Contemporary Mothers in Horror

 

Contemporary Mothers in Horror

by Kristin Battestella

There's a difference between depicting scared mothers and daughters facing horror versus just showing the horrors to the audience. Two international tales here placing characterization above scary visuals make for effective familial scares. Unfortunately, the over-stylized American production is more interested in making viewers jump then telling the household horrors.

Matriarch – Creepy creeks and murky swamps begat the concrete city, jogging, and minuscule peaches for Jemima Rooper (Hex) in this 2022 Hulu Original. The first finite sound we hear is the bulimic bitter over the toilet before alcohol and the Monday morning business suit barely hides the drug fueled hookups and unstable drinking alone. A bloody nose, smeared lipstick, an overdose collapse, and black ooze encroaching into the mouth make for a fine mix of realistic consequences and a reaching out from beyond death chilling. Awkward phone calls from her “evil narcissistic bitch” mother Kate Dickie (Prometheus) remind each why they're estranged, and the villagers are frank about never having liked Laura when she returns to her mother's redecorated home. All things pink Mom is looking fancy, too, and their painful history comes out in the shattered tea cups, crushed pills in the pancakes, and recollections of how she called Laura a pig and threatened to tape her mouth shut. One on one conversations layer the character drama while eerie moonlit silhouettes, bruises, and black goo on the pillow and in the panties keep the horror simmering beneath the surface. Mom tells her to drink her water and watches her sleep before dragging the unconscious Laura out to the greenhouse. Rather than some shocking revelation withheld from the viewer, the fountain of youth suspicious is upfront thanks to whispering neighbors, effigies tied to trees, and a spooky book with weird sex symbols. The supple beauty that a woman sacrifices for an ungrateful daughter interferes with the village quid pro quo, and the drunken old minister – part of the lone biracial family going against the spooky happenings – argues with the obsessed townsfolk over these misused old ways. Who's dying, why cancer takes one but not another, and parents gone willing versus those taken too soon anchor the twofer debates. Our daughter wonders if spirits of the deceased still in the black bog revived her while her increasingly adamant mother tries to hit Laura on the head with a plant. The mother nature life, death, worms imagery and earlier, corrupted goddess worship are shrewdly withheld until the finale as smeared, dirty goo and gory rituals reveal how this mother's milk that goes against nature cannot last. Greedy charlatans in any religion are the same – poisoning the hymns, kneeling, and communion with nudity, suckling, flesh, blood, and “squelching” closed captions. Those expecting American horror cliches will be disappointed at this slow burn. However the realistic contemporary characterizations and well paced throwback British folk horror herein deserve more audience attention.

Surrogate – Making sure there are no monsters in the closet opens this 2022 Australian parable. Of course the fun uncle jumps out from under the bed, and it's the best genuine jump scare I've seen in a long time. Unfortunately, our single mother nurse Kestie Morassi (Wolf Creek) helps a freaky retching lady in the car park, and now Natalie's the one in pain, vomiting, and bleeding in bed. Her daughter has to do a video for school on her family tree – an interesting new way to introduce mom, uncle, grandma, dog, cat. There's no dad but the emergency stirrups and bloody gauze point to not just a recent pregnancy but a delivery and family services caseworker Jane Badler (V) wants to know what Natalie has done with the newborn. Rather than wasting time on gory labor horrors, the dialogue gets to what's what. Our nine year old daughter Rose wants to sleep in mom's bed because a girl keeps pinching her and the caseworker spots the bruises – adding real world complications amid the supernatural without any stereotypical ghostly roars coming at the camera. Cutting away rather than showing preposterous action adds to the mystery, and realistic conversations anchor the fears that something else is in the house as their dog is poisoned and someone pushes Rose down the stairs. They spend a few nights with grandma, but more pet perils and ladder mishaps lead to eerie, quiet scares and a tearful funeral where our daughter hides under the tablecloth because “she came with us.” A psychic little girl at the playground interacts with their now phantom, invisible dog. She uses mirrors to see a spirit's true nature, and the audience waits for something to appear as the camera pans across our innocent medium and her flanking reflections. Ava asks our ghost if she will be friends or hurt her and make her look where she shouldn't, and the in camera tension is palpable– no extra shaky shocks or special effects laden filming required. We as audience voyeur have no choice but to see the clinging reflection that makes them scream. Viewers are left to notice her increasing gray hair without any scary emphasizing moment, and we see Natalie watching the news video of a missing girl instead of the footage playing for us. It's creepy how she knocks on the real mother's door feigning car trouble and casually snoops around before being caught in another natural jump scare. Inquiries on if she's a true crime podcaster add horror self-awareness as the foolish investigation realistically fails. Natalie returns to the research, deducing and using her nurse connections – leading to the morgue, an abandoned house, the dark basement, and graffiti answers. Our caseworker says Natalie needs help, but she knows that child services aren't the ones to help her now. Whether it was a low budget necessity or an old school choice, the ghostly hand reaching out and leaving deadly little fingerprints is simple, scary, and effective compared to today's invisible whooshes and womp womp crescendos. Well done foreshadowing recalls where we started as creepy resolutions and warnings to never turn your back on your child escalate to the sacrifices mothers make for their daughters once they promise to never leave them. Several times I thought I had this figured, and it's refreshing that I didn't.

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Umma – Mom Sandra Oh (Grey's Anatomy) does the best she can in this 2022 supernatural tale with time wasting credits eating into the eighty-three minute runtime and disjointed montages showing the happy beekeeping, no electricity life on the farm. Flashes of past electrical torture have relegated old lamps and microwaves to the cellar, leaving only candles during the storms when something ghostly might be sitting in the chair. The nighttime blue saturation, however, is too difficult to see, even deliberately obtuse for the viewer. Rather than really meeting our family in conversation, the forced exposition is cryptic for the sake of it with confusing character motivations. Our clingy daughter is secretly inquiring about going away to college, and Mom has denied teaching her about their Korean heritage because of her claimed allergy to electronics. She's upset when a car approaches – we know because up close cuts to ominous objects and fist clenches hit the audience over the head. Her uncle has brought her recently deceased abusive mother's ashes, but the bumps in the night and past painful pleas were already there before the tainted effigies. The isolated house setting is almost immediately broken with redundant exposition as the handyman arrives to sell their honey online and our daughter rides her bike to his general store so they can again talk about honey and meet his visiting niece. Such outside points of view asking if she really thought her daughter was going to stay there forever are unnecessary, and voiceover echoes repeat dialogue we heard moments before – underestimating viewers while trying to distract us with eerie slow motion and ominous crescendos. We don't need more electrical torture flashes and echoes at every encounter, either. The titular apparitions are just fake outs for the audience, and the overemphasis on beekeeping, honey, and not even actually liking bees never factors into the horror. More incidental spooky vignettes happen just so our mother can tell her daughter nothing is wrong, yet she tells the white man handyman her suspicions while our daughter snoops anyway. It's impossible to tell what is actually part of the story or just a spooky effect, making for an extremely frustrating viewing. By time the daughter demands to be told, her mother just repeats everything the uncle said as if there is no story to the past abuse and her lying all this time. Our daughter turns on the electricity once she realizes her friend had a smartphone that never bothered her mother, but mom insists she doesn't believe in all their cultural robes, ceremonies, and superstitions yet reacts weirdly just as an excuse for more ghostly echoes and eerie zooms. I was ready to tune out in the first half hour and started fast forwarding over the invisible whooshes through the crops before the angry spirit is somehow easily quelled in the final fifteen minutes. The fears of growing old alone and becoming our parents and the strain of the solitary rural living would have been horror metaphors enough without anything ghostly at all. Unfortunately, this does a disservice to the intriguing Korean motifs because it's more interested in being a stereotypical scary movie.

Evil Cats! 😼

Evil Cats. MeowMeowMeow!

By Kristin Battestella

Our cats are avid television watchers, and the sounds and visuals of this feline horror trio amused them as much as me.

The Cat Creature – Amulets, mummies, an empty sarcophagus, and black cats combine for a Val Lewton-esque mood in this 1973 ABC TV movie written by Robert Bloch (The House That Dripped Blood) starring Meredith Baxter (The Invasion of Carol Enders). Retro cars and cool California villas provide hieroglyphics, Egyptian motifs, and eerie crescendos as lawyers assessing the deceased's creepy manor survey kooky antiques and looted collections. Though slow to start, the subdued palette invokes a black and white feeling that highlights the golden statuary and colorful artifacts. Spiral stairs, flashlights, shadows, and feline silhouettes are well done alongside glowing eyes, mesmerized victims, meowing, and hooting owls. A shady “sorcerer's shop” procures creepy skulls and masks, but the ominous Miss Black proprietor has already crossed paths with this crusty police lieutenant and knows to turn away our stolen talisman. The ingenue walking home alone at night, however, encounters kitten deceptions, hisses, and screams. The cops call in archaeology professor David Hedison (Live and Let Die) to assess the missing mummy bones, scratched out Bast symbols, jewel thieves, and human sacrifices said to give eternal life and transformative cat powers. Flirtations lead to an affinity for Egyptology – but not for the alley cats accumulating at the door. Disbelievers mock the Book of Toth mysticism and the coroner's hair evidence claiming a domestic cat is responsible for draining the blood of the victims, but our professor theorizes on why disparate cultures all have shape-shifting folklore and warns of Ancient Egyptians knowing more of the supernatural and science than we can fathom. The amulet clues, grounded investigation, and eerie explanations don't talk down to the audience. Certainly the solution is obvious before the finale, but the creepy guest stars, stylish witchy vibes, and tarot cards make for a fun time with well paced deaths, thefts, and twists. We know there's an evil cat in the room when the lights go out, and the spooky climax does a little with a lot. This was better than I expected thanks to a mature, even sympathetic approach and dedicated throwback horror atmosphere.

Two Evil Eyes – George A. Romero (Creepshow) and Dario Argento (Phenomena) tackle two contemporary Poe adaptations in this 1990 Italian co-production featuring Adrienne Barbeau (The Fog), Harvey Keitel (The Piano), John Amos (The Beastmaster), and more familiar faces. Lawyers are reluctant to accept the iffy signature of our eponymous hospice husband granting his former flight attendant wife cash access in Romero's “The Facts in the Case of Mr. Valdemar” but she has the cigarettes, big eighties sunglasses, and shoulder pads to get her way. There's a tinge of guilt, however, as her doctor lover enjoys keeping Valdemar in a state of subconscious hypnosis – attached to metronomes and monitors in a suggestive, aware state. The eerie Tudor manor and Old World wrought iron spiral stairs contrast the beeping machinery; arguments over the morbid stasis and moments of painful clarity disrupt the distrustful dalliances. Technicalities about the thievery and the timing on the paperwork versus the flatlining equipment begat the rush to preserve the cadaver in the freezer – with the food! Mixing pills, booze, and self-hypnosis where no one else can wake you lead to backstabbings over the cash, hastily dug graves, and moaning from inside said freezer. The not so deceased croaks of souls from beyond the grave as storms, gunshots, splatter, and restless spirits give the police a gory resolution. The cops in Argento's “The Black Cat,” however, are gagging at the nude body cut in half while our photographer snaps away to capture the swinging pendulum. Unfortunately, the titular stray taken in by his girlfriend interferes in the red dark room process. Scratching and hissing jars with her classical music, and she warn him cats remember their past persecutions and medieval injustices. The uncooperative four legged model dislikes the rough portrait poses and goes “missing” while drinking and violence conjure a hazy dream from the middle ages with bonfires, singsong rituals, and strung up victims. Chases, cleavers, lookalike cats, noose symbols, and fatalities mount as the demented artiste's disturbing photography book hits the shelves. Hellish bars, catholic touches, and living in sin judgments add to the sociopathic suggestions. Police inquire if he tortured the cat for his art and neighbors knock on the door over the meowing, pick axes, and stench behind the wall. Although this feels a little long or unevenly paced and superfluous rather than taut when deviating from the cat comeuppance, the intense finale brings the prophetic feline justice to the forefront for fans of cast, crew, and Poe.

The Uncanny – Eccentric writer Peter Cushing (Curse of Frankenstein) warns Montreal publisher Ray Milland (The Premature Burial) of felines run amok in this eighty-eight minute 1977 anthology. The expose he's written on cats has him looking over his shoulder at every rattling trash can, meow, and black cat at the gate before side eyeing a fluffy, pampered cat named Sugar. The cat cinematography is well filmed with zooms, pet points of view, up close eyes, and purring as our First London 1912 Tale looks the antiqued, lace part. The lady of the manor's cats are everywhere, and she intends to leave everything to her pride. The greedy maid, however, is caught stealing the will – leading to disturbing smotherings, death throes, screams, and hissing. The kitty siege begats swats, scratches, and blood as the feline assembly and our trapped maid each grow hungry. The reactions, animal action, quick cuts, and frenetic attacks are very well done indeed considering there are seemingly dozens of cats accented by cries, howls, chirps, and trills. A recently orphaned girl and her black cat named Wellington move in with her snooty relatives in the contemporary Quebec Tale Two, but her snobby, jealous, violent cousin blames Wellington for spills and mishaps so her parents will get rid of him. Our charge insists that cats can talk – it just takes a long time to understand them. Fortunately, she has kept her deceased mother's books on the occult and uses the pentagrams and spells for a slightly humorous, if tiny, but chilling turnabout. Donald Pleasence's (Prince of Darkness) Thirties Hollywood Third Story blurs on set and behind the camera as a real pendulum in scene slices one half of our off screen couple amid medieval torches, racks, and iron maidens. It's dismissed as a props mistake as production resumes with our late wife's younger, lookalike understudy, but the deceased's cat objects to the mistress taking over the Art Deco manor, furs, and roadsters. Once they flush her kittens (!), our vengeful mother creates real danger on Dungeon of Horror. They try to trap her in terrible ways complete with all the cat got your tongue puns, however the farce can't outwit the justified feline. Although this humorous third tale should have been first and the more macabre Edwardian tale last, self-aware winks know not to take the subject matter too seriously without interfering in the effective unease. The soon to be Grand Moff Tarkin insists cats are devils in disguise making sure we behave, yet these ironic stories show the terrors of what cats might do only in reaction to cruel people deserving of such consequences.

22 Reasons Why I'm not Excited for New Television Shows

 

22 Reasons Why I'm not Excited for New Television Shows

by Kristin Battestella

Allow me this poetic list, a haiku if you will, of why I am increasingly un-enthusastic about new TV show announcements – even pre-strikes when such buzz was more likely to come to fruition.

Why are we treating storytelling like dead stock, disposable consumption?

Why should I trust the prestige of (HBO) Max now?

All Netflix shows lookalike.

Million dollar sci-fi and fantasy epics on Amazon and Apple have no buzz.

What's the point of watching a show that ends on a cliffhanger but got canceled?

Quality, prestige shows are on underseen, obscure platforms.

Series I enjoy don't get the viewer notice or award recognition they deserve.

Writers, actors, and crew aren't properly compensated for their work.

Some shows I am excited about never end up airing in North America.

Properties are announced on a platform I don't have.

Properties are announced and forgotten by time they actually air.

Properties that would intrigue me are announced and never actually get developed at all.

I forget about the shows that might have intrigued me anyway.

Shows are canceled by one streamer and shopped to another but nothing comes of it.

It's not worth paying for a every streamer for their original series.

If a streamer is unhappy with a show, they will erase it from existence.

Who knows where streamers will be in the 6 months or year it takes to produce a show?

Streamers sell off shows to FAST services as random livestream content.

Streaming series often never come to physical media.

Often the first time one hears about a show is when it's canceled.

It's tough to be excited about a show when you find out about it after it's canceled.

There's no way to ever catch up when there is just too much TV already.

Middling 60s Capers

 

Middling 60s Capers

by Kristin Battestella

Despite name stars and decent production values, this trio of black and white mysteries from the sixties is surprisingly middle of the road. Rather than cinematic flair, each feels more like an overlong anthology entry. Ouch, but pity. 🤷🏻‍♀️

Cash on Demand – Carols, snow, and holiday atmosphere at the bank two days before Christmas set the scene for this 1961 black and white Hammer heist. Bowler hat wearing banker Peter Cushing wants the office to be dignified not festive, and he won't donate to the Christmas party fund. He's not there to ingratiate himself with subordinates and demands efficiency – threatening to see his manager never works in the financial sector again over an innocuous $10 mistake. The employees object to his embezzlement suspicions, but unexpected insurance investigator Andre Morell (Watson to Cushing's Holmes in Hammer's The Hound of Baskervilles) knows all about the tension among the bank personnel. The con artist has done his homework on the holiday deposits, and frantic phone calls lead to kidnapping and blackmail schemes to open the vault. Our insurance impostor recounts the signals and briefcases for the exchange with such menace, but there's no need for brutality – heists can be smooth and sociable while he's sipping tea with his feet up on the desk. On the ball Cushing descends to weak and pleading, emasculated and disrespected in the tense one on ones. This is, however, a very slow, talkative piece with all outside action told rather than seen. The two room bank setting is fine taut, but the previous teleplay source is apparent, the camerawork too plain, and incidental bank minutiae clutters what should be clever theft ploys. Window washers and honking fire trucks passing better create a few startles as the staff nonchalantly lets this thief into the vault unaware. Money bags, spinning locks, and filling luggage with loot lead to flashing light bulb alerts, fiddling with the keys, and thirty second alarm resets. Follow ups with the insurance company and fifteen minute phone check ins are well done when the actual heist happens, and our smooth talker intends to walk right out with a cool $100K. Crisscrossed signals, panic, nervous police bluffs, handcuffs – it takes a crime for crusty Cushing to unravel and unite with his staff to best the ruse and realize people are more important than money. This eighty minute version seems long or unevenly paced with superfluous employees and wasted time on obvious yet muddled slip ups in the rushed resolution. Fortunately, the bank balance turnabouts make for an unusual holiday morality tale for fans of the cast.

Sherlock Holmes and the Deadly Necklace – A dead body washes up beneath London Bridge as Terence Fisher directs Christopher Lee (also both of the Hammer The Hound of Baskervilles) in this international 1962 production loosely based upon Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's The Valley of Fear. Already the set up is superfluous with pretentious kids, a meddling housekeeper, and a simple sounding board Watson who needs Holmes to spell out clues with shadow puppets. The story is repetitive and disjointed with no point of view – deliberately trying to be obtuse with a Sherlock in disguise yet expecting the audience to be Holmes well versed. If you don't know Moriarty is our nemesis, Holmes looks obsessed for accusing a respected academic of murder. He disappears without informing Watson, whose unnecessary comic relief makes one wonder which scenes are important if at all while ominous moments implicate Moriarty just because the plot says so. Egyptology thefts, country estates, affairs, shootings – most of the Doyle nuggets happen off screen while we watch anonymous scuffles at the pub. Coming or going over clues and phone calls again follow the plot rather than real deduction, and we're supposed to like Holmes mocking the incompetent Scotland Yard because the anachronistic swanky jazz more fitting for a fifties noir than the late Victorian setting tells us so. While this looks the cluttered 221B Baker Street part, the crimes feel more like three murder vignettes and the auctions, sewer stakeouts, and car heists are meandering and confusing. Holmes can break into Moriarty's lair and mess with the mummies just because he's Holmes. How does his mailing himself the necklace that he stole from Moriarty prove that Moriarty stole it in the first place? It's easy to zone out on the lookalike ensemble's exposition away from Holmes, for the one on one secrets, alibis, and villainous tête-à-têtes are more interesting once we get Holmes in his deerstalker and stylish plaid cape. Lee provides the commanding wit and haughty air. His clever mannerisms change with each obvious mustache or eye patch disguise. We'll see Lee as Holmes again, however the lack of his own booming voice thanks to unfortunate dubbing practices contributes to the overall meh here. This is not an introductory eighty odd minutes but more like the second in a series where the audience is supposed to know the literature already. Though annoying for Holmes completists, this is really only for the Doyle devoted and Lee connoisseurs.

Stop Me Before I Kill – Swanky cars and jazz on the radio leads to shattered windshields and a ruined wedding day in this 1960 black and white Hammer noir directed by Val Guest (The Quartermass Xperiment) from the novel The Full Treatment. Months after the accident, our former race car driver still suffers mentally – unable to get behind the wheel and panicking on the highway. Although their relationship is feisty and his wife is supportive, his mood swings begat controlling compulsions, bruises, and stranglings amid the kisses. Intriguing visuals, up close zooms, shadowed faces, and cigarette mannerisms accent some very compelling segments alongside lux locales and continental suave disrupted by the hectic headlights, wheel clutching, honking horns, and peeling tires. Our husband is suspicious of the double talking psychiatrist they meet on the Riviera; dinner parties invoke further anxiety and aggression while the Mrs. makes the pleasantries. Friends tell him this lack of confidence is all in his mind and he admits he's behaving like a child, for a real man would seek help before harming his wife. Not being able to hold her without wanting to strangle her, newlyweds sleeping separately, and solo skinny dipping provide a whiff of then-scandalous as the through the binoculars viewpoint and dominance from above camera angles add to the audience voyeurism. We wonder what will set him off next, and his reluctance with our cheeky psychiatrist leads to angry, outwitting psychoanalysis as doctor and patient each contemplate how she should be killed and the gruesome dismemberment to follow once the bloody deed is done. Unfortunately, suspenseful breakthroughs are drawn out to the point of deflation with little regression therapy progress – the speedometer, her crucifix, and who was to blame for the accident are straightforward rather than shocking. The bloody bathroom with the appearance of a crime is obviously a fix, yet he's suddenly ready to race the Grand Prix again? Wife Diane Cilento's (Tom Jones) absence in latter half of the film shows until Riviera lookalikes, vehicular twists, deceptions, guns, and garrotes escalate. This should be much more chilling than it is, but the audience always knows what's what and there's not enough charisma or intensity to overcome the overlong, divided focus between the domestic jeopardy and the ulterior psychiatry.

Recent Jonathan Rhys Meyers Horrors

 

Recent Jonathan Rhys Meyers Horrors

by Kristin Battestella

Jonathan Rhys Meyers has been a fine actor with some excellent films and series in his filmography. Although he continues to work consistently, his well documented personal troubles have sent him to making mostly direct to streaming, low budget fare. Some of these are decent, others...not so much. Here is a quartet of recent horror thrillers featuring JRM's élan – if not much else thanks to the usual one and the same writer/director culprits with no second eye to polish these parables.

Dangerous Game: The Legacy Murders – Yes, this 2022 title is clearly intended for franchise potential with billionaire mogul Jon Voight (Midnight Cowboy) summoning his estranged family to the luxury manor for what turns into a murder mystery fight to the death. Certainly, the premise is familiar; the prologue and opening credits with fun house horrors and newspaper clippings are cliché. Papa Jon wants to cement his legacy, and the snobbish progeny arrive via helicopters and boats to their private island. Crabby banter and seeding dialogue establish who's money it is, who isn't speaking to their sister, and how Jonathan Rhys Meyers (The Tudors) put dad out of the company to save the big business. New girlfriends are nervous but wives and teen grandkids egg on the arguments. They are, however, all rightfully impressed with the old school gothic house's fine stone, wrought iron, woodwork, and chandeliers. Unfortunately, the drunken bonding is hampered by bad cat omens and the mysterious arrival of our titular gift complete with gory crime scene photos and suspicious case files. A distorted voice over the intercom demands they play the game, but the family points fingers over who's behind this sick joke until alarms, red lighting, automatic shutters, and locked gates further insist they play the laid out and ready co-op board. The house's control room bears a warning sign not to enter, but the explosive consequences didn't need such hokey, modern, bad special effects. The mechanical voice is also hackneyed and unnecessary when there are enough personality and problem solving within the familial confrontations. There's no landline or medical supplies, so they must use the fireplace to cauterize wounds between debating who is at fault. Some attempt to play the game, studying the vintage photos and cryptext puzzles while others explore the house amid crackling electricity, wheelchair perils, and gas chambers. Blueprints, secret passages, and Roman numerals lead to hidden journals, serial killers, booby traps in the floor, a mad scientist laboratory, carved bodies, and threats to be cooked alive. Increasing boiling and vomit at the gory sights subtly anchor the who is in on it or knows what family skeletons debates better than fake fiery effects. Breaking from the house for dog chases, perilous wells, shootouts, and eyeballs loses any taut as the cast somehow plays it seriously despite the increasingly preposterous turns and extremely over the top guts and gore. The canned voice and murder flashbacks are for the audience not the family, but this doesn't seem meant to be taken seriously. Every stupid twist becomes so damn goofy that I can't really hate the ludicrous laugh at the screen results.

Disquiet – Car accidents and narrations about choices give away the metaphors going into this eighty minute 2023 hospital thriller starring Jonathan Rhys Meyers. Rather than some grandiose opening family perfection and wild vehicular stunts, however; we get right to the gurney, hectic doctors, beeping equipment, bandages, and fear. There's little dialogue to start beyond unanswered calls for help as time is taken on the discomfort – pulling out tubes, gagging blood, no phone signals, and once bedridden now suddenly virile patients attacking others. Clattering hospital trays lead to scalpels, scissors, violent stabbings, and missing bodies as our victim asks WTF is happening. Even if the premise is obvious, the man alone paranoia and confined elevator perils invoke that out of our element hospital feeling. Sirens and accident flashes add to the delirium, but it's a mistake to cut away from this taut, isolated start to meet another patient awake during her plastic surgery. Demonic looking babes are holding her down when our Sam enters wielding an IV pole, but it's better when he follows the screams rather than the audience meeting new patients away from his perspective. Those demon babes were also barely needed once and flashing back to them for no reason looks tacky and feels amateur. Sudden staff who give clues or warnings and then turn monstrous are better chills, and memories of Sam's wife parallel the creepy encounters. Gunshots and random hospital noises remain startling while crackling bulbs and ominous purple lighting create immediate darkness and disappearances. Red elevator buttons, white skylights in the stairwell, dark windows, and smokey floors below add atmosphere while the maze-like floors, bricked shut doors, and empty nursery with baby cries acerbate the repeating wounds and dead that won't stay dead. Our trapped wonder if they were drugged, dead, in a shared nightmare, a zombie apocalypse, or figments of their imaginations. Sam is a decent leader diffusing situations and getting everyone to work together, but a doctor in red named Lilith and a man in a wheelchair named Virgil debate the hospital maps, going to the roof for a signal, or going down to the lobby exit. This devil or angel on the shoulder purgatory is apparent – as are revelations about Sam's previous texting and driving, will never happen again fooling around, and selfish state of mind. This is a cerebral characterization not an all out escape the hospital horror, but the preachy, trite allegories get repetitive with montages of what we already knew and previously saw padding to meet the runtime. Instead of staying in Sam's point of view as the in film logic demands, we erroneously break away from the primary motivations and mistakes learned with flashbacks of the other characters. Rather than trust Meyers' capability, the story hits the audience on the head with yet more montages impeding the race to the roof inevitable. Although the ambiguous imperfections are frustrating and run out of steam; the unreliable simplicity, detailed performance, and positive choices made make for an entertaining midnight movie.

Split Decision

The Survivalist – I could do without a 2021 movie being post-apocalyptic due to COVID, but amateur radio broadcasts set the scenario amid bleak aerial shots, fallen infrastructure, and quarantine chaos as miraculous survivor John Malkovich (Shadow of the Vampire) pursues an immune girl to former FBI agent turned doomsday prepper JRM's isolated ranch. The back and forth start is unnecessary, but flashbacks of our Ben remembering his dad Julian Sands (Tale of the Vampire) ground the solitude. The audience sympathizes with Ben as he takes care of the girl and recalls cleaning up his dad's gambling debts that almost cost them their land. Their arguments about who had to work or who turned his back on the family could have been its own turbulent father/son drama filled with regrets and tough love – complete with fascinating role reversals and relatable performances from the responsible Meyers and late too soon Sands. The drama is better than the apocalypse try hard with weak devotees allegedly cured by the resurrected Aaron desperate to stay in his favor. They threaten Ben's fortifications, but all of their dialogue should have been given to the much more charismatic Malkovich. He won't take no for an answer and does seem to have a mystical obsession with the girl, for he has been ordained to save the world. One on one standoffs let the leads handle the who's outnumbered and bullets are precious tension. Wounds, empty handguns, out of breath runs between buildings – Ben was actually a mere mapmaker agent not some expert hero, and he is fed up with the barn confrontations, battles in his home, and being forced to kill in self-defense. Rather than have Aaron's menacing speeches following Ben at every encounter, Malkovich is erroneously reduced to sitting back while the inferior lackeys do the dirty work. Not a lot happens because of the divided focus between the man alone regrets and the would be raid action, and this picture seems changed from a drama to an action movie with the who's infected or a COVID carrier bookends generally being a non-factor. Instead of this uneven tone, a linear telling would have made more impact: all the tough love family flashbacks with worsening television and radio updates, the isolation preparation, then the girl appearing in the barn, and ultimately deluded messianic Malkovich knocking on the door. Ben gives each fanatical chance after chance – he didn't want to do any of this and finally snaps upon realizing it's all been for someone else's lies and consequences. Though watchable for the cast with interesting dramatic possibilities, the rushed virus connections fall back on generic weaknesses instead of maximizing the ensemble's potential for more.

Skip It

Hide and Seek – Joe Pantoliano (Memento) joins wealthy businessman JRM in this 2021 American remake of an Asian film complete with the obligatory creepy little kid. Our swanky, pretentious family even has matching outfits, but our dad Noah doesn't like the spilled syrup at breakfast and vehemently scrubs a mark on his cuff. Cleaning ladies come to their immaculate penthouse, too, but they have nothing to do. The rich scenes and high rise windows are well lit; however the downtrodden architecture, poor slums, and empty Art Deco pool scheduled for demolition are not. An interview with a crusty reporter shrewdly spills the family dirt about his cast out brother, and Noah looks for him amid the abandoned trash, creepy bums, crazy old ladies, and poor people just trying to survive. He doesn't want to touch anything in his brother's filthy apartment, and the angry neighbors are not forthcoming to the rich white guy asking questions. Decoy open doors force viewers to pay attention to what may be hiding in the dark, and Noah studies the vintage blueprints for secret closets and apartment connections. Bloody bathtubs, suicide notes, similar graffiti, flashlights, dirty waters, and distorted bathroom moments are well edited eerie. Holes in the sheet rock mar their once pristine penthouse; creepy noises in the walls and clanking pipes suggest someone else is at home. A stranger banging to be let in and a hand reaching in the mail slot provide our breach of home fears as the kids hide in the closet and footsteps roam the apartment. Unfortunately, today we would be immediately suspicious of someone who never takes off his motorcycle helmet. Building security saves the day but then there's no explanation how others evade the cameras and evidence that aren't used until convenient. Nightmare flashes of our crazy brother are laughable, and this can't decide if it's a stereotypical horror movie or just a straight thriller. One wonders if the story should have focused on either the upscale family fear or stayed in the dilapidated mystery rather than going back and forth between them. Noah's compulsive cleanliness is also dropped instead of escalating as his unwashed explorations increase. The resolution unravels in the final act with montages, deceased and lookalike confusion, and questions about what anybody really had to do with anything. Though somewhat surprising, the killer reveal feels racist, as if crazy poor minority folk are coming to steal your penthouse – squatting uptown fresh groceries and all. Meyers is believable as the family man under pressure and while decent entertainment up until the end, the contrived finale leaves viewers feeling like our time has been wasted. Pity.

1940s Melodramas!

 

A Trio of 1940s Melodramas!

by Kristin Battestella

Be it well known stars or obscure gems, these black and white melodramas toe the scandals and suspense with mid century silver screen saucy, captivating performances, and attention to gothic detail.

Corridor of Mirrors – Melodramatic “strong serious music” captions and crescendos open this 1948 Terence Young (From Russia with Love) directorial debut with a blink and you miss him baby Christopher Lee (Horror of Dracula) amid the titular doors, picturesque frames, and gothic drama. Cackling nightmares, mysterious telegrams, and wax museum eerie disrupt the idyllic country manor; but veiled hats, stoles, and cigarette cases match the illicit London meetings, jazzy flashbacks, and hypnotic waltzes. Our cosmopolitan, unconventional lover Eric Portman (49th Parallel) wears a cape and top hat and rides in a carriage – whisking writer and star Edana Romney (East of Piccadilly) to his antique-laden “atmosphere of the past” lair. It's surprisingly mature, sophisticated, and even risque tit for tat dialogue for the time when he asks if she is inclined to continue the adventure at his marble mansion with the grand staircase, crystal chandeliers, and fun house rooms full of mirrors, mannequins, and historical costumes. Candles, old fashioned mannerisms, tiaras, billowing curtains, and flowing frocks further the period piece feeling as Mifanwy becomes drawn to the past, dressed up in glimmering gowns as he chooses and allowing herself to be his nothing to live for without you obsession. A supernatural whiff disguises the predatory gaslighting – our society girl is molded from father to lover to husband as dictated. Previous women made dowdy are tossed aside, pitiful and pathetic amid arguments of who is really his prisoner or came of her free will. Lookalike portraits of lost Venetian lovers, medieval ballads, and alluring costume balls sweep us up in the back and forth vanity, spoiled rich girl games, red flag complications, and reincarnation hyperbole. Though visually innocent with nary a kiss, fade ins and outs as drunken ladies are carried to the bedroom suggest what's happening behind the bed curtains. Strong lighting schemes, daylight streaks, nighttime mists, and black and white patterns accent early uses of double perspective, deep focus, reflective camera shots, and mirrors filming multiple actions in one frame. However, the opening framework and voiceovers instead of sounding boards are unnecessary. No introductions, nondescript husbands, and out of viewpoint asides with redundant secondary characters can be confusing. Jail cell confessions and murder trials are rushed in the final fifteen minutes with plot points excused away easily. Fortunately, the sophisticated stylings, complex story, and full of themselves lovers culminate in chilling disturbia and screaming toppers.

The Red House – The golly gee quaint, twee love triangles, and intrusive crescendos in this 1947 mystery interfere with the ominous woods and suspicious gossip about reclusive Edward G. Robinson (The Omega Man), his sister Judith Anderson (Rebecca), and their innocent teenage adoptee Allene Roberts (Knock on Any Door). Farm boy Lon McCallister (Stage Door Canteen) is warned not to take the shortcut through the woods thanks to howling winds, hooting owls, dark trees, perilous wooden bridges, and the said to be cursed eponymous haunt. Despite no trespassing signs and dead end trails, all seems safe in the daytime – but young Meg is forbidden from going into the woods and asking grown up questions her guardians don't want to answer. She feels drawn there as if she has been to the Red House before and its discovery is treated as enchanting despite dangerous terrain, broken limbs, and shooting at trespassers. Bad boy Rory Calhoun (How to Marry a Millionaire) wants a favor from bad girl Julie London (Emergency!), and the tawdry kisses by the lake detract from the lingering secrets and older regrets. Spinster Judith says it is no one's fault but their own that they gave up their lives to protect Meg – while she looks longingly out the window at her one time doctor beau. Though he blames the first boy to come along for his daughter slipping away, our father figure lingers at the bedroom door and watches her swimming. A mother leaves her grown son to marry her new man, too – but not before a suspiciously long goodbye kiss on the mouth with her boy. O _o The creepy innuendo increases with whispers of previous love triangles as men are driven crazy by making their women understand. Past guilt escalates to burning down the house attempts and fatal shootouts as Robinson carries the pain and violent events repeat. The overlong scenic montages and outsider tangents create unevenness and the ominous history is pretty easy for the audience to put together. However, the performances anchor the truth will out climatic sacrifices.

The Strange Woman – Hedy Lamarr (Samson and Delilah) scandalizes 1830s New England in this 1946 yarn opening with our young Jenny already pushing a little boy who can't swim and then pretending to rescue him before growing up and pinching her cheeks to snag the richest sailor on the dock. Men say she is too beautiful for her own good, and Jenny seems to enjoy when her creepy drunk dad whips her – because now she has an excuse to marry wealthy old Gene Lockhart (Joan of Arc). Other ministers or lawyers offer to take her in, but their daughters dislike her and their wives are unsympathetic. The sweeping over the top score, however, lays on the sympathy thick because Jenny's only options are to go from father to husband. She learns how to be a lady, volunteers at church, and helps the poor – gaining favor to use or betray people later. Of course, while playing nursemaid to her ill husband, she writes to her young stepson Louis Hayward (And Then There Were None) as “your loving mother” and ends up kisses him, kissing him good in scenes later recounting how she made him love her all night long. Jenny manipulates her stepson by playing mother and lover before pursuing miscast George Sanders (All About Eve) as the suavest ruffian lumberjack ever. She meddles in business and elevates him to supervisor while she laments how long her husband must live and come between her and the next man. Unfortunately, despite the scandalous encounters, suicides, and caught in a storm seductions, today's viewers will expect more. There's no real ominous feeling or danger as we wait for something more dramatic to happen. The narrative is overlong and uneven – wasting time on lesser plots before rushing the final fifteen minutes with barrenness revelations and preachers suddenly moving Jenny to confess. The need to redeem our vixen with an outside morality undercuts all her deceit yet foolishly in love men still defend her to the end. Then again, you can't really blame them. Lamarr captivates the screen in divine if anachronistic frocks, feigning charm and innocence or tasting her forbidden as each scheme needs. Even her voice is hypnotic, telling men what to say and do to get her way. Although this picture pretends at an epic era the likes of Gone with the Wind, it suffers from poor pacing, weak action filming, and low production values. Everything else away from Jenny's fatal allure is just plain silly, for the true worth here is gazing at Lamarr.

More from InSession Film!

 

More InSession Film Action! 

It's been awhile since we've done an update on our moonlighting at InSessionFilm.com, and there's much to share – including film reviews, podcasting, and merchandise!

First, here are some of our horror essays and retro lists at the new look InSession website:

SHE WILL addresses women's fears.

Review by @vampfamwriter https://t.co/vrMvppuTb7 pic.twitter.com/aWmEsmEtFl

— InSession Film (@InSessionFilm) April 5, 2023

She Will

Cool Eighties Comedies

The Banishing

Kick Ass Women's Comedies

The Underseen Rachel Weisz

Speaking of Women, don't forget you can hear our analysis on classic actors, film directors, and more on the Women InSession Podcast:

If you have yet to listen to an episode of Women InSession, you NEED to. The passion and intellect they bring to each episode is both enlightening and enjoyable. So thankful for their contribution to @InSessionFilm. https://t.co/dJAIIFG9bj

— Brendan Cassidy (@BrendanJCassidy) March 9, 2023

Favorite Films of the 1940s

John Huston

Musicians Turned Actors

Cate Blanchett

Adventures and Swashbucklers

Our Cinematic Blind Spots

Sydney Pollack

William Holden

Top 5 Worst Best Picture Nominees

Julianne Moore

Robert Mitchum

It's been such a blessing to be part of the InSessionFilm Family, and you can show your love, too, by checking out some of the InSession Merchandise – including Women InSession T-shirts!

Wowie Women InSession Merch! 🙋🏻‍♀️

Thank you @InSessionFilm & @RealJDDuran for amplyfiying Diverse Film Criticism & Female Voices!

What a great #PodernFamily #PodNation @Zita_Short @athomasson11 @eRockReviews @ShadanLarki @filmswithamy @EveOnFilm

ICYMI: https://t.co/ZUgErts5XW

— Therefore I Review 📺🌻 (@thereforereview) May 22, 2023

 

The PHWA Should Not Award the Masterson Trophy

 

Why the PHWA should not award the Masterson Trophy

A Sports Review by Kristin Battestella

Big things have been happening here at home, and outside of my Women's Hockey feature in Search Magazine, I haven't done sports reporting since I first started writing decades ago. However, this year's Bill Masterson Trophy has been weighing on my mind.

Simply put: I do not think the PHWA should award the Masterson this NHL season.

Awarded by the Professional Hockey Writers Association since 1968, the Bill Masterson Memorial Trophy is given to the NHLer who exemplifies dedication, sportsmanship, and perseverance. Unfortunately, numerous individual players making controversial statements and organizations who did the bare minimum during NHL Pride Nights have put a damper on the NHL's attempted “Hockey is for everyone” celebrations. Certainly there are larger personal, professional, political, and PR issues at play and the NHL's Pride events have been overall positively received. However, overshadowing, negative noisemakers resulted in a cruel slap in the face to rainbow hockey fans. When young LGBTQIA+ athletes are looking to the game they love for sportsmanship, receiving hate that goes directly against the NHL's supposedly inclusive policy is unacceptable. The NHL didn't persevere by riding the fence when it came to gay, women, minority, indigenous, and other marginalized fans. As this season went on, it seemed like certain teams were dreading their Pride Nights, and some organizations barely acknowledge support for fans facing strife with little more than warm up rainbow stick tape.

The NHL let the negative voices dominate the Pride narrative, unsportsmanly looking the other way while detractors talked of dismissing Pride Nights altogether. The world's top hockey league showed no dedication to their fans with a weak response to the negative criticism and no apparent anti-hate policy. The NHL cannot merely dismiss cruelty because it was only at the hands of a few players and teams. A player doesn't want to support Pride Night? Scratch him. Oh, these star players can't be scratched for an important game because of an off ice initiative! Then he should realize his beliefs have nothing to do with the sexuality of the season ticket holders that pay his millions. Maybe the NHL should distribute rainbow helmet stickers for every player to wear all season? Don't let teams feign support for one night! Players choosing not to adorn love for their fans every game show their true colors, don't they? What if these players lacking compassion and contributing to the suffering of others could learn that hockey is a chance to bring people together because who you love has nothing to do with how you play on the ice.

Yes, this is a terribly idealistic view. However, the NHL needs to accept that doing business in non-traditional cold rich white men locales means embracing women, minorities, rainbow, and diverse fans. Masterson winners are often players who overcome personal strife or support charity and community initiatives, and the NHL needs to take a stand in supporting the entire hockey community. The PHWA should not look the other way but hold the NHL accountable for its poorly handled Pride, unacceptable abuses, hatred, and scandals by only awarding the Masterson Trophy when it is deserved.

When will that be?

When every team has no naysayers for Pride?

When Chicago answers for its assault crimes instead of being awarded with a Number 1 pick to make their scandals disappear?

Dedicating yourself to perseverance and sportsmanship means not hurting your fellow teammates and hockey fans or telling others hockey is not for them. This season, the NHL was not worthy of what the Masterson trophy represents.

License to Drive

 

License to Drive is a Rite of Passage Time Capsule

by Kristin Battestella

Colorful neon road signs and fast moving opening credits set the 1988 mood of License to Drive before cool cars in dangerous chases and a cackling bus driver a la A Nightmare on Elm Street as Corey Haim's (The Lost Boys) Les Anderson sleeps thru the Driver's Ed video. After writing “I will drive safely” on the chalkboard as punishment from a teacher who hopes he never succeeds, Les does indeed fail to get his license. Naturally, he goes out on the town anyway to impress his crush Mercedes (Heather Graham), but sneaking out in his grandfather's Cadillac leads to a disastrous if memorable night for Les and his friends – wannabe cool Dean (Corey Feldman) and nerdy Charles (Michael Manasseri) – thanks to the numerous mishaps befalling Grandpa's precious Caddy.

Debut director Greg Beeman (Smallville) has ninety minutes in License to Drive and establishes the premise immediately with double duty dialogue on crushes, crusty teachers, and the generation gap. Older dudes with cool cars woo the popular girls, and the sophisticated, wealthy divides leave our boys riding double on the bicycle and embarrassed to have their parents drive them anywhere. Bullies want to play chicken,“living time bomb” Helen Hanft (Moonstruck) warns teens not to “fuck with the Department of Motor Vehicles,” and Fresh Prince's Uncle James Avery measures an uphill driving test with his perilous cup of hot coffee. The rebellious, youthful lies seem so innocent until Les says he's only going around the block but instead leaves his dad stranded in the street carrying the diapers. The boys are desperate to achieve access to forbidden hang outs and quad roller skating babes but the BMW hat is too big for the grounded sixteen year old. His mother's false labor pains, running over the hedge, and not having a license are the least of Les' problems when the police find a drunk girl in the Caddy trunk! Small scratches and dents escalate to vomit in the backseat and a drunk who thinks he's found a Maserati, yet there's a certain effortlessness and nonchalant irony while casually backing out with a maniac on the hood of the car. The camera knows when to speed up with fun point of view action and well edited cuts keep up the humorous pacing. Unlike today's superfluous drone shots or bogged down special effects, in camera actions and movements are used for scene transitions – keeping License to Drive swift and snappy as no sequence overstays its welcome. Although License to Drive does rely on convenient timing for some of its comedy and plot advances, the self-aware, winking attitude is part of the movie magic suspension of disbelief. In scene action allows punchlines to fully play out before callbacks to that hot cup of coffee and Driver's Ed being one hell of a crash course send the golf clubs flying out the broken rear windshield. Our little brother exclaims “Son of a bitch!” as a ridiculous in labor race to the hospital via a falling apart Caddy culminates in driving backwards the wrong way on the sidewalk.

Of course, we don't want the ever adorable Corey Haim to get caught sneaking out of the house without a license! Viewers feel along for the ride as another vicarious friend, and questions on if he had mono making him sleep thru the entire driving course affirm the harmless shenanigans before Les' dream night is hampered by his cautious old lady driving and sixteen going on sixty worry over his classic ride. License to Drive lets the characters, performances, and deliveries carry the humor with a drunk driver slicing limes on the dashboard and taglines like “I'm so dead they'll have to bury me twice.” Numerous quips from Haim don't get their due justice in writing, such as his having to go home with a stolen Beetle and claim that “this piece of shit is my grandfather's Cadillac!” Superb parents Richard Masur (One Day at a Time) and the pregnant with every bizarre craving Carol Kane (Scrooged) likewise have memorable laughs, anger, and hysterics. Today Heather Graham's (Boogie Nights) pink dress and party attitude is almost demure – the popular girl accustomed to older men and fancy clubs who's looking for something more while Corey Feldman (the 'burbs) gives speeches about the American Dream being the license in your pocket to be free from the humiliation of riding the school bus. Michael Manasseri (Weird Science) may seem redundant in this The Two Coreys eighties heyday, however he has some fun moments as the geeky straight man alongside Les' bookish twin sister Nina Siemaszko (The West Wing) and her militant boyfriend Grant Heslov (Good Night and Good Luck). He's angry they are going to a protest against society's oppression and materialism in an “imperialist gas guzzler,” i.e. the family Audi.

From the juicy posters in the boys' rooms, “Grandpa” license plates, and a preposterous DOS computer glitch to the breaking the fourth wall asides and humorous actions in the background, there are lots of little things to see in License to Drive. Music cues, choice stings, and fatalistic echoes set off slow motion, wide lenses, zooms, and spin outs as film making touches mirror the teenage ups, downs, and permit torn in two. The boomboxes, chewed up mixed tapes, corded phones, flash bulb camera, big computers, and rolling up the windows invoke technological nostalgia, yet a parent's denying his son a $23,000 BMW remains relatable. The slim ties, blazers with rolled up sleeves, and acid wash jeans...not so much! Perfectly timed Frank Sinatra irony and carefree Billy Ocean tunes accent the likable characters and breezy joyride that aren't meant to be taken too seriously. License to Drive is silly and flawed, absolutely. Did you have to live in the eighties to fully appreciate its carefree adventure? Perhaps. Certainly there's something to be said for manual vehicles without computers and cameras that parallel park for you! Fortunately, License to Drive does what it sets out to do in creating a humorous night on the town. Thanks to today's over analytical cinematic dire and dark buzzkill; this slaphappy, all forgiven, consequence free, sunny escapade could not be made in the post-pandemic era. Get away from it all with License to Drive's charming time capsule and bemusing rite of passage.