As a subcategory of the horror genre, the exorcism film does not have the best reputation. For every The Exorcist, there are a dozen Posessed’s and Beyond the Door’s. Yet, when done well, there is rarely something as profoundly [...]
Writer/Director William Brent Bell appears to have an acute understanding of exorcism film’s successful attributes and its traditional flaws. Recycled trademarks like unnaturally contorted bodies, speaking in tongues, and sexual threats are all present in The Devil Inside, but they do not feel old or tired. The film also avoids any preachy religious characters, and overly elaborate makeup. Bell brings freshness to the subject by approaching it from a different angle; he does not follow the linear progression of a possession, but rather approaches the subject of possession from a distance and narrows upon several victims through a nonlinear narrative. As a result, the film does not carry the standard exorcism film formula, where the viewer knows exactly when to rest in safe boredom, and when to tense in preparation for the climax.
More important than his approach, however, is Bell’s portrayal of the actual exorcisms. Too frequently in films of demonic possession, there is thematic discussion without satisfying horror scenes to back it up. The Devil Inside does not shy away from its subject; each exorcism and possession is examined in full, grotesque detail. The effects are seamless, careful, and tastefully explicit. One victim breaks her own bones and contorts wildly, as exorcists Ben (Simon Quarterman) and David (Evan Helmuth) attempt to drive out the demon. The scene is disturbingly authentic and the details are obsessively precise. For the first time on screen, exorcism feels real.
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| Crowley plays the possessed Maria |
The lackluster story creates more of a foundation upon which to build a study of exorcism than a structure for the film. Emotionally, the viewers become much more entranced with the activities of the cynical priest Ben, and his reluctant partner, David. Their conversations over the morality of performing illegal exorcisms and unravelling the truth behind Maria’s questionable possession are well written and intellectually stimulating, giving the film a feeling of depth that the main storyline doesn’t supply.
With the exception of a particularly cliche “horror movie” ending, The Devil Inside is a horror film that will intrigue even the most discerning horror fans, and terrify those less acquainted with the genre’s staples. This one definitely deems a rewatch–but this time, we’ll keep the lights on and the Bible close.
If there is a single academic that can be judged to have the most extensively permeated theories, it must be Sigmund Freud. Perched in an ivory seat of eminence in Vienna in the early 1900’s, his theories on sexuality and its effect on standard human behavior were famed as far as America, and his fervent followers counted among them doctors, academics and patients.
While Freud’s modern day reputation relies upon the diffusion of these theories in academia, the personalities of Freud and his colleagues has also become a great subject to discussion and interest. Freud is recognized to have been, among other things, a cocaine addict, an egotist, and stubbornly fixated on cores of his theories to which he would accept no compromise. He is known to have lost many of the great friends he forged through his work.
It is with one of these friendships that David Cronenberg’s A Dangerous Method occupies itself. On the eve of World War I, a young Carl Jung (Michael Fassbender) treats a hysterical patient, Sabina Spielrein (Keira Knightley) with the “talking cure” developed by Freud (Viggo Mortensen). As Jung’s theories advance, he struggles with Freud’s preoccupation with sexuality, with Spielrein’s representation of it, and his own resistance to indulgence.
The film is a tangled mess of conversation and minimal plot, where story advances with subtle slights and shifts of ideas rather than large events or broken dishes. The slow pace is paired with Cronenberg’s perfect intensity to create a precarious, exciting balance. Handsomely mirroring its subject, the blurred line between instinctual indulgence and societal restriction, the filmmaker has created a monster wearing a mask of human courtesy. From the beautiful trimmings of Jung’s well-fashioned house, to the brittle repartee between Freud and Jung in the book-lined studies of Vienna, we can feel something boiling in the background.
For perpetration of such a feeling, Cronenberg could not have cast two better actors as his male leads. In his third beneficial pairing with the director, Mortensen is incredible as Freud. Partially obscured by the theorist’s trademark beard, constantly puffing on a cigar, Mortensen plays his part with an understated intelligence and obstinant self-satisfaction. He simultaneously evokes genius and ignorance.
Knightley is certainly the weakest link among the performers in the film, but for all her visible straining it must be said that she far surpasses anything in her history. Particularly remarkable is her evocation of Sabina in hysteria, writhing and shuddering, forcing out an underbite that seems almost physically impossible.
What the film lacks in conventional plot, it makes up for in its writing. Based off Jon Kerr’s book A Most Dangerous Method with a script penned by Christopher Hampton, the dialogue doesn’t peddle to ignorants. The fact that the film does not dumb itself down is one of its greatest strengths; it is sweetly inflated, high on its own extraordinary intelligence. When Jung and Freud exchange theories, the viewer does not feel subject to an explanation, but rather witness to an intellectual discussion.
The result of this is that at times, it can be slightly too academic. It is imaginable that less interested viewers will find the film to drag at parts, when discussions heap on other discussions, and the talk of sexuality becomes greater than the actual sexuality in the film. However, for those with an interest in psychology, and terrifically intelligent movies, A Dangerous Method is not one to miss.
Rarely is a screenwriting debut so full of unique voice and character as Diablo Cody’s Juno, which opened to great critical praise and cult honorifics in 2007. Now, Cody’s pen brings us a darker, ironically more mature study of growing up in Young Adult.
If the title isn’t warning enough, this is not a piece exalting subtlety. Young Adult follows Mavis Gary (Charlize Theron), an explicitly childish and unfulfilled woman, visually described in a quiet, sluggish opening that frames Mavis on the gray backdrops of Minneapolis as she attempts the opening chapters of a young adult series she ghostwrites. Theron tinkers around the high rise apartment with a fragile grace, her eyeliner smeared, hair mussed, skin perfect. For a few moments, it feels like a clumsy scene stolen from Todd Haynes’ Safe, the obvious pathetic fallacy reflecting Mavis’s mute hollowness.
Then, Mavis discovers that her high school flame, Buddy Slade (Patrick Wilson), has had a baby. The film shifts gear and switches tone entirely as Mavis swivels her uncanny focus onto returning to her hometown of Mercury, Ohio, and reclaiming her soul mate, no matter the consequences.
It is in the process of this pursuit that the film finds its rhythm, largely due to the subtle genius of Patton Oswalt, who plays a crippled, “fat nerd” that knew Mavis in high school, and becomes an unlikely foil to her marginally sociopathic intent. Oswalt, famous for comedic turns on screen and a sharp standup routine, plays his part with a sweetly self-deprecating, puppyish affect. Acting against Theron’s Mavis, all hard angles under layers of mascara, Oswalt demonstrates a charmingly human, rancorous amusement. At times, the repertoire between the actors appears almost competitive; every quip drips with a threat of stealing the scene.
It is clear from these exchanges that the film’s most remarkable aspect rests in the performances. Where the humor is lackluster and the narrative arc lacks the conviction to hammer home any of its petty conclusions, Theron is a marvel. Having played serial killers and bubble gum popping teenagers, the actress is by now a seasoned champion on screen. Still, it is rare that we see her flexing so many acting muscles in one film. She is in one scene a coy, flirtatious princess, extraordinarily gorgeous and alluring. In another scene, she is pallid, picking at her hair, anxious, afraid. The issue, then, becomes that Theron is too big for the character. She brings a level of depth and profound insight into a role that is written like a character in a young adult novel.
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| Wilson shines as one-time dreamboat Buddy Slade. |
These performances may be partially due to the direction of Jason Reitman (Up in the Air, Juno), who is famous for eliciting great performances. But if we are crediting him for the performances, we must also acknowledge his part in the failures of the film. While individual attributes of the film may be delightful, they come together in a disappointing melting pot of discordant tone and jumpy mood. Where Juno successfully accomplished a humorous film with hints at darker themes, Young Adult gets bogged down in the melancholy. Too frequently, it slips back to the grey feeling of the opening. Add to this the manifold references to Mavis as a “crazy person,” her clear mental dissonance, and the disturbing scenes of her picking hair out of a spot on the back of her head, and the film simply is not funny. It’s sad. And scenes that try to jostle the viewer into laughter feel phony and uncomfortable.
In the end, Young Adult is an interesting treatment of the madness perpetrated by unfulfilled hopes and dreams, and the danger of selfish desire. Yet, Cody’s attempt at a more mature subject falls short; not surprisingly, the best lines of dialogue are the theatrical snippets that Mavis witnesses when she overhears teenage girls speaking. Perhaps Cody, like Mavis, isn’t quite ready to grow up. But maybe that isn’t the worst thing, after all.
The Descendants follows Matt (George Clooney), a father who struggles to balance the discovery that his comatose wife had been having an affair with the grief of his two young daughters, Alex (Shailene Woodley) and Scottie (Amara Miller). Clooney is soft spoken and refreshingly dumpy, strung up in high-waisted slacks and boxy, floral-printed shirts. With his expressive eyes and constantly pursed mouth, Clooney wars with the often stilted dialogue and unfortunate voice-overs to evoke a solitary resignation as he proceeds through Matt’s misfortune. When Clooney delivers the line, “No one wants to do this,” it is one of the only moments that we believe him.
Disappointingly, in an attempt to slip Clooney under the guise of a well-meaning everyman, Payne has effectively erased Clooney’s charm and replaced him with a heap of mediocrity. He may be more likable than previous characters, but he is less interesting, and not even his lush eyelashes can elicit something beyond apathy from the viewer.
Yet the comedic portions’ failings are epically upstaged by the film school quality voice-over. Clooney audibly struggles to deliver heavy lines like, “My family is like an archipelago.” The film fails to provide any precedent for the voice-over, at times representing it as a memoiric reflection, at others a direct thought from the scene.
Furthermore, the filmmakers made the bizarre choice to set the movie in Hawaii. Most of this implementation feels simply phony, as if it was added in as an afterthought, like the acoustic ukulele that pursues the characters in every non-dialogue scene. It becomes clear through Matt’s narration, however, that this is meant as a clumsy metaphor for family and tragedy, indicating the the persistent tranquility of nature despite human strife, and the destructive reactions of humans to the natural order of things, whether it’s resistance to death, or the desire to develop a nature reserve.
If only Payne had taken another message from the setting and worked on making his film flow and feel more natural. Perhaps then we could walk out of the theater feeling touched, rather than hungry for a trip to the beach.
The Devil Inside (January 2012)
I can’t even talk about this movie because it looks so.freaking.good. Yes, most of us learned from The Last Exorcism that we shouldn’t judge a film by its exorcism theme, but this includes several promising elements:
- Freaky jumping out things
- Weird whispering
- Women wearing no makeup in hospital gowns
- “Real Footage” but not a full film in handicam
- Done by choosy director William Brent Bell (Stay Alive)
- That lip thing with the cross? Awesome.
Atrocious (August 2011 but I’m guessing none of you saw it)
I know what you’re thinking. Wahh, so many horror movies ripping off Blair Witch Project because that’s the first movie ever that used a handicam. This movie looks awesome and here’s why: it’s in Spanish, its tagline is “2011’s answer to Paranormal Activity,” and that footage looks totally real. In case no one’s noticed, when something works in the horror industry, it tends to stick. Has no one seen one of the first slasher movies?
The Divide (January 2012)
Post apocalyptic survivors trapped in a bunker get crazy and weird (surprise). Admittedly this looks a lot like one of my favorite horror films (The Hole), and given that comparison, the whole ever-popular post-apocalyptic trope seems a bit unnecessary, but the action at the end promises some bland but surprising imagery and some pretty rad action. Also, who here realized Milo Ventimiglia was still alive?
Filth to Ashes, Flesh to Dust (Technically September 2011, but I haven’t seen it anywhere)
I have no idea what this movie is about except that there are boobs and the acting style resembles that so beautifully highlighted in The Room. Sold.
Rare Exports (Christmas)
Perhaps you’re wondering how you’re going to spend your Christmas. Let me help you answer that question: watching this.
A prequel to the 1982 Kurt Russel classic, The Thing follows a group of scientists and helicopter pilots (Mary Elizabeth Winstead, Joel Edgerton, Ulrich Thomsen, Eric Christian Olsen) that make a startling discovery in the icy wastes near the South Pole. However, celebration doesn’t last long, as they quickly realize that the specimen drudged from the ice is more dangerous than they could have ever imagined.
Director van Heijningen, Jr., whose resume boasts only short film and commercial work, indicates a deft understanding of the requirements for suspense and tension. The pacing of the film is generally tight, and although it accelerates quickly into the action, there is never a sense that the director has lost control of the wheel.
A great part of the suspense is contributed by the original concept. Rarely do alien films pair the Earth’s innate hostility with a violent extraterrestrial presence. Here, while the creature attacks from within, the tundra outside is equally dangerous. Thus the tension is twofold. Where do you go when you cannot stay inside, and you cannot go outside?
And when we say “inside,” we mean inside. The concept of the creature accesses the core of all fear associated with arrival of an alien presence. Rather than creating a simple monster that harries the scientists, The Thing imagines a creature that can replicate the cells of a host, living inside the body, masquerading as a human being. Rather than a murderous invasion, this creature attempts to slide into place among us until it strikes. Its intrusion is not exterior, it is into the very cells of the body.
Like the alien and its hosts, this film appears to be a fairly standard thriller on the outside, but inside it lacks heart. The characters are not developed, so it is up to the actors to create the unscripted personalities for us. As a result, the relationships are often confusing and inconsistent. As the cast gets slowly picked off, it is unclear who to root for, and no death feels weighty or even very interesting.
In the end, The Thing is a solid film that gives the right amount of jumps and thrills. Still, even with a concept this chilling, the story leaves us numb.
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