More
Writers in Peril
by
Kristin Battestella
Once again it's time to ditch pen and paper as these vintage novelists,
retro reporters, and contemporary screenwriters face murder, ghosts,
aliens, and writer's block. You know, the usual.
Black Butterfly – This
2017 thriller opens with handcuffed to the chair foreshadowing before
vintage typewriters and booze for bearded, graying, and stressed
screenwriter Antonio Banderas (The
Mask of Zorro). The picnics
and missing women are a little piecemeal to start with a driving
montage because of course, but the pleasing greenery, misty dew,
aerial photography, and log cabin pans build the Denver outskirts, no
reception isolation. This for sale but messy bachelor pad is in need
of repair, our writer can't pay his tab at the country store, angry
phone calls from his agent want him to go along with script changes
or else, and Paul spends more time hunting – procrastinating since
his wife left him in this secluded writing retreat. The fifteen year
age difference between our leading man and lady is cliché, but lunch
with realtor Piper Perabo (Coyote
Ugly) strikes out before
radio reports of murdered women and unexpected road rage. Instead,
Paul offers mysterious drifter Jonathan Rhys Meyers (The Tudors) a hot shower for
his act of kindness, lulling the viewer into a casual tour of the
home amid older jadedness versus young cynicism quiet burn chats. Our
guest cooks, cleans, and makes repairs for free, but saws, axes, and
guns suggest an ominous – Jack swims in the cold pond, his tattoos
are part of the plot, and Meyers is always at his best in such
ambiguous, half-crazed roles. The camera moves with the cast rather
than creating an unneeded, false hectic, but the outdoors are traded
for increasingly congested interiors with filming through railings,
windows, and doors questioning who is on which side of the threats,
slaps, or paranoia. We're suspicious but this handyman is actually
helpful in telling Paul to pour out the bottle and write – a well
cast irony with Meyers' past addiction problems adding to the meta
instead of trite twenty-somethings battling unrealistic frights. This
frank play within a play addresses how dismissed writers often are
with only the title kept as their story changes into cinematic
veneer, winking but not underestimating the audience as our drifter
suggests Paul's write their story with the regrets, embellishments,
and surprises needed of course. Was their meeting pre-planned or are
these hostage threats merely script fodder? Where does what's suppose
to be on the page and the secrets we see diverge? It's just a story
and nothing happens unless the writer says so, right? The ending is
what you make it, isn't it? Natural sounds, blank laptop screen
glows, gunshots, and failed escapes play into the jokes on film
fakery – the ease in hot wiring a car, the time people have to
plead for their lives, inconvenient deliverymen arrivals, or a girl
hurting her ankle on the run. That broken glass to cut those binds is
certainly convenient, and the pieces keep us guessing with attacks
behind closed doors, screams we thought we heard, and gunshots we
thought we saw. The upfront twists don't pull the rug out from under
the audience yet we're invested in the game being played. It's sad
that this impressive cast and its winking frights need a dozen
different film by who, production of, in association with titles at
the beginning because such small thrillers are so financially
strapped when they are often better than mainstream releases. Some
things here may be obvious to shout at the television viewers, but
that overkill is part of the dark satire, keeping this an
entertaining thriller on the art of deception and that onscreen
hiding in plain sight we love so much.
The Nesting – A mystery
writer moves into the spooky mansion of her titular novel with
cluttered bookcases, a typewriter, and tea on the balcony but this
1981 psychological slow burn lays on the fearful staircases,
distorted city streets, paranoia, and agoraphobia. Up close
camerawork and out of body overlays reflect tense therapy and warped
dreams as relaxation cassettes don't help against visions of glam
parties, saucy soldiers, boas, long stem cigarettes, shattering
beads, sweet jazz, and gunshots. Are the familiar mirrors,
candlesticks, verandas, perfumes, and visions just deja vu or
something more? Phantoms bangs, noisy pipes, no phone, and
electricity in only one room add to the stunning architecture
alongside ominous orange lights, great silhouettes, and maybe maybe
not outside looking in windows. There are vintage station wagons and
roadside perils, too. You gotta roll up the car window faster, girl!
Storms, flashlights, old fashioned lamps, and four poster beds make
the patina tangible as objects dreamed of are found thanks to attic
footsteps, dangerous spires, superb rooftop suspense, and fatal
twists. Morbid birds, quality shocks, and lighthearted jokes
alleviate the simmering mood with a cranky handyman and kooky grandpa
John Carradine (Bluebeard),
and there's nudity of course – a lady has to feel herself up in
front of the bureau you know! Unfortunately, Robin Groves' (Silver
Bullet) therapist thinks
ghosts and any quantum physics versus paranormal debates are a bunch
of hooey. Is this hysteria or an interconnected phenomena? Although
the phantom whooshing, stereotypical town creeps, and fiery ghost
fake outs can be laughable amid evident brothel history and old
people who were there scoops; the rough assaults, bloody surprises,
and lakeside terrors invoke wicked ghostly responses. This won't be
anything new for old school horror viewers, but the now doubled
nostalgia accents the eerie mystery atmosphere. The ghostly ladies of
ill repute are out for revenge, and all kinds of shady pieces in this
sleepy inlet puzzle are brought to light. Lengthy chases lead to
creepy farm buildings, pitchforks, sickles, and impressive gore with
freaky spectral revelations coming full circle for a violent finish.
Could
Be Better
A Kind of Murder –
Fedoras, typewriters, newspapers, and record players invoke a
seemingly classy mid century time for writer Patrick Wilson (The
Conjuring) and
his realtor wife Jessica
Biel (The Sinner)
in this 2016 Patricia Highsmith adaptation further accented with
retro skyscrapers, vintage travel, neon lighting, and a sweet mod
house. Unfortunately, there's talk of murders on the radio, the
bookstore sells nefarious brown bag magazines, and back alley stairs
lead to segregated jazz clubs. Cigarettes, swanky melodies, and husky
mellow voices fittingly contrast the pearls, white gloves, pillbox
hats, and concern about fancy shoes getting wet in the snow for an
interesting mix of the changing times. Our would be novelist is
feeling the new sixties with his mod turtlenecks and wanting to do it
in every room in the house – but his cold, porcelain doll fifties
wife won't see a therapist and belittles his stories in favor of his
real architect job and Frank Lloyd Wright references. The Mrs. wears
pink and white like a little girl, and Biel looks out of place in the
fifties dress up, which may be intentional thanks to the character's
diva fakery with a giant bun, false eyelashes, and making bitchy
jealous accusations out of nothing in a rocky four year marriage. The
colorful lighting, bright snow, and interior patinas are well done
schemes reflecting each mood, but the choice reds to signify anything
saucy or scandalous are a little too obvious. The tale also intercuts
between an obsessive, Dragnet
dry
detective making us too
aware we are watching a picture emulating a specific cinematic era
and the more interesting writer using the wife killer crime in the
news for inspiration. Is he fantasizing about how to kill his wife or
just writing a story? Sleeping on the couch, suicide attempts, and
divorce threats lead to guilt tripping traps, suspicious deaths,
juicy alibis, lying phone calls, and too many did he or didn't he
coincidences. Whom do we trust in this murder or suicide shady?
Although the audience might enjoy figuring out how these crimes don't
add up, the uneven pace plays it's hand by revealing the suspense and
drawing out boring casework. The “they know that we know that they
know that we know” yadda yadda loses viewer interest as our would
be writer cum murder suspect chills with his martinis, lying to cover
up his illicit and giving a different story every time he tells it.
He'll act weird but won't get a lawyer because that would mean he has
something to hide, and the cat and mouse drags on until everyone is
chasing their tails. Just because he wanted his wife dead does that
mean he killed her? Or if he walked away from helping her is her
death his fault? The plodding speculation underestimates the
audience, and the who killed their wives and why details, blackmail
confrontations, and questions about whether it is proof or doubt that
seals the deal build to a showdown that runs out of time. This has a
fine noir mood complete with well filmed silhouettes in dark alleys
and a Hitchcockian double chase finale raising tension. However, the
mystery remains run of the mill despite the period flair, and the
ending doesn't quite give viewers the finish needed.
An
Unfortunate Skip
The Dark – Reporter Cathy
Lee Crosby (Wonder Woman
before
Lynda Carter was even Wonder
Woman) kind of sort of
teams up with a psychic and a detective to solve some serial killer
mutilations in this 1979 alien mishmash with a hokey opening scroll
warning of animal defense mechanisms and extraterrestrial chameleons.
Passe music, laser eye beams, and poor voice effects add a slow to
get going old TV movie feeling while that titular near black screen
makes it often impossible to see the back alley attacks. The gay
jokes are lame, the case exposition's wooden, and a white bearded old
boss jumps out shouting “Boo!” just to get his kicks by scaring
our lady reporter. Old lights, green hues, and colorful skylines
going dark build better ominous as a young girl is said to be
beheaded in the creepy morgue as family gags over the unseen victim.
Retro video designs, projectors, and forensic evidence accent
elevator scares, flashlights, and zombie or vampire conjecture –
but wow, fifteen cents for the newspaper and needing to put another
quarter in the payphone before the operator interrupts! The streets
and pool halls look even seedier because of the low budget Los
Angeles realism, but white cops less interested in black crime with
the jive and epitaphs to match their “38 caliber justice” is
unfortunately not dated. One obnoxious ass asks if color can be told
by the alien blood samples, and cranky cops disbelieve the medium
even when they have nothing else. Today audiences are so accustomed
to investigative dramas that this law enforcement seems particularly
stupid – although a captain more worried about family pressure,
public panic, and avoiding media scandal remains all too common. Wise
people counter that obscuring such freedom of the press is wasting
time while the killer strikes again, but the tacked on alien
connection ruins any would be statements. Everyone is so dry and too
much time is spent away from Cathy Lee when she should be our
viewpoint anchor. Choppy editing doesn't know where it is going
between attacks, culminating in a logistically nonsensical shootout.
The fantastic clues and psychic visions are underutilized, and the
drama is better when the spooky, journalism, and law come to a head.
This had potential – I kept waiting for this ninety minutes to get
going – but there's not enough science fiction, horror, or
procedural actually happening.
No comments:
Post a Comment