Now I'm not the only one who expected the decomposing corpse of Ray Brower to lurch forward, his undead facsimile of human senses brought out of stasis by the proximity of his former associates, and to sink his stained teeth into the leg of Vern, am I..?
"This is how it starts. Already in a state of shock at the sight of an ostensibly dead body, Gordie, Chris and Teddy can’t believe what’s happening; is this a joke? Some adolescent prank orchestrated by Vern’s older brother Billy, in order to lure them twenty miles into the wilderness and scare the shit out of them? But no, this is very, very real. As the hideous parody of Ray severs Vern's tibia with the ferocity of its bite, blood geysers from the wound as the head pulls back to strike further up the leg, tearing flesh from the stunned Vern. His screams had been quickly silenced by the flood of adrenaline into his system, and he now sits wheezing, shaking too much to co-ordinate the removal of the ravenous cadaver from his lower-leg.
Then, reality snaps back into play and Gordie knows what he must do. Ray Brower is no longer his acquaintance, his classmate, the macabre destination of the spiritual and physical journey he’s been sharing with his closest friends. This is a monster. A monster which is now attacking one of the few people Gordie feels - no, knows - he can trust in this world. The .45 which has been weighing him down for the last day suddenly dances in his hands, it too has reached its destination. Although a giddy feeling grips his chest as he aims, Gordie’s hands are unnaturally still as he aims the gun at Ray, and an effortless squeeze of the trigger discharges a deafening metal slug which throws the frothing animal back three feet. Half of the creature’s chest is now missing, the rapidly necrotising tissue proving no obstacle for the ordnance, but to everyone’s slack-jawed amazement, it plunges forward at Vern again; the red, quivering mess of his knee-joint acting like a magnet for the ghoul’s eager jaws.
The time for restraint is over; Gordie kneels forward and halts the thing's progress with the barrel of the pistol pushing into what used to be a face. There are no speeches, no farewells. All that squirms out of Gordie’s mouth is a weak “…fucker”, before the second shot within a minute tears the back of the undead cannibal’s head away, spraying the foliage in a range of hues which nature had never intended them to bear. It’s over. The three boys join Vern and the remains of their classmate by slumping to the ground, speechless.
After what seems like hours, the ear-ringing silence of the woodland is disturbed by heavy, hurried footsteps. Ace Merril enters the scene then quickly halts and surveys the carnage. “What the fuck? …What the fuck have you assholes done?”
Gordie hangs his head, exhausted. Where to begin? And is it all worth telling to this douchebag anyway? He wouldn’t know the truth if it smacked him in the face, and even then he wouldn’t care. Shit, he’s stepping forward. “Hey, asshole, I said---“
And without looking up, Gordie already knows what’s happened. Unencumbered by rigor mortis or decomposition, the thing which used to be Vern springs at Ace - no mean feat with only three limbs - catching him off-guard and clawing, biting, chewing at his throat as the blonde boy's high-pitched, withering scream accompanies them to the dirt. Ace Merril's final smart-assed quip is a gurgling sigh emitting from the morass of tendons beneath his jaw, his widened eyes glassing over as his feet twitch less and less. Billy and the rest of the older gang are standing at the top of the clearing at the railway track, transfixed by the carnivorous picnic on display; unable to move.
That's when the previously mute Teddy finds his voice, the psychotic swagger beginning to return amid the madness. "Yeah that's right, fuckers! You're not as tough now, are ya?" he jeers. Billy is shaking now, crying and pissing himself. Somehow it's this, rather than Teddy's yelling which makes the former Vern's eyes dart up, like an ill-mannered diner ready for the next course.
Throughout all of this, Gordie stands holding the .45, a small voice screaming at him to put a stop to all this. But the rest of his brain shuts that voice down. Not Vern, man. Not Vern. As one, Gordie, Chris and Teddy begin tumbling town the hill toward the riverbank, leaving Billy and his moronic cohorts to fend for themselves. Gordie doesn't even know how many shots he has left, anyway.
The voice reminds him that just one would suffice.
+ + + + +
And that was how it started. At least, that's how I remember it starting, although it was all so long ago now my brain may be playing tricks on me. We hardly spoke a word on the long walk home; we didn't need to. I guess someone from Billy's gang must have had the wherewithal to make it back to their pickup truck, because by the time we reached Castle Rock, some of the gang (all that was left) had long since returned. Although whoever was compos mentis enough to drive didn't have the common sense to leave their wounded friends behind, because they brought the infection into town with them. And that was how it started.
The town fought hard to quell the outbreak, but these things won't be contained. At least, that's what the CDC told us, in the days when they were still trying to offer advice. The lucky few who escaped the town were gone within a year, but once the surrounding cities became over-run, even the military stopped trying to clean up the mess. I've never been able to shake the guilt of not putting an end to things on that railway siding. Chris tried his best, telling me that Ray Brower would have bitten someone anyway as the authorities were looking for his body. But I could have stopped it. I could have stopped him.
Chris lasted around two months before being bitten. I was with him at the time, and I'd swore not to make the same mistake again. I know he understood. Teddy on the other hand? He disappeared three weeks after we got home; could have been his mind snapping, could have been bitten, or perhaps his Dad finally just finished what he'd been threatening to do all those years? I don't know, although I can't pretend I didn't enjoy taking Teddy's old man down when he was attacked by one of them outside the bar a month or so later.
And now it's just me. Cleaning up the walkers which drift into town, as well as the looters who think there's anything here worth taking. It's just me, baby. Just me.
It turns out I only had one shot left in that .45. One shot which could have stopped all this. Maybe. I've lost count of the number I've fired since then, but I've always kept that one shell with me. If I couldn't finish things in 1959, I'll sure as hell finish them when it's my time. It's not been my time all these years, but the neighbouring towns are spent and the fish are just about gone from the river.
So, I'm putting these words into the glove-box, not as a warning but a kind of record. Maybe even a confession, I guess. A message-in-a-bottle, cast into a worldwide ocean. I never had any friends later on like the ones I had when I was twelve.
This is how it ends."
Because y'know: four kids just walking back home? "That ending sucks…";)
Really. I was more Back To The Future and Transformers in '86, and it just never crossed my radar after that.
Absolutely, it's marvellous.
I wouldn't have just written 1200 words of zombie-fanfic if it wasn't.
Well I would, except everybody else has seen it, obviously.
There isn't, although that eagle/hawk screech is in there.
The film stars Richard Dreyfuss, who appeared in 1973's American Graffiti, directed by George 'Baron Papanoida' Lucas.
DISCLAIMERS:
• ^^^ That's dry, British humour, and most likely sarcasm or facetiousness.
• Yen's blog contains harsh language and even harsher notions of propriety. Reader discretion is advised.
• This is a personal blog. The views and opinions expressed here represent my own thoughts (at the time of writing) and not those of the people, institutions or organisations that I may or may not be related with unless stated explicitly.
Although Bill Pohlad's twin-timelines in the study of Brian Wilson's life are interwoven, Love & Mercy really is 'a film of two halves'. The strand beginning around 1965 featuring Paul Dano as the eccentric visionary who pulled together The Beach Boys' acclaimed Pet Sounds album is a magnificent yet intimate portrait of a man suffering from conditions which weren't fully diagnosable at the time, the result of which (for better or worse) shaped the sound of the 20th century. This story has faux-archive footage, hand-held documentary style filming and a vibrant colour-palette to match. It is poignant. Moving. Incredible.
The strand beginning in the mid-to-late eighties featuring John Cusack as the older Wilson being heavily 'guided' by his combined producer, manager and carer feels like a Channel 5 made-for-TV afternoon movie. This ongoing narrative focuses on former-model and car-saleswoman Melinda Ledbetter and her bid to free Brian from his cycle of medication and manipulation. Visually blander but more emotionally demanding by necessity, it's a very good story in itself, but seems like a completely different film; and that contrast doesn't help Love & Mercy the way it should.
The real problem is that Dano and Cusack never feel like they're the same person, and since Dano sets the bar chronologically and their performances are interlaid, that's kind of a deal-breaker. Cusack's a capable and underrated actor, he's just not right for this role, playing Wilson as far more child-like at a later stage in his life than Dano (and while there's clearly a progression to Brian's condition that continues through the time-gap between the segments, the script doesn't account for the complete change in his personality and behaviour. And appearance. If feels like Cusack's playing Wilson in another film, not just another decade).
The 'first half' of the Love & Mercy focuses on Wilson the musician, his work with his brothers, and the strained relationship with their father/manager. While the music really is kept to a minimum in the later-strand (and let's be fair, it's the music which is drawing the audience here on a greater or lesser level), it becomes embarrassingly clear than while Paul Dano knows his way around a piano, Cusack doesn't. The editor's attempts to fudge over this cutting between shots of a pianist's hands vs everything-else only accentuate it more. It shouldn't matter of course, but it drives the wedge further between the two performances.
Despite an almost Kubrickian sequence at the climax of the film, the two threads never combine neatly enough, and each just ends up filling in details of a story you already know, like a succession of snapshots rather than a story-book. Oh, and well done to the closing caption-cards for saying that Wilson had been mis-diagnosed with paranoid-schizophrenia without shedding any more light on his actual condition.
As much as I've moaned about it (and how), Love & Mercyis worth seeing for the 1960s timeline, it's just a shame you can't leave halfway through.
Paul Dano is Oscar-worthy.
John Cusack is two steps away from 'going full-retard*1'.
Oh, and that bit at the end, where Melinda nearly runs Brian over and she's all like 'what were you doing in the road?'. He was on a pedestrian-crossing as the film clearly illustrates. If that's the actual dialogue from what happened, why would you leave it in the film revealing her to be an appalling driver? If it's not what was said, why the hell would you even add it?
Half of it is.
Rental.
Dano? Yes.
Giamatti? It's up there with his 'good' work.
Banks? Far better than she can usually do with the roles she takes.
Cusack? …
I think it does, just not in the best way it could.
Not really.
No. it's really not that kind of film.
Well, Love & Mercy stars Paul Dano, who made an appearance in 12 Years a Slave, alongside Lupita Nyong'o, who stars in Star Wars: The Force Awakens.
*1 Yeah, it's not a term I particularly like using, but it comes the closest to summing up his performance, unfortaunately.
DISCLAIMERS:
• ^^^ That's dry, British humour, and most likely sarcasm or facetiousness.
• Yen's blog contains harsh language and even harsher notions of propriety. Reader discretion is advised.
• This is a personal blog. The views and opinions expressed here represent my own thoughts (at the time of writing) and not those of the people, institutions or organisations that I may or may not be related with unless stated explicitly.
Okay, let's get this cinematic train back on its track. Spike Jonze's 1999 fantasy flick is a one which slipped under my radar at the time (I was a little preoccupied with Star Wars that year), and has come up in conversation since, but only as a recommendation-with-caveats.
Off-beat, but rarely off-puttingly so, Being John Malkovich is on uneasy-street from the word go, taking a full half-hour before the title-star is even mentioned upon the discovery of a plot-device portal into his psyche. Under the normal run of things this alone would annoy me, but Jonez's world-building is a wonder to watch in the meanwhile, like trying to recall a fever-dream while you're still in the fever.
Cameron Diaz and John Cusack are fantastic leads, which makes you wonder why the rest of their careers are so monumentally bland*1. John Malkovich and Catherine Keener are great as usual, of course. Props also go to Orson Bean being quietly brilliant as Dr Lester.
Jonez's direction is the perfect fit for Charlie Kaufman's writing (although cinematographer Lance Acord could do with turning the lights up a little), and the whole concept - one which could easily have slipped into an unaware parody black-hole with a different headliner - comes together so neatly; almost as if it isn't one of the weirdest films you'll ever see.
It's just a shame that ending is so heavily telegraphed.;)
Really, never.
I am, indeed.
Yes. But with caveats.
Not that I heard.
Cameron Diaz played Natalie in the movie-incarnations of Charlie's Angels, the first of which also starred Mr Tim Curry, perhaps most famously known (obviously) for his role as the voice of Palpatine/Sidious in the later episodes of Star Wars: The Clone Wars.
*1 Don't get me wrong, I don't actively dislike either, but their choice of roles is often dreadful.
DISCLAIMERS:
• ^^^ That's dry, British humour, and most likely sarcasm or facetiousness.
• Yen's blog contains harsh language and even harsher notions of propriety. Reader discretion is advised.
• This is a personal blog. The views and opinions expressed here represent my own thoughts (at the time of writing) and not those of the people, institutions or organisations that I may or may not be related with unless stated explicitly.
Sex, bullying, guilt, murder, incest and repetition; Hollywood™! Nothing is off the cards in David Cronenberg's tale of tinseltown corrosion that makes Birdman look like a comedic romp by comparison. Glibness aside, Maps To The Stars is pretty much the perfect companion-piece to the Iñárritu flick about mental collapse in a semi-fictionalised film industry, but walks in much darker shoes.
Mia Wasikowska, Olivia Williams, John Cusack, Robert Pattinson and the young Evan Bird are all outstanding under Cronenberg's taut direction, but it's Julianne Moore who really shines here (ironically, given the nature of her role as a psychologically wrecked actress approaching the end of her Hollywood 'shelf-life'). Julianne gives the grief, desperation and vulnerability that do full justice to Bruce Wagner's screenplay. I only wish the story-strand with Moore and Sarah Gadon, playing the young-incarnation of her mother, had been given more screen time. That said, there's a hell of a lot to get through in this tangled web, and it's not easy-going at the best of times.
In other hands, the film could well have turned into a self-fuelling darkly comic parody, but there's little to smile at here, even if there's much to admire. Maps To The Stars won't be for everybody, but that's always been Cronenberg's style. Inaccessible yet intriguing, you'll need a fascination with the twisted machine that is Hollywood to see it through to the end, but it's one hell of a ride.
Not a film you'll want to watch with your parents in the room.
I haven't. It was a bit too genre to come to my local, and only on for one week in London so I didn't get the chance.
I am. A little drained, but glad.
I'd recommend it to people who like tales of inwardly-spiralling self-destruction, yes.
There isn't. It's not really that kind of film, to be fair.
The film briefly features Princess Leia herself, Carrie Fisher.
DISCLAIMERS:
• ^^^ That's dry, British humour, and most likely sarcasm or facetiousness.
• Yen's blog contains harsh language and even harsher notions of propriety. Reader discretion is advised.
• This is a personal blog. The views and opinions expressed here represent my own thoughts (at the time of writing) and not those of the people, institutions or organisations that I may or may not be related with unless stated explicitly.
So, I don't mind a bit of Cage. In fact, I'd go so far as to say I rather enjoy his work, often on a trashy level but enjoy nonetheless. I have a patchier history with Cusack, but I'm willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. And Hudgens? Erm, I watched Sucker Punch then tried to forget it. So when you take this combo and add the words 'Based on real events', you probably shouldn't hold up too much hope, right?
Well, it's far better than you expect it to be, but not quite as good as you'd like. The framework is pure straight-to-video crime thriller; not sleazy in a titillating way, but not afraid to show a few boobies when the scene's set in a strip club (and this happens often enough that you imagine it's one of the reasons the screenplay got optioned). But keeping it grounded is the subject matter. While the 'actual events' title card is only shown once at the start, the scenes with the killer are just edgy enough to remind you that this happened; it's not overly sensationalised, and it doesn't leave too much of a bad taste in the mouth, but it's unpleasant enough to drive the plot exactly as it should.
Cage is okay as the Alaska State Trooper determined to apprehend a known serial-killer, and Cusack is okay as that killer, but it's their scenes together that make The Frozen Ground worth the watch. Hudgens channels her best Mila Kunis as a character consistently making the wrong decisions; she's very good, in a completely infuriating way. The final act of the film has a layer of intensity that's desperately trying to pull the film out of made-for-Channel-5 territory, and almost manages it.
It says a lot about the tone of the The Frozen Ground that when the closing credits start with a dedication to Hansen's victims, and a sequence of photographs/details of each is shown, not a single person left the auditorium or even fidgeted to. I don't know how close to the truth this film goes, but for me it was close enough to be not taken lightly.
No, that trailer's terrible.
Yes.
Yes.
Honestly? DVD, tops.
No.
With the best will in the world, probably not. It's not really a repeater.
There isn't, no.
What's the best 'actual events' movie you've seen?
DISCLAIMERS:
• ^^^ That's dry, British humour, and most likely sarcasm or facetiousness.
• Yen's blog contains harsh language and even harsher notions of propriety. Reader discretion is advised.
• This is a personal blog. The views and opinions expressed here represent my own thoughts (at the time of writing) and not those of the people, institutions or organisations that I may or may not be related with unless stated explicitly.
