Harris has done him some considerable solids in the past, as we will see from the flashback awkwardly plopped down smack-dab in the middle of the first episode.

Eventually, we understand why Harris did not like what he saw when he was called to a crime scene in a rusted-out factory, besides the dead body. That would be Pete Novick, whom Harris very publicly sacked for being a surly opiate-head.

In terms of themes and tone, American Rust is a lot like Mare of Easttown with more substance addiction and less teen pregnancy (or The World Made Straight with slightly more crime-thriller elements). Based on the three episodes provided for the press, it looks pretty clear Harris will have to deal with one darned thing after another (not unlike Showtime’s Your Honor). However, the series’ primary identity comes from its Middle American miserablism.

Despite the angst, Jeff Daniels is seriously impressive as Harris, dipping into his Broadway Atticus Finch trick bag and adding a bit of House MD for extra edge. His brooding is the stuff of high tragedy. He also has some effective halting rapport with Maura Tierney’s Grace Poe. She truly looks working-class and worn-down by life, while still retaining a lot charismatic vitality.

Come from Away, Recorded Live-On Broadway

The international airport at Gander, Newfoundland used to be the great last-chance-for-gas station in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. However, when fuel capacity increased for transatlantic flights, it became an underutilized white elephant—until September 11, 2001. When the infamous terror attack, planned and coordinated by al-Qaeda in Afghanistan, weaponized commercial airliners, 38 international flights were diverted to Gander. Since then, the hospitality of the local Newfoundlanders has become the stuff of legend, inspiring films and a hit Broadway Show. The Tony-winning director, Christopher Ashley subsequently helmed a filmed version of Come from Away (music, lyrics, and book written by Irene Sankoff & David Hein), which premieres Friday on Apple TV+.

This was a special performance, recorded while Broadway was still dark during the pandemic shutdown, featuring many of the original cast-members, with many invited first-responders and 9/11 survivors in the audience, so you couldn’t ask for a more empathetic vibe in the house. As many of us remember, it all starts on an eerily beautiful morning. Like most days, Gander mayor Claude Elliott is at Tim Horton’s, measuring the town’s pulse, when he hears news of the attack. Understanding the strategic location of the Gander airport, he and the entire staff of air-traffic controllers swing into action.

Soon, the entire town is planning to host thousands of unexpected guests, except the striking bus drivers’ union (which is eventually shamed into cooperation by a vote of its membership). Initially, everyone is confused about why they are there and how long they will stay, especially the airlines. However, as the enormity of recent events sinks in, it becomes clear their extraordinary layover will last more than a day.

Some guests, like eco-energy entrepreneur Kevin Tuerff try to make the best of things, but his partner, Kevin (“the other Kevin”) Jung, never warms to Gander’s charm. Much to their surprise, American divorced-mom Diane Gray and British petroleum middle-manager Nick Marson finds themselves flirting together. However, Hannah O’Rourke too preoccupied waiting for news of her firefighter son, but she still finds friendship and comfort with Beulah Davis, a local gander volunteer.

Frankly, Come from Away is an example of a book musical that is arguably too well-written to spawn a breakout hit song. For instance, “Me and the Sky,” the feature number for Captain Beverly Bass (American Airlines’ first female captain, who was already a notable aviation figure in her own right) is melodically catchy and takes the audience on a vivid emotional ride, but it is highly specific to the circumstances of the character and the story. Regardless, it is still a showstopper whenever Tony-nominated original cast-member Jenn Colella performs it (it still gets me every time I hear it).

Every cast-member pulled double-duty, portraying at least one guest and one host, but they all differentiate their roles nicely. Ashley earned his Tony with the lively minimalist staging. It is basically a few chairs and revolving stage. Stylistically, it is somewhat akin to what you might expect from a comedy improv troupe, but it works on Broadway and the dynamic movement of the camera gives the film version a sense of energy that translates surprisingly well to screen. Frankly, Come from Away is much more satisfying as a work of filmed entertainment than Disney’s Emmy-nominated Hamilton.

There is also a greater sense of humanity in Come from Away, thanks to the wonderfully down-to-earth performances of the ensemble. After watching Joel Hatch play Claude Elliott (and several other locals mayors, who look comically similar), I’d vote for him for New York Mayor (honestly, we couldn’t do much worse than de Blasio). Tony LePage is terrific as Tuerff, particularly in a touching scene, in which he revisits a beloved hymn from his youth.

Martyr’s Lane, on Shudder

Little Leah's home life is so awful, the arrival of a ghost almost brings some relief—almost, but not really. Nobody in her family listens to her, so she will be on her own when she makes a ghostly “friend” in Ruth Platt’s Martyr’s Lane, which premieres Thursday on Shudder.

Leah’s father, a parish vicar (his vicarage incorporates the titular sight of a historic massacre), is a reasonably conscientious father, but he is rarely present and available. Unfortunately, her mother is so neurotic, some days she simply cannot function properly. Her older sister Bex bullies her relentlessly, or at least that is how Leah sees it. She could use a friend, so she is receptive when an angelic-looking girl mysteriously knocks on her window. The unnamed girl even has a pair of costume wings.

However, their nocturnal play-dates soon take a sinister turn. Leah desperately hopes to find her mother’s treasured memento that she accidentally lost. Yet, every time the weird little girl gives her a clue through a game of two-truths-and-a-lie, it sends Leah off on a fruitless wild goose chase.

Based on Martyr’s Lane and her previous horror film, it is clear Ruth Platt has a knack for absolutely raking her characters over the coals. The Lesson was much more violent, often viciously so, but in that case, it was teenagers getting brutalized. Frankly, it is a lot easier to take teens enduring violence, because they kind of have it coming, than watching little Leah enduring all kinds of abuse and terror. As a result, Martyr’s Lane can be uncomfortable to watch.

Fire Music: The Story of Free Jazz

When Ornette Coleman introduced his adventurous approach to music, it was the jazz equivalent of the controversial premiere of Stravinsky’s The Rites of Spring. Yet, in retrospect, the emergence of the “Free Jazz” movement seems inevitable, in light of the concurrent rise of post-modernism. Soloists were liberated from strict allegiance to chords, rhythm, and melody, but the jazz audience did not necessarily follow. Tom Surgal chronicles the defining artists and music of the classic 1960s and 1970s Free Jazz era in Fire Music: The Story of Free Jazz, which opens Friday at Film Forum.

Fire Music starts with Ornette Coleman, which makes sense, even though Cecil Taylor’s first free recording predated his by two years. However, moderately adventurous contemporary listeners might find it hard to understand how Coleman’s now classic “Lonely Woman” could inspire such outrage. It is definitely plaintive, but there is a clear sense of composition and an inherent bluesiness to it.

From there, Surgal largely proceeds chronologically, covering Cecil Taylor, Eric Dolphy, Charles Mingus’s more avant-garde experiments, the founding of the Art Ensemble of Chicago and the Black Artists Group, Sam Rivers’ leadership of the loft scene, and John Coltrane’s conversion to the movement, before his untimely death. The film concludes with Sun Ra, who was leading his Arkestra long before many of the free artists came on the scene, but it is hard to follow a man who (convincingly) claimed to hail from the planet Saturn.

As a step-by-step history of free jazz (or whatever else you might prefer to call it), Fire Music covers just about all the important touchstones. Outwardly-inclined artists, like Archie Shepp, Sonny Simmons, Prince Lasha, Carla Bley, Evan Parker, and Arkestra members like Marshall Allen get to have their say in talking head segments. Of course, we would have liked to hear a little bit from dearly departed Eddie Gale, who played with Taylor and Sun Ra, before recording his radical “Ghetto Music” records for Francis Wolff at Blue Note. Figures like Andrew Hill, who played with one foot outside and one foot (or sometimes just a few toes) inside go unmentioned, but you can’t cover everyone.

However, Surgal uncritically incorporates all the rhetoric that argues free jazz is the true sound of the future that was unfairly suppressed by the Young Lions of the 1980s. Yet, the truth is free jazz now sounds just as much an expression of an era past as swing or the Hot Chicago-Style. Likewise, Marsalis and his proteges perfectly represented the tenor of their 80s heyday. The real question is defining what came next. Some remarkably gifted artists like Greg Osby and Jason Moran have tried to build on the avant-garde’s legacy, in a constructive and progressive way, but their music has yet to be codified into a school of its own. For over fifty years, free jazz exponents have proclaimed it the sound of the future, but it is older today than big band swing was when Coleman released Fee Jazz: A Collective Improvisation.

Tango Shalom: From the Bologna Family

Tango is a little bit sad and a whole lot romantic. Rabbi Moshe Yehuda should be able to relate to it. He is still very much in love with his wife Raquel, but they have recently found themselves strapped for cash. A lucrative dance contest might offer a solution, but his faith prohibits him from touching a woman who is not his wife. Rabbi Yehuda seeks guidance from advisors inside and outside his faith in Gabriel Bologna’s Tango Shalom, which is now playing in New York and Los Angeles.

It seems like everyone in Yehuda’s family needs money from him at the same time, but his teaching just isn’t bringing any in. He even ventures out from his Crown Heights neighborhood in search of paid employment, but to no avail. However, he stumbles across Viviana Nieves’ dance studio. Even though he never tangoed before, he has no trouble picking up the steps through the plate glass window. Nieves is so impressed she invites him in for an unconventional touchless lesson.

Can you believe Yehuda has such natural rhythm Nieves would invite him to be her partner when her ex-lover dumps her at the last minute? Why not? We buy into more outlandish gimmicks all the time, but it will be more difficult for the Orthodox Yehuda to accept it. When he seeks the counsel of the Grand Rebbe, his advice is more than a bit confusing, but it does not completely shut the door on the contest. As he wrestles with the issue, the Rabbi encounters the kindly Father Anthony, the strict but respectful Imam Ahmed, and the playful traveling Hindu mystic Ravi Prajna. Each has something helpful to tell Yehuda, but Prajna might have a solution to his dilemma (which is actually kind of clever).

Tango Shalom is definitely a family affair, for both the Bolognas and Laniados. Gabriel Bologna directs a screenplay, co-written by his instantly recognizable late father Joseph (who co-stars as Father Anthony), with brothers Jos and Claudio Laniado, who portray Moshe Yehuda and his younger brother Rahamim. Plus, Joseph Bologna’s longtime wife (and writing partner) Renee Taylor portrays Moshe’s elderly mother, Deborah Yehuda, while Jos Laniado’s daughter Justine plays his on-screen daughter Shira. In addition, Gabriel Bologna’s wife Zizi composed some of the score. Even the longtime Bologna family friend Lanie Kazan (who co-starred with Joe in My Favorite Year) gets into the act as Leah Zlotkin, Rahamim’s prospective mother-in-law.

All the family connections might make the cynical among us suspicious, but in this case, it leads a good deal of on-screen chemistry. This is definitely a family- and faith-friendly movie that has malice towards none and charity for all. Yet, its spirit of inter-faith fellowship actually makes it rather distinctive in the current marketplace. The humor can be a bit goofy, in a G-rated kind of way, but the tango is legit, thanks to Karina Smirnoff (from Dancing with the Stars). Of course, she is appropriately elegant on the dance floor, but she’s not bad in her dramatic scenes with her Orthodox partner. This might be a family film, but the tango choreography does not water-down the sultriness of the dance.

Powder Keg: The 2015 Copenhagen Terror Attacks

During the immediate aftermath of the January 2015 Charlie Hebdo shootings, the entire world recoiled in horror, rightly believing the principles of civil society were under assault. All that outrage and resolve evaporated in a few weeks, so the similar February 14^th and 15^th shootings in Copenhagen went troublingly under-reported and under-analyzed. However, they still left a mark on Danish society, especially for director-screenwriter Ole Christian Madsen and co-screenwriter Lars Kristian Andersen, who had worked with one of the victims. They dramatize those hateful crimes and the days immediately preceding them in Powder Keg (a.k.a. The Day We Died), which is now available on VOD.

Rico is a Copenhagen SWAT officer, whose job-related injuries make his continued service uncertain. Dan Uzan is a Jewish-Tunisian immigrant, currently underemployed as a synagogue security guard, because his last name turns off prospective employers. Finn Nørgaard is a documentary producer, who has been motivated to embrace free speech activism by the Charlie Hebdo mass murders. Omar El-Hussein is a Danish-born street-gang thug, radicalized by Islamists in prison, who has been temporarily releases while his unlikely appeal is pending. (It should be obvious which one Madsen and Andersen knew).

It is also pretty clear how their lives will intersect, but the way Madsen and Andersen meticulously weave together the strands is surprisingly riveting. There is an inescapable inevitability to the narrative (in media res framing), but the vibe of high tragedy compensates for the lack of suspense. By far, the real-life characters of Uzan and Nørgaard, as well as the fictionalized composite Rico are much more compelling characters than El-Hussein. The terror-shooter is not portrayed as a cartoony cliché, but the film makes it clear he choses the path of violence and extremism.

We have seen burnt-out cops before, but Nikolaj Coster-Waldau brings a lot of depth and flawed humanity to Rico. This really stands out as some of his best work. In contrast, Jakob Oftebro, who is also pretty recognizable from Scandinavian imports like Kon-Tiki and 1864, is basically along for the ride as his partner Jan.

The Year of the Everlasting Storm, from Jafar Panahi and Others

Good news Jafar Panahi’s pet iguana Iggy is still living happily in his Tehran flat. We last saw Iggy in Panahi’s This is Not a Film, the banned Iranian filmmaker’s secretly produced film documenting his life under house arrest. Since then, Panahi’s digital minimalist approach to filmmaking became a model for filmmakers stuck inside during Covid lock-downs, so he was naturally recruited as an executive producer and a contributor to the quarantine-themed anthology, The Year of the Everlasting Storm, which opens today in New York.

To a large extent, Panahi’s “Life” effectively functions as a sequel to This is Not a Film, since it shares the same setting and straight-forward documentary approach. Arguably, it is the lightest-weight of Panahi’s films, but the appealing personalities of the Panahi family make it a pleasant viewing experience. More than anything, it is about the family’s efforts to keep in touch during the CCP pandemic. He also rather remarkably ends it on an upbeat note, which radically distinguishes it from the rest of the anthology’s constituent films.

In contrast, Singaporean filmmaker Anthony Chen’s “The Break Away” dramatizes the tensions and frictions that develop when families are confined with each other. Zhou Dongyu and Zhang Yu portray parents locked-down in Tongzhou, China, who are quickly beset by financial pressures and regular couples’ issues. By now, it represents a familiar looking pandemic drama, but it is well played and executed.

Malik Vittal’s “Little Measures” is essentially an extended news report documenting a family separated during the Covid era, for non-Covid reasons, dressed up with some hip graphics. It is well-intentioned, but not very substantial.

For better or worse, Laura Poitras’s “Terror Contagion” certainly sticks out from the rest of the film, like a sore-thumb. The helmer of Citizenfour spent a good deal of her lockdown trying to dig up dirt on the Israeli spyware firm NSO, with her colleagues in the muckraking collective, Forensic Architecture.

They claim to trace NSO’s fingerprints over all sorts of hacking and surveillance, but strictly speaking, they do not present any proof. Perhaps most notably, they claim NSO is complicit in the Saudi assassination of Jamal Khashoggi. If that is true, think about the implications: Saudi government elements working in concert with an Israeli company. Maybe there’s hope for peace in the Middle East after all.

Yet, Poitras and her colleagues make some points a lot of viewers might not want to hear. They discovered NSO has repurposed their software and pitched it to local governments for the purpose of contact tracing. The truth is the pandemic’s potential to erode civil liberties is truly terrifying. Perversely, the ACLU just endorsed vaccine mandates, as “a justifiable intrusion on autonomy and bodily integrity.” At this point, how likely are they to object if state and local government starts contracting NSO’s contact-tracing services? Hopefully, Poitras and company would, which makes “Terror Contagion” valuable just for raising such issues. They just should have made a real case, instead of assuming viewers would take their word for it.

Dead Mountain, on Topic

Kholat Syakhi literally translates to “Dead Mountain,” so it sounds like a super fun location for a winter hike. Nine Russian hikers died on the slope of the Ural Mountain in 1959, but the bizarre circumstances surrounding their deaths and the subsequent secrecy of the Soviet authorities gave rise to a host of conspiracies theories among suspicious Russians. Purportedly based on the declassified files of the latest, new-and-improved investigation of the so-called Dyatlov Pass Incident, showrunner-directors Vaeriy Fedorovich and Evgeny Nikishov address a good deal of the lore surrounding the tragedy, but they never really supply satisfying answers in the eight-episode dramatic mini-series Dead Mountain, which premieres today on Topic.

The hiking party has long been missing when fictional KGB Major Oleg Kostin is summoned from Moscow to investigate, but officially he is not really there. Why would a high-ranking KGB official be assigned to the presumed disappearance of eight provincial students and their thirtysomething guide? Dead Mountain never really explains that fundamental plot point, but it eventually reveals Sasha Zolotaryov, the older man, was in fact a colleague of sorts. (Liam Le Guillou’s documentary Unknown Compelling Force also points out that several of the eight Ural Polytechnic Institute students were studying nuclear power, possibly making them of greater interest to state security.)

The series starts with Kostin’s dogged investigation, filmed in washed-out Soviet color, but frequently flashes back to the chaotic final days of the Dyatlov expedition, rendered in a black-and-white that often evokes the style and vibe of vintage Soviet cinema. Kostin is aided by Ekaterina Shumanova, the medical examiner, who maybe not-so-coincidentally happens to be the widow of Kostin’s old Red Army buddy. In fact, the guilt he carries from the great war might have a direct bearing on his investigation.

As they tease out the truth, we watch the Dyatlov Party encounter angry bears, the hostile indigenous Mansi people, terrible weather, mysterious lights in the sky, and a fugitive from the nearby labor camp. They are also distracted by love triangles and revelations Zolotaryov might not entirely be what he presents himself to be. Some of the Dyatlov mythology will be half-explained away, but a dark supernatural mysticism hangs over the entire incident.

Admittedly, the gulag’s fugitive-hunting KGB squad are nasty pieces of work, but the series itself largely presents the official story uncritically, sort of like if Oliver Stone’s JFK had endorsed the Warren Commission Report. In terms of drama, the long, drawn-out demise of the Dyatlov Party reaches the point of being downright punishing. You have to start face-palming each time one of the students is talked about of turning back. Seriously, you’re hiking on Dead Mountain, it’s snowing, and there are armed goons from the gulag running around the slope. What could go wrong?

Yakuza Princess, from Brazil

Brazil is home to the largest Japanese population outside of Japan, mostly concentrated in Sao Paulo and some of the rural provinces. That makes it a logical place for the daughter of the assassinated Kawa Yakuza clan leader to hide in plain sight. Initially, Akemi does not know of her heritage, but she will learn soon enough when killers come looking for her in Vicente Amorim’s Yakuza Princess, which opens Friday in select theaters and on-demand.

Akemi has just turned twenty-one, so she stands inherit the Kawa mantle, such as it is. However, her kendo sensei and surrogate father has kept her in the dark regarding her Yakuza legacy. As we see in the prologue, her father’s rivals viciously gunned down the entire family. Only his lieutenant Takeshi survived by conveniently (but suspiciously) switching allegiances, and as an infant, she was also somehow lost in the shuffle.

Suddenly, the Osaka underworld is highly interested in the Liberdade neighborhood in Sao Paolo. In addition to her, the rival Yakuza clan is looking for a rare Muromachi samurai sword. So is a mystery gaijin referred to as “Shiro” in the credits. He has amnesia, but questions about the sword still resonate for him. Weirdly, he has a habit of showing up just in time to help Akemi even the odds against her attackers, even we (and mostly likely he) can assume his original business with her was drastically different.

Seriously, how can you go wrong with hack-and-slash Yakuza action in Brazil? Amorim certainly doesn’t, adapting Danilo Beyruth’s graphic novel (with a battery of co-screenwriters). His action sequences are slickly stylish, ranking up with the films of genre masters like Kitano. Amorim has a good affinity for the history and tradition of the Japanese Brazilian community, having previously helmed the excellent Dirty Hearts. In Princess, he adds the violent genre sensibilities of Mottorad (fortunately, we cannot see much of his stylish but muddled English language film, Good).

Japan Cuts ’21: Wonderful Paradise

For Shuji Sasaya, home is not where the heart is and he is definitely not the king of his castle—especially since he was forced to sell his inherited McMansion to cover his gambling debts. None of the other family cliches apply to the rest of the Sasayas either, but at least they all get together for one last bash at the old family home in Masashi Yamamoto’s relentlessly bizarro Wonderful Paradise, which screens as an online selection of the 2021 Japan Cuts Festival of New Japanese Film, at the Japan Society.

Nobody is happy about moving, even though none of the family has particularly fond memories of their time in the luxurious house. Sasaya’s daughter Akane tries to make some at the last minute by inviting the entire internet for a BYOB blowout. It doesn’t take long for pretty much everyone to show up, including her estranged mother, Akiko.

What starts as a party morphs into a matsuri festival fused with a rave. Good taste and any sense of realism quickly gets tossed out the window. Buckle yourself in for a Bollywood-style musical number, a Buddhist funeral using the local dealer’s pot for incense, a blood-soaked (but not fatal) same sex wedding, the ghosts of the Sasaya grandparents, a pop-up café with a coffee bean straight out of Little Shop of Horrors, and a boy who weirdly turns into a stick (sort of like what happens to Josie Packard in Twin Peaks, but we’re not supposed to be disturbed by it here).

The last part is a good example of the film’s tonal issues. Yamamoto and co-screenwriter present it all as good crazy fun, but a lot of what happens is really dark and twisted. It is also pretty difficult to care about any of these characters, except maybe Akane (and there is an outside chance for her nebbish brother Yuta).

Japan Cuts ’21: Mari and Mari

Norio’s rebound arrived suspiciously fast—like supernaturally so. He just found a new Mari in his flat, in place of his old Mari. Unlike Dick Sargent on Bewitched, he can tell she is not the same person, nor does she claim to be. Norio tries to figure out what-the-heck in Tatsuya Yamanishi’s Mari and Mari, which screens as an online selection of the 2021 Japan Cuts Festival of New JapaneseFilm, at the Japan Society.

For extra irony, Norio works for a casting agency. He thinks he lives happily with Mari Tanabe, his girlfriend of three years, who works at a bookstore. However, when he comes home one night, she is not there and nowhere to be found at her regular haunts. Then one night he comes home and finds Mari—the other Mari. She does not know why she is there, but she just feels compelled to be there.

First Norio freaks out and then slides into an angsty funk. He keeps throwing Mari II out and then letting her come back. Despite some fantastical elements, it is hard to figure just what Mari and Mari is. It is extraordinarily moody, but it lacks the mysteriousness of Richard Ayoade’s The Double. You can sometimes think of it a Vertigo without the suspense (and vertigo), but it is really more of a deadly serious spin on a Hong Sang-soo film like Yourself and Yours.

Japan Cuts ’21: To Sleep So as to Dream

It  was a retro silent movie about silent movie stars. How did this not get a big re-release push after Michel Hazanavicius’s The Artist won Best Picture (despite some subsequent blowback, it really is a great film)? Director-screenwriter Kaizo Hayashi’s vision is playfully twisty, in an almost Borgesian way. A crime has been committed that is surrounded in a greater mystery, but the Uotsuka Detective Agency is on the case in Hayashi’s To Sleep So as to Dream, which screens in its freshly restored glory as a classic selection of the 2021 Japan Cuts Festival of New Japanese Film, at the Japan Society.

Madame Cherryblossom, a Norma Desmond-like grand dame of Japanese silent cinema, hires Uotsuka and his apprentice Kobayashi to recover her kidnapped niece Bellfower. However, “M. Pathe and Co,” the criminal organization that abducted her is so cagey, they only leave a riddle as to where the ransom money should be delivered. Unfortunately, every time the Uotsuka Agency gets close to recovering Cherryblossom, the M. Pathe magicians snatch her away—and increase the ransom another one million yen.

Technically, TSSATD is not a true silent. There are plenty of foley effects and incidental music. We can also hear characters voices, when they have been pre-recorded, as with the kidnappers’ initial reel-to-reel ransom tape. However, when characters speak face-to-face, we must read it in the intertitles. This is a somewhat eccentric approach, but Hayashi makes it work.

His wonderfully nostalgic noir visual style is a major reason why. Aesthetically, TSSATD is perfect for admirers of Guy Maddin, because it has the same darkly dreamy vibe. It is a world where gumshoes and stage magicians rub shoulders, while watching samurai in the hazy film-within-a-film. Cinematographer Yuichi Nagata makes all look suitably mysterious and nocturnal, while the mise en abyme movie shimmers with mystery.

Japan Cuts ’21: The Great Yokai War—Guardians

He is a cult favorite among kaiju enthusiasts, but he is relatively under-represented on screen. There is his original 1966 film trilogy and his 2010 reboot series, but mighty Daimajin never had to duel it out with Gamera or Rodan. Takashi Miike partly rights that wrong by pitting him against a ticked-off collective of yokai (mythical Japanese spirits and demons) in The Great Yokai War: Guardians, which screens again the old-fashioned way during the 2021 Japan Cuts Festival of New Japanese Film, at the Japan Society.

You need no familiarity with Miike’s The Great Yokai War of 2005 to fully enjoy Guardians, just an appreciation of the various traditional yokai. Many of those mythical entities apparently originated in the Fossa Magna rift and they have melded themselves into giant “Yokaiju” ball with the intention of barreling back into the sea. The problem is Tokyo is right smack dab in its path. In addition to causing horrendous destruction, it would release a primordial monster currently held in stasis beneath the city. Everyone coyly refers to it as “you-know-who,” clearly implying he is a big-name kaiju, whom Miike and the Kadokawa could not acquire the usage rights.

Frankly, some of the yokai are inclined to watch the world burn, but others would rather save it. To do so, they need to recruit a descendant of legendary samurai Watanabe no Tsuna to sacrifice himself to the mighty Daimajin. Scaredy-cat Kei Watanabe is not inclined to step up when they pull him into their parallel fairy world, but he gins up his courage to save his younger brother Dai, after he is tricked into being a replacement.

The Yokai (including outliers the Yeti, Cyclops, and Frankenstein Monster) are wonderfully bizarre and often gleefully over-the-top, but the kiddie melodrama can be more than a little too whiny and neurotic. Miike often has trouble establishing the right tone for his “family films,” like Ninja Kids!!!, but it is especially true here.

Japan Cuts ’21: KIBA The Fangs of Fiction

The Japanese publishing industry is more horizontally integrated than here in America. There, the line between book and magazine publishing is so porous, first serialization often comes baked into every big book deal. Japanese publishing houses still maintain literary journals to showcase their prestige authors, but diminishing ad revenue and circulation are just as challenging for them as they are for American periodicals. Nevertheless, a roguish editor shakes up the business with some unconventional signings in Daihachi Yoshida’s KIBA: The Fangs of Fiction which screens live-in-person today, as part of the 2021Japan Cuts Festival of New Japanese Film, at the Japan Society.

Kunpu is the prestigious literary journal of the Iba family’s media empire. Trinity is their other one. That is the one Teruya Hayami edits. Trinity was thought to be on its last legs, but when the publishing patriarch passes away, the resulting uncertainty presents opportunities for a sly dog like Hayami. He starts by poaching Kunpu’s unappreciated junior editor Megumi Takano.

With her help, they sign the debut novel of Sei Yazawa, a Michael Chabon-ish hipster postmodern thriller writer. They also steal away Kunpu’s celebrated but lazy star author Daisuke Nikaido (think Norman Mailer in the 1980s) for his first manga. Really thinking outside the box, Hayami approaches model Saki Joshima to publish her secret Tarantino-esque hard-boiled fiction. However, the real coup would be snagging something from a legendary Salinger-like literary recluse.

It turns out two of the best films ever about the publishing industry are both Japanese. This is one of them. Yuya Ishii’s The Great Passage is the other. Yoshida mixes sly workplace comedy with some surprisingly dark twists and turns, but somehow his tonal shifts are not as jarring as they might sound. It is not exactly a thriller per se, but one darned thing definitely happens after another.

No Man of God: The Bill & Ted Show

One could make a good case celebrated FBI profiler Bill Hagmaier deserves a share of the royalties from books and movies like Silence of the Lambs and The Alienist. He was one of the first to pick the brains of serial killers to glean insights to help catch serial killers, starting with one of the most notorious predators ever: Ted Bundy. Amber Sealey dramatizes the Bill & Ted sessions in No Man of God, which releases today in theaters and on VOD.

In 1984, Pres. Reagan launched the FBI’s National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime, which pioneered the profiling techniques that are now so familiar on TV procedurals. Hagmaier was a junior, but up-and-coming special agent. He basically drew the short straw with Bundy, who had expressed endless contempt for the Bureau. Nevertheless, the devout Hagmaier somehow won Bundy over with earnestness.

At first, Hagmaier just tried to engage Bundy to see what he might reveal about the serial killer mentality. Yet, the agent clearly hoped Bundy would eventually confess to more of the murders he was suspected of, giving more families closure. However, time becomes an issue when the governor signs an expedited seven-day death warrant for Bundy.

There is no horror in No Man of God and virtually no thriller elements. It really is verbal cat-and-mouse game, sort of in the moody tradition of Playhouse 90 and Reginald Rose. It is also a better film than the lurid and muddled Extremely Wicked, Shockingly Evil and Vile, but Zac Efron still deserves credit for his go-for-broke performance as Bundy.

Candyman 2021

This hook-handed bogeyman first appeared in Clive Barker’s Books of Blood anthologies, just like Rawhead Rex and paranormal detective Harry D’Amour from Lord of Illusions, but he has proved far more enduring. His fans should therefore be happy to hear his latest film does not reboot jack. Instead, it builds on the original cult classic (but we can’t speak to the two sequels). Ill-advisedly, people keep saying his name in Nia DaCosta’s Candyman, which opens widely tomorrow.

In Bernard Rose’s 1992 Candyman, Helen Lyle was a grad student researching the Candyman urban legends in Chicago’s Cabrini Green housing projects. As part of her research, she and a friend successfully invoked the Candyman by saying his name five times while looking in a mirror. That all really happened in the world of DaCosta’s film, including the bad end Lyle came to.

That is sort of the story Brianna Cartwright’s brother tells at a dinner party to get a rise out of anyone, but filtered through a media lens not privy to the full supernatural truth. However, it is sufficiently compelling to inspire her artist-boyfriend Anthony McCoy to investigate the Candyman urban legend and the remnants of the now “gentrified” Cabrini Green neighborhood, for a series of paintings. Much like Lyle, he becomes obsessed with the lore, which dates back to the original Candyman, Daniel Robitaille, who was lynched in the 1890s. Of course, his new work openly invites viewers to “say his name,” leading to inevitably gory consequences.

You won’t hear any nauseating talk about “toxic fandom” in conjunction with DaCosta’s Candyman¸ because unlike other recent reboot/remakes, she and co-writer-co-producer Jordan Peele understood why the elements and characters of the original worked so well the first time around, so they doubled (or tripled) down on them. The shadow puppetry animation that dramatizes Candyman’s early origins is especially effective at evoking a sense of folk horror. It hard to explain why, but fans of the original star, Tony Todd, should be just fine with this film too.

Be that as it may, Michael Hargrove is all kinds of spooky playing Sherman Fields, the current incarnation of Candyman. According to the film’s backstory, Fields was murdered by overzealous Chicago cops, who unjustly suspected him of lacing candy with razor blades. (However, at least one scene ambiguously clouds that assumption of innocence.) Yet, Colman Domingo (from Passing Strange) outshines everyone as William Burke, a Cabrini Green old-timer who tutors McCoy in Candyman lore.

Despite a plan to avoid “black trauma,” Yahya Abdul-Mateen II does an excellent job freaking out and enduring some pretty gross body horror. (If you’re looking a film with scab-picking, this is your huckleberry.) Unfortunately for Teyonah Parris, she is stuck playing the responsible and boring girlfriend, who refuses to believe any of McCoy’s crazy talk until it is way too late. However, it is nice to see Vanessa Estelle Williams return from the 1992 film, in a pivotal late scene.

Behemoth

According to the Bible, Behemoth is a chaos-monster, who is destined to battle it out with Leviathan. He is thought to resemble a hippopotamus. You won’t really see anything like that here. The creatures are more goat-like, presumably because of the demonic associations. There are plenty of rough beasts and infernal goings-on in Peter Sefchik’s Behemoth, which releases tomorrow on theaters and on-demand.

Joshua Riverton considers himself a whistleblower, but usually that term is reserved for people who come forward with evidence of wrongdoing. He is more of an accuser, who has made charges the chemical company he used to work for is responsible for the mysterious toxins killing his young daughter. Apparently, the corporate Behemoth has really good PR, because Dr. Woeland (dig that name), the snake-like director, is able to spin and stonewall with ease (like the press wouldn’t eat up a good sob story with a big business villain, like pumpkin pie on Thanksgiving).

Desperate for the truth, Riverton confronts Woeland, with his flawed friends, Keelee Crawford and Dominic Wagner. However, when Woeland’s suspiciously strong and intense body guard resorts to violence, the hostile encounter turns into a desperate hostage situation. Technically, Woeland is the hostage, but he seems to be in charge of the situation. He also seems to be responsible for the weirdly trippy, nightmarish visions that start tormenting them.

Sefchik is an experienced specials effects artist, so he gives full reign to his talents creating the sinister creatures and hallucinatory visions seen throughout the film. The monsters are impressive, but the screenplay is laughable. Honestly, the themes and narrative can be somewhat fairly compared to Timothy Woodward Jr’s train-wreck, Checkmate, which is not a good place to be.

Japan Cuts ’21: School Radio to Major Tom & Go Seppuku Yourselves (shorts)

It is sort of like Love Letters for geek culture, but it is an analog throwback, which makes it cooler. Two lonely high schoolers collaborate on a radio drama, despite never meeting. Yet, a connection is still made in Chisaka Takuya’s short film School Radio to Major Tom, which screens on-demand as part of the experimental shorts package offered by this year’s Japan CutsFestival of New Japanese Film.

Those who attend this high school during the day and those assigned to the night shift rarely meet. It is a hard-and-fast social division, but Eisuke Hoshi doesn’t really fit into any cliques. His primary activities involve his solo stewardship of the school radio. As a result, he is quite surprised when his night-time counterpart discovers the tapes of his science fiction serial and starts recording the part of Major Tom in her own voice.

Technically, Takuya never quotes from “Space Oddity” verbatim, but he paraphrases it all over the place. If it was a rights issue, the Bowie estate is being short-sighted, because this is the most potently nostalgic film they could ever hope to have showcase his tunes.

Even though they do not share any proper scenes together, Chka Arakawa and Tokuma Kudo are both terrific as the young radio programmers. It is hard to precisely describe their relationship, but they definitely make it into something.

Fittingly, the film’s grungy VHS-looking really suits the 1989 setting and the analog media that plays such a role in the film. Strictly speaking, School Radio is a teen drama, albeit a rather mature and wistful one, but the science fiction story the characters spin (heavily Bowie-influenced with maybe a touch of Space 1999) gives it extra genre appeal. Very highly recommended, School Radio to Major Tom screens as part of the experimental shorts package (even though it is totally accessible) during this year’s Japan Cuts (and it also screens on-demand with It’s a Summer Film! at Fantasia.

Uruguayan Giallo: The Last Matinee

If you haven't seen Ricardo Islas’s Frankenstein: Day of the Beast, his super-graphic take on Mary Shelley, it is just as well. You can watch it unspool as the film playing within this film’s faded movie palace, while Islas himself plays the slasher-killer. Islas’s movie pretty much s*cks, but there are aesthetic merits to the neo-retro giallo that repurposes it. The brutal killer does in fact wear black patent leather gloves in Maximiliano Contenti’s The Last Matinee (a.k.a. Red Screening), which releases today on VOD.

Ana is an engineering grad student, who is covering for her projectionist father in the booth of this downtown Montevideo borderline-grindhouse cinema. We can tell from the posters on the wall, they now specialize in horror, including Argento’s Opera. Supposedly, the film is set in 1993, yet Islas’s Frankenstein released in 2011, but it doesn’t really matter. It looks like the kind of Euro-dreck you would find heavily edited on Elvira’s Movie Macabre back in the day.

Unbeknownst to Ana, a rain coat-clad killer has trapped the sparse audience and skeleton-crew staff inside the theater, so he can hack them up, one-by-one. That’s the movie for you. The characters are such obvious stock characters, it is almost perversely entertaining to see them fed through the grinder.

What really works is the wonderfully seedy theater setting. Contenti takes us through every room and cranny. He also channels the look and vibe of vintage giallos (perhaps even more successfully than Onetti’s Francesca or Cattet & Forzani’s Amer, but not as entertainingly as the spoof The Editor), even though thematically, it is more closely akin to 1980s slashers. The meta-ness of Islas adds a layer of irony, but his Frankenstein truly looks unwatchable.