Kuba Topor

This troubled and unjustly shunned sequel is certainly not as much fun as the original. But considering its delayed and frankly peculiar production and marketing- setbacks, studio politics, murder?! (check out BD's editorial on the subject), it turned out better than much of the similarly budgeted horror fodder from the late 80's and is ripe for long delayed rediscovery. Part 2 kicks off swiftly, with Charley (William Ragsdale) in pharmacologically maintained denial about the events of the previous film. One would think it would be hard to rationalize all that supernatural mayhem. I mean, damn, even the sceptical, reluctant vampire hunter Peter Vincent doesn't seem to have a problem with that. But then again he is not motivated by Traci Lind's Alex who keeps Charley's libido and assumed psychosis in check. In fact the entire plot relies on this overt sexual tension that I suppose can be justified by Charley's raging hormones but worked much better in the original. Here it undermines some of the comedy and ultimately lends the movie a cheap, sleazy flavour that Tom Holland managed to avoid. His successor, Tommy Lee Wallace who directed similarly underrated Halloween III and would go on to make rather dodgy (but much beloved) TV adaptation of Stephen King's IT, doesn't waste much time and sets up the film's competently menacing villain out of the gate. The out-for-vengeance sister of Fright Night's main baddie and her “European”, glam devoted minions are worthy enough challenge. They dress to impress too. There's some atmospheric lighting and enough fog to put the movie Fog to shame. This provides several eerie and highly effective set ups. Colours occasionally pop quite nicely and it all looks much better than its reduced budget might suggest. Sadly a lot of the suspense is relegated to dull, POV stalking cam and make up is not always as effective as it was before. But as the film goes on things pick up reasonably. There's a satisfying escalation of Charley's increasing vampiric drive and his dependence on his new master. Roddy McDowall as Peter Vincent actually forges an iconic role for himself, shifting between his inherent cowardice and this new found destiny as a genuine vampire hunter effectively. One almost wishes for this dynamic duo's continuing adventures. Final act is neither as enjoyable nor as gory as in the original but the set up is inventive and in this one, particular instance visual effects seem to match the good intentions. It's a bizarre pleasure, one that you'd never think to hope for, to watch Brian Thompson (X-File's shape shifting bounty hunter) bowl to the cheerful sound of In the Midnight Hour. The man almost seems friendly for a brief, bizarre moment. And it's but one of the many unexpected pleasures of Fright Night Part 2. First one is a bona fide classic. An inventive and endlessly re-watchable slice of comedic horror that, it would seem, only because of its much detested genre affiliation doesn't enjoy a much more substantial legacy. The sequel, though many would have you believe otherwise, is hardly an insulting waste of time. That title is forever reserved for Howling II: Your Sister is a Warewolf. Now that, is a stuff of true nightmares.

There was Hammer and then there was Tigon, a studio bent on replicating the former's success with a line up of cheapo, sleazy, exploitation flicks with delicious, rolling-off-your-tongue titles like Virgin Witch, The Beast in the Cellar and The Body Stealers. They hit gold eventually, the blind, poor prospectors they were, with 1968 Witchfinder General, a masterpiece of bound sexual desire, violence and a victim of overzealous censors. Grim and unrelenting Witchfinder General, unlike Hammer's Dracula, never really spawned a genre of its own but Tigon was keen to replicate that film's success in 1971 with The Blood on Satan's Claw. It doesn't match Witchfinder's mean spirit but there are many gory delights, ample nudity and enough blasphemy against the satanic panic era prudishness to offend your mom and your grandma. By the time Patrick Wymark's judge returns with a sword the size of Django's Gatling, to slice and dice through the devilish hordes, it runs a little bit out of steam but it's a priceless moment of mayhem. Filled to the brim with jolly, all age inclusive, naked prancing in the woods, this is a classic in a minor but entertaining sub category, that might never get a proper revival. Pair it up with Witchfinder, The Wicker Man and A Field in England for the ultimate in satanic folk horror.

There's a middling deficiency of thrills and suspense in The Accountant- a sizable hurdle that no amount of slick cinematography or confused plotting can overcome. Ben Affleck is acting out a script that allows him to be bored and detached in a completely new, though consistently unexciting, fashion. After his turn as Batman, he is yet another archetype, a lone, highly skilled man for hire, trained as a child in a foreign, dusty courtyard by a man who is probably a master of martial arts in a local dojo. Or in a mountain temple. This film never gives us a good sense of geography and though it might be expected of the plot that involves international money laundering, there’s not much globe-trotting either. The scale is strictly pedestrian, mid-western Americana. The final shoot-out is as unexciting as the rest of the action, as if a roll of footage was lost somewhere. What's left is terribly mediocre and put side by side with John Wick for example barely makes one's pulse rise. And not like any of this is compensated by clever writing. The Accountant comes equipped in meat and potatoes script, with characters so rigidly operating within their set roles that they feel arbitrarily moved about, animated and then discarded. It plays out a little bit like a superhero origin story with scenes serving not the film's denouement but setting up future conflicts. Not to mention Ben's white collar dullard comes with his own set of superpowers, courtesy of Hollywood's touch and go understanding of autism. Twist in the movie's final stretch is so insulting, that you wouldn't dare to try and predict it, if only to shield yourself from shame. Large chunks of the plot are told in flashbacks and one of them, towards the third act, lasts so long that it feels like it will sprout new plot lines of its own. I was half expecting J.K. Simmons to shine a bat light. Anna Kendrick services her portion of exposition and is then purged out of the picture. Perhaps for the better, since she is so comically mismatched with the lumbering, somber Affleck that the hint of connection they immediately share is actually a comic punchline of some kind. Perhaps because she wins him over by offering a doughnut and proclaiming her enjoyment of art. They share no chemistry other than sugar high. Somewhere during the film's marketing a neat little thriller emerged from the posters but the actual thing is a boring, dumb, sloppy mess that feels like Equalizer-lite. No film wants to be Equalizer-lite but I reckon The Accountant is too lazy to even argue otherwise.

Terminal not so much premiered as it was dumped, shamefuly smuggled amidst other misconceived rubbish, 'straight to VHS' fodder and those self-serving, misbegotten projects with not enough distance between the creators and their egos. It shows too. It's almost tactile in every set resued in perpetuity and every insincere grin of one of the film's recognizable but lifelles cast. Terminal hoped to benefit from Margot Robbie's rise to fame but even surrouned by other accomplished performers (Mike Myer's shows up in funny make up and Dexter Fletcher growls) she's drowning in the sewage of this neon lit, urban noir nightmare. It largely plays out like a comic book but too serious to be in the league of Frank Miller's Sin City where gruff men and sexed up femme fatales operate with cynical but self reflexive flair. This picture is all style, cheap dime store chic that sgruggles to sell the aesthetic that is too recognizable to ever be convincing in this dressed down form. There's a twisty plot about hitmen in bad suits and mob bosses and down on their luck loosers (Simon Pegg), all of that padded by dialogue that is neither Shakespeare nor pulp, but defnitiely overcooked and hard to swallow. It won't hurt anyone's filmography because it hardly registers.

Following from the focused, kinetic action of The Raid and then its even more ambitious, sprawling gangster epic follow up, Gareth Evans sets his sights on a new genre and a new setting, but applies the same, razor sharp directorial focus that defined those films. Apostle is clearly rooted in religious horror but its ambition is also its undoing, sending it, slowly, in several dead end, cinematic directions. The desperation of the early 20th century remote community on a verge of starvation is palpable and Apostle has the kind of muted but deliberate colour palette that allows green to pop and blood run in thick black, crimson rather that slasher red. The setting is intriguing, obviously evocative of very recent, successful The VVitch. Dropped into an isolated island of religious cultist is Thomas, in search of his kidnapped sister and himself, clearly unstable, if somewhat ingenious. He's a survivor and his initial quest is a tense cat and mouse game. Shame that it soon falls prey to clichés and short cuts that dilute its impact. He will be saved by coincidence, and rarely give the story any momentum. Too often it feels that visuals are only servicing the film's horror connotations and ultimately Apostle becomes a victim of its broad, meandering script that can't match Evans' keen eye for setting up grizzly, wonderful images and set-pieces. He's perhaps not critical enough of his own script. This bloat was less obvious in The Raid 2, but that film also ran for a cruel two hours plus. Apostle has ironically, too many ideas and not enough plot to propel it forward with enough momentum and many viewers will find the many segues from Thomas' initial investigation to be dulling its punch. Though it has to be said that one of the film's most effective and most gruesome moments happens without his involvement. It's a shame because Dan Stevens brings the same, steely eyed intensity that he did to his role in another genre hit The Guest, but here successfully manages a measure of vulnerability that serves the film well. Everyone else is at least efficient but dialogue betrays some of the dramatic moments with several misjudged lines. “Your eyes, they've seen things” Thomas hears at one point with portent that doesn't seem to belong in the desperate landscape that Evans build. Ultimately the ideas behind Apostle fuel a B-movie that could easily operate without the forced gravitas that permeates it. It's The Wicker Man by the way of gory grand-guignol that hopes to elevate itself through its deployment of religious zealots, pagan deities and broken humans, all unknowingly, but suspiciously heading towards a cruel new century of true horrors. It's too unfocused but still filled with powerful images that are sure to hold the attention of genre aficionados.

This 2016 factual drama aims to please and educate and you can't fault a movie for either. It also stands so firmly in line, behind other American biopics that I couldn't help but wonder if it isn't cheating its way out of the topic a little bit. Copying an abundance of tropes and narrative short-cuts from the films that preceded it and, in the process, pandering to its audience. The three equally rousing performances at the heart of Hidden Figures largely make the film. Katherine, Mary and Dorothy are fiercely portrayed by skilled actors and supported by sharp if not generous backdrop of recognizable faces. The story itself is light on broader context. Russian satellites are up in the sky spying on good folk of Virginia and racism plays largely through vignettes. It's reduction by the way of assimilation and exploitation of cinematic clichés. So business as usual. There are also short, rousing speeches (one of them in front of a judge). There are those elevating moments when music crescendos as the room recognizes the brilliance of the underdog. But there's also an overwhelming sense that in this type of movie someone sooner or later has to slip into a stereotype and here Hidden Figures falters by doing so from the outset. Kevin Costner plays Al Harrison with verve but his character is insufferable, his actions made up to soften the potential blow of recognizing the reality of 1960's racial divisions. At one point in the film he declares that women's bathrooms are no longer segregated. “We all pee the same colour at NASA” he declares and walks away. It's not surprising that this never happened just like it's not really surprising that the terrific women of Hidden Figures don't get to fight their own battles but instead stir the white vanity. Gee, they make it soar. Elsewhere Jim Parsons channels his volatile, irritable monster of a creation from CBS' dreadful show-that-wouldn't-die, though he's obnoxious in slightly different ways here. But it's Kirsten Dunst's steely eyed Mitchell that suffers through the most obvious arc. In this picture, shifts in racial attitudes are not only spelled out but highlighted by sudden wardrobe changes- hers turns from black to bold, brown check. It wouldn't be a problem but this is the film's way of communicating those ideas. Women in the coloured office, their bright skirts and suits are contrasted by the monochrome until they pop dramatically, as they finally march towards their new, better assignment through the halls of Langley Research Center. The final dramatic jolt contains no suspense, even if you're unfamiliar with the outcome of the Frinedship 7 mission. But Taraji P. Henson's Katherine does get one last minute opportunity to brilliantly save the day. Hidden Figures tells an uplifting and genuinely heart-warming true life story in an entertaining and all round crowd pleasing fashion. That is to say it takes absolutely no risks in telling it and supports itself with clichés whenever it can. It's worthwhile, just as every slice of history, every attempt to share it and spread it, is. But in purely cinematic terms it is so safe and predictable that it sometimes borders on dull and, like most biopics around, it plays fast and loose with many facts that don't make for a good, dramatic scene. Which means that there are plenty of them here.

It's easy to imagine how a film like Devil in a Blue Dress got overlooked over the last two decades. Two years later L.A. Confidential would make a big splash at the Oscars and seemingly execute the same noir template with a perfect mix of sharp writing and style. Denzel Washington also moved on to dazzle in competent crowd pleases, leading up to his own Oscar for Training Day. But his role as Ezekiel Rawlins in this moody and witty adaptation of Walter Mosley's novel is amongst his most eclectic and accomplished. Ezekiel, or Easy, as he's called time and again by a long line up of shady figures, neighbours and friends, is not really a detective, though in the course of the film he gets to do quite a lot of it. He's good at it too and handles himself just like you would imagine a veteran of WWII handle himself when attacked by a knife wielding gangster. But the central and most effective conceit of Mosley's world is the fact that it's 1948 and Easy can't always act the way we would expect a hero of a noir story to act. We could see the glimpse of the corrupt and immoral Los Angeles Police Department in LA Confidential too, but in this picture it hits much harder. We've seen our protagonists wrongfully accused by overzealous officers before in countless films. It's no surprise that Easy's seemingly simple, and way too lucrative job of finding a missing woman Daphne Monet (a strange, exotic name that already reeks of trouble) soon has him picked up and interrogated as a main suspect in a homicide investigation. But the added racial tension makes this situation even more intense and Washington's conflicted, forcibly restrained performance conveys this brilliantly. He explodes with violence when he has to and when he can but he's cool and relaxed too, falling asleep on his porch, in a house he proudly owns. All the other performances are great too. Tom Sizemore and Jennifer Beals slip into their respective archetypes effortlessly, though it's Don Cheadle as Mouse that steals the show. He acts immorally but never betrays his character. “If you didn't want him dead why did you leave with him?” he asks Easy puzzled. It's an energetic, sizzling effort. A lot of the film takes place in predictable, smoky locals, some dimly lit alleys too but also sunny suburbs. The violence often seems to spill all across LA and invade Easy's private life. It's all very well done and stylish, though a bit low key. The plot is also easy to follow, manipulating all familiar elements from other crime pot-boilers to good effect but it has too few surprise for discerning viewers. The corruption and indecency muddle the narrative but the film only runs about 100 minutes and there's not enough room for scope. Everything we're being shown somehow relates to the main plot, sooner or later. Devil in a Blue Dress is comfortably familiar but skillfully realized. It's stylish but not overtly so. It sells you on the mood and the era but doesn't feel that it's necessary to push it all too far. It's actually a refreshing, enjoyable picture with not a hint of pastiche and it benefits from great central performance and its unique angle, low key as it may be.

Ace in the Hole (aka The Big Carnival) lost none of its poignancy. Perhaps, inevitably, it gained some. So good and effective is Billy Wilder's post mortem of manipulative journalism and audience's direct participation in that process that even in the context of his body of work up to this point, film's sheer cruelty and its ultimate, bleak resolution seem shocking. Kirk Douglas' Chuck Tatum rides into Albuquerque in a broken down car, towed slowly down the quiet main street. He manages to weasel his way into a new reporting job but one year on, though now sober, he struggles to come to terms with his exile to New Mexico. While on another meaningless assignment (I wasn't even aware that rattlesnake hunting was ever a thing) he luckily stumbles upon a story- a local man Leo Minosa, trapped in a collapsed cave. He's first journalist on site and bullies his way down the tunnel. From this point on Tatum skilfully manipulates the corrupt sheriff, the reluctant construction crew and even Minosa's wife and parents in order to extend the rescue and capitalize on his access to Leo. Billy Wilder's direction is focused and he lets the sharp, direct dialogue come through effortlessly. As the media circus unravels on the surface, way above Leo, tight frames open up so that we can see the surprising scope of the farce that Tatum orchestrated. Parked in orderly lines, cars fill the previously desolate desert. There's music and food and the diner where Leo's disgruntled wife works is filled with people. It's a carnival where human life and the urgency of the rescue are second to our enjoyment of it. When possibility of Leo actually dying due to delay comes up, it's only in the context of a happy ending that the audience requires. In the end everyone is so preoccupied with the entertainment that they don't actually care about the news. Somehow Wilder makes even a darker statement than anticipated. Tatum's turn also comes too late. It feels inevitable but also perfunctory. When we see him back in the collapsed mineshaft, facing Leo whose grimace is that of hopeless exhaustion, we know that we're past the point of redemption. In fact we don't see Leo for a big chunk of the second act. Wilder skilfully makes us forget the figure at the centre of this story. The story that Tatum exploits and twists, the one he makes himself a central part of but that isn't really his. Does the fact that he's not the only one bent on profiting from the tragedy makes it any better? “How would you like to earn $1000 a day?” he asks his old boss, mirroring his pitch when he first arrived in Albuquerque. But his reputation is of no consequence, bleeding and broken he proclaims he is available to work for free- such is the price of human life apparently. Wilder would go on to make Sabrina, The Seven Year Itch, Some Like It Hot and The Apartment, fantastic and witty comedies, but he never dared to match or outdo the bleak, unflinching exhaustion of human fibre that he committed to in Ace in the Hole. It seems he didn't have to. It's hard to imagine the plot of Ace in the Hole becoming any more cynical and downbeat.

Hold the Dark arrives on Netflix stripped of any real impact, despite its skilful cinematic artistry. Following from excellent Blue Ruin and Green Room, Jeremy Saulnier's latest excels in building moody atmosphere and a landscape of cold desperation but confuses both for suspense and meaning. Sudden jolts of violence carry over from Saulnier's previous films and are executed impressively. A shoot-out staged half way through the film is an exhilarating example of his mastery of space and brutality. Elsewhere however, the film moves with little to no urgency, hoping to instil in the audience a vague sense of menace and detachment, all of it in the slavish service of its main allegory. And it rings hollow because while Hold the Dark is certainly oppressive it also operates without any sense of human connection. All of the characters speak and behave in a way that emphasizes its metaphysical ideas but lends the film no credibility. In fact the opaque manner in which Hold the Dark tries to make a statement about the nature and unpredictability of human behaviour doesn’t warrant the overtly ponderous tone or the bloated narrative. These ideas come across as contrived, at odds with film's genre thrills. Perhaps stripped of its self importance Hold the Dark could be a focused, grim and relentless little thriller but it's so enamoured with its symbolism that it fails on both counts. Last year's Wind River managed to do this with more elegance, mainly because there was an actual mystery at the heart of that film. Sense of mystery here ties only to certain visual cues, snippets of dialogue and all of that is ultimately dismissed to fuel the allegory that is neither revelatory nor convincing. Ultimately it's a film that should have been outgrown by Saulnier's talent by now. But perhaps sometimes, amidst the process, one cannot see the forest for the trees. This picture is neither trashy enough nor intelligent enough to justify its occasional aimlessness, savage violence and its commitment to making grand, sweeping statements about the ambiguity of our nature.

Hardware is a quintessential cult film. A project of a young director that was soon to vanish from the film-making horizon. An ambitious but a shoe-string budget science fiction that taps into a particular Zeitgeist. An overwrought, quasi philosophical flick that is fascinating even if it fails to deliver any real thrills. Often dismissed upon its initial release as a mere Terminator clone, film only rehashes familiar sci-fi motifs in order to indulge Richard Stanley's unique vision. Hardware remains a testament to his singular intellectual capacity, that to equal extent focuses on exploiting properties of the genre and expanding them in unexpected, original ways. In Hardware Stanley manages to work around the budget constraints and turns all London based, outdoor and indoor locations into a believably devastated landscape of a civilization in retreat. Flesh is consumed by overwhelming rusting metal and slowly decays amidst the ubiquitous pollution. It's a bleak, even if not entirely original, vision. Seemingly influenced in equal measure by nihilism of Mad Max and director's own pessimism, it builds upon audience's recognition of familiar cinematic traits and then channels that into what can be best described as a genre avant-garde- a film that communicates recognizable images but attempts to distort them. It's subversive and often deliberately glib. Stanley's film is a product of its times- anxious about the state of the environment and our place in the technological civilization on the threshold of the new millennia. It perhaps couldn't be made with the same infectious desperation pouring out of the screen at any other time in the history. What it also shares with defining it literate and cinematic contexts is the same tendency towards gratuitous symbolism. Religious connotations (both Christian and Hindu) between characters of Moses Baxter and deadly M.A.R.K.-13 are at times heavy handed but rewarding in the scale of the whole because of the consistency with which they are used and, at times, their detailed intricacy. Ultimately film has a tendency of forcing upon the viewer an urge to penetrate every single frame in search of hidden depths. Exactly because philosophical rather than the narrative layer of Hardware comes to dominate the entire feature, Stanley's film becomes so dense, impenetrable and therefore intriguing. Film's low key lighting and colour palette, defined by oligochromatic browns and reds adds to the overwhelming sense of danger even if the script, time and time again postpones the actual violence and fails to ignite any tension. Added, voyeuristic sub-plot is appropriately disturbing and intense but serves little dramatic purpose. Instead, with almost anti-action bent, film constructs itself from purely aesthetic devices. Hardware delivers gore and sex, as expected, but they are nowhere near as entertaining or resonant as the overarching art style. In the last third, Stanley without any moderation delivers hypnotic and grotesque imagery that leaves the viewer confused but with a prevailing sense of being a witness to a wonderful and bedazzling vision. Energizing the very essence of cinematic images screen comes alive in a perplexing montage reuniting subjective and objective, memories and fantasies. If it feels a little bit disjointed it's because it is- Stanley's film is not restrained by any conventions. Hardware is best approached not as it was advertised- a sci-fi action film but rather a complex mantra; film of unified stylistic and philosophical vision that comes close to encapsulating both entertaining and intellectual properties of a masterful sci-fi. It is perhaps too aware of its real intentions and too self indulgent, for the film too be fully appreciated by the mainstream audiences. Nevertheless, Hardware remains a work of an intriguing and skillful artist. If you fall for its depressing tone and appreciate cyberpunk influenced issues that it tackles you might find yourself coming back to it several times and embracing its psychedelic, nihilistic imagery.