Cult Oddities Special Delivery

Rodman Flender's The Unborn (1991) is better titled "Rosemary's Baby on the D-List." Pre-natal terror is its raison d'etre; a comment on the blessings and curse of fertility drugs that would make Octomom seem only moderately perverse. What could come of scientific tampering during the very fragile formation of life? A race of ugly freak genius babies who know nothing more than to study and draw shapes from inside the womb -- before they devour their mothers, naturally.


"Evil Kids" movies are their own genre. The likes of The Omen, Village of the Damned, Children of the Corn and It's Alive tap into that tender crux between pristine innocence and the gestation of pure evil. This month saw the release of Orphan, a film which looks to be a variation on The Good Son for the unwanted child set (clarification: unwanted child not named Macaulay Culkin), and it's merely the next film in line to remind us that kids are not to be trusted, from conception to college. The Unborn graciously joins those ranks with a notable recipe for bad taste, and it's memorable for the fact that it keeps the "evil kid" element primarily within the womb.

Actress Brooke Adams lends an air of class to the proceedings as a mother plagued by depression in her bloodline, and a husband whose interest in having children may go deeper than initially perceived. Adams has a substantial history with disturbing material (Shock Waves, The Dead Zone, Invasion of the Body Snatchers, the CBS series Touched by an Angel) and always manages to find the elegance in the mayhem that surrounds her. As Virginia Marshall, she descends from a modest and mild-tempered children's author to a kitten crushing madwoman bent on destroying a master race of homicidal super-babies. Her performance grounds the film's first half, before the film takes a turn for the deliciously worse and no graceful line reading could spare it.

"Come on, wake up. You lazy cat, come on.
You're such a sleepy head.
I know... where's your little mouse?
That'll perk you up! You love your little mouse."

Her dilemma is on par with Rosemary Woodhouse as we begin to query if this maternal dread is more a form of pre-partum depression than any sort of legitimate threat growing from within. Also in tune with Rosemary's Baby is Dr. Meyerling (James Karen), a variation on the evil Dr. Sapirstien, who's a bit more involved with Virginia's conception and a bit less reliant on Satan's dirty deed. That parallel of course quickly disintegrates as the film loses all silly notions of substance and foregoes Rosemary's restraint. It's more on par with a recent film like Drag Me to Hell, which similarly takes to kitten slaughter slapstick and is all the better for it. That film pronounces its comic elements from the get go, while The Unborn more or less dissolves into its more manic, twisted side. Much like the decision to abort your monster child, once it's done there's no turning back.

A face only a mother could obliterate.

And the film does take on the abortion issue with a vengeance. Quite literally when the aborted fetus returns armed with a knitting needle. But when Virginia ultimately regrets her decision and attempts to rescue the fetus from a back alley dumpster, she's greeted by a homeless gimp on a skateboard -- no explanation whatsoever. Never taking a side on the issues, The Unborn prefers its descent into oddball, gruesome absurdity. It's not so much pro-life as it is pro-inane.

Blink-and-you'll-miss a pre-Friends Lisa Kudrow collecting sperm samples. Apparently at this stage in her otherwise brilliant career, it hadn't been Lisa's day, her week, her month or even her year. There's also a surprise supporting turn from the likes of a pre-Suddenly Susan Kathy Griffin, on the D-List long before she made that concept famous. Kathy's a stellar stand up comic, and even with her penchant for sick humor, I've never heard her speak of playing this role as the teacher of a man-hating, lesbian birthing class who is bludgeoned by her lover with a telephone. It's pretty evident Kathy's calling was for stand up, where the laughs are at the expense of others.


And that's basically what to expect when you're expecting. The Unborn is a film that holds its B-movie origin close to the chest, embraces it warmly, and then gives it a little shake just for good measure. Ill-conceived? Maybe. Raised under questionable guidance? Most definitely. And it grows up to be a big freakshow you're embarrassed to introduce to your friends. Even so... this baby's still on board!

Cult Oddities: Friday the 13th Part 3: 3-D (1982)

"Meet Jason in a whole new dimension" prompts the tagline for Friday the 13th Part 3: 3-D. Naturally the joke is on the 3-D visual gag, but I take it to refer to the irony involved in a film with zero dimensions. Then again... no one cares, myself included. There is pleasure to be found in disgust, and this series proves it consistently with bad acting, extraneous bloodshed, rip-off scripts, and maybe a moment or two that is genuinely memorable or new. The first Friday is a pretty solid genre film, and other sequels in the series do show signs of a knowing wit towards the bludgeon-by-numbers plot formula (Part VI: Jason Lives is just as much a comedy, and pathetically so is Freddy vs. Jason.) Stupid, simple, lighthearted slaughterhouses, maybe still with a hint of suspense; Friday the 13th did invariably add some new elements into American horror in its heyday. The real challenge in being the third part in a series is to be THE sequel with the distinct dilemma of combining a burgeoning horror legacy with easy money and disco.

"Make it work."
Even backwoods fashion evolves.

I had to give an ode to this film upon seeing it for the first time within that touted third dimension -- with those eye-deteriorating paper 3-D glasses no less. It was a viewing filled with laughter, headaches and tears -- mostly from the paper 3-D glasses. But something is still so very special about these films for just how worthless they are. You go in expecting dead teenagers and you leave sa-tis-fied. And 3-D is a tried and true gimmick that I've felt could be exploited brilliantly by filmmakers interested in showing great depth of field. Imagine the long tracking shots in a film by Gus Van Sant or Paul Thomas Anderson, or through the windows and colors of Wong Kar Wai. Even inessential films like this or My Bloody Valentine 3-D gain some interest in the way that inessential moments look surprisingly roomy, visually speaking. Even without 3-D a bad movie seems somehow knowingly so. Objects are thrust at the camera with reckless abandon. Watch out for that child's baseball bat! Venomous snakes! Flying arrows! Hippies! If Friday the 13th Part 3 passes you the joint, you take it.


At this time Jason Voorheas wasn't even the homicidal horror icon or backwoods-rotted-muscle-man that he is today. Jason was just starting out; defining his look and methods for splatter. As far as we knew he was just a little mama's boy who drowned in a lake, revived from the dead only to see his avenging mother beheaded, and returned solemnly to his cabin in the woods. Props to his memorial ode to Mom being that of her severed head as home decor. Thoughtful, bold... loving. He seemed so modest and wholesome with a bag over his face. Part 3 is NOT the series' highpoint, but by god is it NOT the series' lowpoint. What it lacks in inspiration and worthwhile characters, it all but surpasses in those singular moments lost to the eighties -- like a "previously on Friday the 13th" intro, convenience store biker gangs, and a scary soundtrack that will make you want to step out on the floor and dance!

"Is this your rubber?
Didn't your Mama teach you manners?
If you want something, you ask... Nice."

It was an innocent time to be a franchise serial killer. Torture porn would seem so tedious to a killer like Jason - who offs kids with the same passion he gives to doing laundry (which he ironically neglects in pursuit of offing kids). It's work as usual 'round these parts. He knows this campground like the back of his rotted hand, and he certainly knows there's no dearth of stupid, horny youth.

Screenwriting 101: Establish character through dialogue...

Chris: Sex, sex, sex. You guys are getting boring, you know that?

Andy: What would a weekend in the country be without sex?

Pregnant Friend #1: Cool it Andy.

Andy: I didn't mean it that way.

This most recent batch of hormones is young, fresh, and lacking in personality. Our final girl, Chris, is dreadfully boring, but she's... pretty. Sure, she's a prude and would rather unpack than skinny dip with her pals, but she has her reasons. After running away from a family feud at this lakeside cabin two years prior, Chris was attacked by a "hideous looking man!" Inexplicably Jason chose not to kill Chris, instead returning her safely to her cabin bed. (Still so wholesome he was...) The attack has left her wounded and scarred, yet Chris's somehow surprised at feeling uncomfortable upon returning to this very same locale just to fuck and party with friends. Reason enough so that she can tease her beefcake boyfriend, and be distracted from her non-descript pregnant friends, stoners, and your standard doom-and-gloom country bumpkin...

"Go back from whence ye came! I have warned thee! Warned thee..."

Stock characters seems too complimentary a description. It's at this point in the series where the formula was solidified and the audience would identify more with Jason than his disposable income of hapless youth. Jason's most notable quality in this sequel is the first appearance of THE hockey mask that would ultimately define him. Unfortunately he has to give credit to the film's most grating creation, Shelley, for leaving this new look behind. Shelley is the resident prankster, but for all that fun he seems to be having, he's a total downer. ("Would you be yourself if you looked like this?") A frizzy-haired sad clown with an inevitable end... Whether that makes you cry or laugh, it's probably just those paper 3-D glasses.


Director Steve Miner has a long history with horror, having worked on the sets of The Last House on the Left and the original Friday. He then took the reigns on the second and third in this series, as well as the seventh outing for Michael Myers, Halloween: H20. If this entry seems at all uninspired, it's also a marvel of how streamlined these films had become at this stage. In due time Jason would have his Final Chapter, only to return for a tour of Manhattan and the outer realms of space. Friday Part 3 is the modest side of that spectrum. Its pleasures come in those "death by handstand" moments, the careless T&A, and extreme yo-yo action. And if that ending seems at all familiar, its just been "borrowed" from Friday the 13th Part 1 - alongside other needless aspects such as setting and plot. Friday Part 3 looks a lot better in that third dimension, seeing as any lack of depth is fully exploited and thrust into the audiences' faces. Jason's dead in a whole new dimension... Let's disco.

Watch this Movie online at iReel.com.

(Also watch Part 2.)

"Cheers!" from a Snotty Jude Law

Cheers for returning to the Club while I was summering on my yacht in Southern Italy sans internet. You can tell I own a yacht because I use words like "sans." Snotty Jude Law and I thank you!

Defensive Cinema #4: Twin Peaks: Fire Walk With Me (1992)

Defensive Cinema is a series devoted to films seemingly dismissed by the greater population. And me getting all defensive like and telling you why my opinions hold more water than yours.

"When this fire starts, it is very hard to put out. The tender boughs of innocence burn first, and the wind rises... And then all goodness is in jeopardy."

I understand any fan's disappointment over not getting closure to the classic series Twin Peaks. No new revelations, no Doppelganger Dale Cooper. And I certainly can't blame them for being angry at not seeing its many beloved characters back in their eerie, offbeat digs -- especially when in the place of that is the most depressingly dark incest drama you'll ever see. It's befitting then that the film opens with piercing screams as a television set is smashed to bits. Twin Peaks: Fire Walk With Me seems best suited to fans of the director's most ambiguous efforts. Those tuning in just for the coffee and cherry pie are about to get served something blacker than midnight on a moonless night.

"Your Laura disappeared. It's just me now."

David Lynch always saw Twin Peaks as a show about a girl, Laura Palmer. It's quite clear that when the series lost sight of her, it did (ever so slightly) derail. Once the mystery of her killer was solved, the series inevitably had to lose much of its compelling center. Pushing the focus in on Laura, as this "prequel" does, ultimately pushes the familiar setting into its most strange places, to the aid of some deeply disturbing and moving cinema, but to the loss of narrative ease and the characteristic charms of its TV origins. I'm content with that since it's another of Lynch's abstract art-pieces. His best films are something to experience, and despite this film's darkest recesses of innocence lost, it's one to lose yourself in. More often than not threads of the story seem senseless or random, and yet their placement, their staging, their overall essence render them completely captivating. No one turns Americana into atmospheric hell better than Lynch. We're not in Kansas anymore. We're WAY off the map.

Donna: Do you think if you were falling in space you would slow down after awhile, or go faster and faster?

Laura: Faster and faster. And for a long time you wouldn't feel anything... Then you'd BURST into fire. Forever. And the angels wouldn't help you, because they've all gone away.

Sheryl Lee gives a singular, pulverizing performance that surpasses anything we've seen from her as either Laura or Maddie on the series. She plays each of her scenes on the verge of a painful hysteria - a lost little girl and a madwoman confined behind her last shred of sanity, and her last days on earth. She extends her emotions beyond the obvious sympathy though: the fact that Laura's merely a child who has been sexually abused by the men of her idyllic small town for the better (worst) part of her life. Laura knows she has nothing left, even if she's so far been able to veil her consuming inner demons behind charity work and a spiraling drug addiction. She is a girl on fire whose only hope is to be extinguished, and perhaps the most grim notion of the film is that Laura knows, and occasionally desires, that her end is near.



David Lynch's directorial feat is breathtaking all the while offputting. The content is hideously ugly yet masked behind layers of visual arrest, and Angelo Badalamenti's masterful mix of melancholy jazz fusion consistently punctures through to the film's bleak heart. This film's no different from Lynch's infinitely more praised Lost Highway or Mulholland Dr., as it channels lives in the balance like the static fuzz of an electrical current. Images and characters speak in riddles, and the audience becomes a confused passerby in Laura's tragic dual dimensions. The picture postcard perfection of Twin Peaks shreds through to each of her chilling alternate worlds: the photo of a doorway that leads back to the bedroom where her nightmares began, a Canadian bar where she becomes a teenager transformed for male pleasure, and a Red Room which holds all of Laura's misery, madness, and maybe her only existence of hope.


Fire Walk With Me is at once a harrowing horror film, an oddball family drama, a surrealist satire, and above all the devastating attempt to peel back the layers of a homecoming queen whose life and death has been "wrapped in plastic." If the series is about the pieces of a town left in mourning, Fire Walk With Me is about the primal scream that shatters it.


--There's even more Lynch-inspired love for Laura Dern in my latest "Signatures" post at Film Experience. I promise... no more talk of incest, just huffing paint.

Drag Me to Paradise Falls or Drag Me to Hell

Club Silencio is back with two brief film reviews for two new-ish films. What I lack in being current or prolific, I often make up for with poorly timed innuendos and swearing. Welcome to the Club!

Movin' on Up to a deluxe townhouse in the sky.

Pixar is like the fine dining of children's entertainment. There's always something fresh on the kid's menu, but you can stilll depend on their classic mac and cheese and tater tots because they too are so often cooked to perfection. Up is another refined but youthful dish; a whimsical fantasy that sidesteps the crass fart jokes and trite musical numbers we as a culture have become accustomed to shoving down our kids throats.

It's a bit of a filmmaking marvel really - not much different from the logistics of a house tied to balloons. Up manages to float effortlessly over topics like divorce, miscarriage, the disenfranchisement of the elderly, the falsehood of childhood idols... Amongst talking animals no less! But it's these nuances that highlight Pixar's most profound worth: making entertainment for all ages of emotional maturity. They're films that can truly grow with their audience. We can go from laughing at that dog with the funny voice, to sobbing over the ravages of age and wayward childhood dreams. Fun all the same, for the young and dangerously old. Even so Up is never a downer. Tinged with sad moments -- a montage of our hero's greatest love and loss is especially surprising and touching -- there's a hope and reach behind this otherwise lighthearted fare.

As retired Carl Fredricksen finds himself old and alone, his only hope in his waning years is to give his wife the adventure she always wanted and a home at the edge of Paradise. (Well, Paradise Falls in South America.) The youthful spirit of exploration finds Carl tying balloons to his home with the unknowing help of an adorable young camper, Russell. Together they ascend to Paradise Falls where they befriend rare birds, talking dogs, and a maniacal explorer hellbent on finishing his life's work. In summary the film sounds explicitly superfluous, but that discredits a big and genuine heart, and enough laughs to surpass most live-action adult fare this summer.

Fair enough the "talking dogs" element never quite works for the movie, but it never really works against it either. By the time Carl lifts off we're in a fantasy world, beyond the city and beyond the clouds to a place known as Disney Logic. Animals must be cute, lovable and verbose... at least all but one of them who is mean and will be punished or humiliated by Act III. Fantasy is fantasy and the film embraces it with more extremes as the film progresses (dog fighter pilots), but then it also never loses its humor about it (dog fighter pilots steering with chew toys). There's more than enough sweetness and sentimentality but it always feels earned, and it's always cleverly undercut for laughs or the next thoughtful development.

Pixar's hot streak continues (off-roading only once with anthropomorphic cars), and it's with a kid's movie about the elderly, which is something of a comfort in these oft-jaded times. Nemo's mom died and so did Grandma Ellie, but life still goes on and so do the dreams that take flight in childhood - much like a house floating into the heavens and landing in unexplored lands.

What gets gypsy out of your hair?

Obvious, protruding exposition seems a worthless criticism when we're dealing with gooey gypsy curses and lethal handkerchiefs. Even if it's easily choreographed, Sam Raimi's slapstick stew still keeps boiling with just enough hellish heat, if mostly because it seems so aware of its all-nonsense approach. There's a thoughtful undercurrent to Drag Me to Hell that's perfect for our economic woes, and the tried and true lesson that one should always help others in need - no matter if it's an old woman losing her home or a powerful gypsy with ties to a goat demon. There's a purpose behind all of the film's ridiculousness, but it never aims to be anything more than a demented good time. As fans of Raimi's Evil Dead films should know, we're here to see something nasty thrown in our lead character's face. Thankfully Alison Lohman seems up to this sweet-to-savage challenge, and that includes plenty of icky obstacles (maggots, toothless old women) that should make Bruce Campbell fans retch with glee.

Christine Brown (Lohman), once the county fair "Pork Queen," sees potential for personal growth that includes finally meeting her lover's pompous family and seeking a promotion at her bank job. With personal gain comes some casualty when a desperate elderly customer is refused by Christine, her sights set on Assistant Manager. If only Christine knew she was dealing with a gypsy (didn't she SEE the handkerchief and costume jewelry) and her bank's parking garage was patrolled by security. A bitch of a curse is soon placed on her head (or the button of her jacket) and soon Christine will be... dragged to hell. Simple, stupid, and lovingly so is Raimi's return to horror.

It's nice not only to see an original horror film in theaters but one that has this much fun with itself. Here Raimi wants his audience to feel each jolt of his absurdity and revel in bad taste. Mind you we do have a few modern drawbacks that are all too common. There's a feeling the film drew back for its PG-13 rating, which isn't a hindrance necessarily since the film isn't driven by excessive gore but by excess alone. Besides that there are too many crucial shock bits cluttered with clumsy CGI. That's what three Spidermans will do to you I suppose, but Raimi's visual trickery is joyous enough without all that pixelated plasma. One can take pleasure in seeing people stapled in the face, corpses sucking face, uprooting the dead... but this kind of flagrant CGI is just vulgar.

Drag Me to Hell is best described as a Harvest Cake. It's a gritty blend of questionable taste, and while I wish the ingredients were even a bit more surprising, it sure is a delightful waste of calories.


* These reviews were clearly written in extreme hunger. Instead of comments, leave snacks.

Walking and Talking and Bathing in Virgins

"You know, maybe we're - we're only good at brief encounters, walking around European cities in warm climate."

Before Sunset

I'd travel anywhere with Julie Delpy, not just Vienna and Paris. Even if she becomes a manic-depressive activist, I'd still like her! I'd still want to hang out with her!

She's so smart, funny and talented, I already have my bags packed for our trip to Hungary. Although I urge the virgins out there to pack light...

The Countess - Trailer
by dreadcentral

Virgin bloodbaths will definitely be a new experience - especially to those of us used to seeing a milder Julie Delpy speculating and swooning over life and love. Nevertheless, Julie's latest directorial venture, The Countess, seems like a trip worth taking. If anything it sounds rejuvenating.

Sadly the trip to Hungary isn't scheduled for departure until June 25th, and that's only if you're in Germany. The rest of us will have to wait and take mundane, virgin-less baths until the as-yet-undecided date.


In the meantime venture to Film Experience for my latest "Signatures" post in which I go sightseeing with Julie Delpy. What do we see on this tour? A whole lot of Julie Delpy, with a detour to Julie Delpy. Oh, and a gondola!

Other recent "Signatures" excursions:

• The unsinkable Kathy Bates takes us into her Colorado home where she abducts romance novelists. Then to her quaint home in Maine, where she disposes of husbands and elderly employers.

• The creative Catherine O'Hara takes us on a tour of the art world in bustling Chicago and fabulous New York City. And she still forgets Macaulay Culkin.

• The revitalizing Jamie Lee Curtis brings us along on a surprising journey from Haddonfield, Illinois to Lindsay Lohan, California.

Defensive Cinema #3: Margot at the Wedding (2007)

Defensive Cinema is a series devoted to films seemingly dismissed by the greater population. And me getting all defensive like and telling you why my opinions hold more water than yours.

"Margot tried to murder me when we were girls. She put me on a baking sheet, sprinkled me with paprika and put me in the oven."

-Pauline

Margot at the Wedding is a film about what it means to be a family. That includes selling them out for your novel, contemplating their abandonment on a bus, and trying to sabotage their happiest day.

Noah Baumbach's sour little saga is the antithesis of what we usually consider a "family film." Unlike Dan in Real Life, another 2007 film about ties that bind, Margot (Nicole Kidman) and her bloodline don't engage in talent shows and morale-boosting morning workouts. The sisters in Margot at the Wedding get their heartiest laughs from a relative's rape by a horse trainer. It's one of the film's meager moments of warmth and it's cold as ice. But there's more truth, humor and psychological horror in these fractured bonds than anything inside that formulaic fluff labeled "Real Life." Margot's ties may be toxic but their roots are grounded in reality. Sometimes family is there to pick you up, and sometimes they're there to really put you down.

Truthfully Margot's greatest talent, outside of being a "fiction" writer, is the art of the insult: seldom-subtle attempts to bring about her own misery and shortcomings in everyone around her. If only they gave the Booker Prize for that...

Margot on a good day:

"If you keep telling him he's like everyone else he's going to wonder why he isn't."

"He's not ugly, he's just completely unattractive."

Bitterness nibbles away and consumes Margot's daily life, and by effect, those of her loved ones - in particular her confused and attached son, Claude (Zane Pais), and free-spirited but floundering sister, Pauline (Jennifer Jason Leigh). When she hears of Pauline's impending vows to Malcolm (Jack Black), an unemployed oaf she's known but a year, Margot's abhorrent agenda is set in motion. Her plan to attend her sister's wedding becomes a cover for her to promote her latest book, start up anew with an old flame, and attempt to detach from her son. All that and she doesn't even bring a gift...

"We're supporting her."

This is a character piece first and foremost - a bruising, scathing, warts and all look at people you'd rather not be related to in real (too real) life. Writer/director Noah Baumbach has pulled prickly truths out of family dysfunction in the past with his heralded The Squid and the Whale, but Margot's story has its own brand of caustic wit. Like Squid it's funny while it scalds. But Margot is a more daring venture for Baumbach because it hardly feigns an interest in audience sympathy, and its muted visuals, while appropriate, are hardly a feast for the eyes. The script is wonderfully woven out of minor moments and somehow it still manages to cut away all the excess; plenty of nuance but it always goes unpronounced. You'd almost have to see the film twice to fully appreciate Baumbach's inventive and organic approach - the way scenes end abruptly, beginnings and endings blur, and those minuscule tidbits carry the bulk of dramatic and comic weight.

Beyond that it's a stage for really superb actors to dig into some fascinating, flawed characters. Jennifer Jason Leigh is such an underused actress, and it could be due to being so close to her husband's script during its development that she gives this part its refreshingly lived-in quality. It's natural and effortless, and one of Leigh's best performances in years.

Of course the highlight, not surprisingly, is Nicole Kidman. It's a showcase of her ability to fully commit to a part - even if her character needs to be committed. Every beat of judgment and venom is masterfully undercut with an unknowing frailty. Likewise, Kidman's "showcase" scene is a subtle knockout. A humdrum Q&A session at her reading turns into her brutal public shaming when she's confronted by the assertion that her treacherous lead character is merely Margot in disguise. She becomes embarrassed, exposed, and then ducks for cover. As delivered by Kidman it's simultaneously funny, odd and wincingly painful; basically Margot at the Wedding in a monologue.

"Why do you assume that -- I mean we all take from life... I had to have our refrigerator repaired the other day, at our apartment in Manhattan, and uhh... I was alone with this guy - I think he was Puerto Rican. He was, um, sent over by Whirlpool, who I think it is makes our fridge... Umm... Although he did say he worked for an independent organization that Whirlpool subcontracts... I think he was retarded. There was an anger in him, and uh... suddenly... suddenly I became afraid for my life. I called, um... Jim, at NYU, and I asked him to come home -- I think it was Frigidaire that made our fridge... I'm going to need to take a moment here."

Seeing as Margot at the Wedding is a film about family, it's appropriate then that at the film's center is the family tree - which Margot attempts climbing and gets stuck, which has roots that are rotting the property, and which threatens to topple over during Pauline's special day. But I guess that's what you get when all your family has to sow are seeds of resentment.


You can watch this movie at iReel.com.

Ankle Biter

Pet Sematary was a horror hit and boy does it deserve it. (Childish rhyming for a post about children - Club Silencio is all about innovation.) It's still a very effective little chiller, based largely on the strength of its performances, somber direction and brutally bleak core. A film about the living trying to cope with the dead and vice versa. And how rare it is to see children killed in horror films, let alone brought back only to be killed again. Stephen King and director Mary Lambert take to audience sympathies like a truck would to a cat - or child - crossing the highway.


It's emotionally decimating stuff that deals with the ultimate contemplation: accepting death. Of course our lead, Louis, is a doctor who tries his hands at toying with the balance several times, unable to deal with life's most vicious conclusion. And Louis never quite learns his lesson... But then who can blame him when we're talking about losing one of the most adorable children in horror film history in one of its most tragic moments.

"No fair. No fair, no fair."

Miko Hughes should be a household name to horror fans at this point, with his painfully sweet and unsettling debut as Gage, as well as a roles in Wes Craven's New Nightmare and equally dread-induced episodes of Full House. He was also the educational tool for many adolescents with the seminal line, "Boys have a penis and girls have a vagina," from Kindergarten Cop. He has to be one of the most memorable and unsung child actors. Not only was he crushingly cute, he seemed to actually know what he was doing on-screen. And most importantly, he was never annoying. (Someone tell that kid from the remakes of The Texas Chainsaw Massacre and The Ring... He'll hear it on the schoolyard eventually.) It also helps that he's one of the few children who has played both horror movie victim and horror movie icon within the same film. He gets to say, "I love you, Mommy," while he literally and figuratively rips her heart out.


-- Accordingly then Miko Hughes is all grown up (now 23) and has a blog (now defunct) wherein he links to recipes for cooking weed and says one of his favorite movies is "porno." He's also a DJ and he's on Myspace. I for one would love to see him dabble in acting again as an adult... but not in adult films. And I'd really love to have him cook for me.

Jane Lynch Controls My Television

It's been a while since I've done a post on television. In the meantime favorite shows have come and gone back into hibernation for the summer, and guilty pleasures have filled in the waning months. So long ago it was that my mild-disdain for True Blood has morphed into mild-curiosity for its upcoming second season. What can I say... trash television is in my blood, and similarly, it only took me six years to realize that mockery alone would never justify my watching The L Word. Then I realized what it was about that show. Set aside the fact that its deplorable characters were barely recognizable scene to scene, and the fact that its season long murder "mystery" was resolved with a L'Oréal commercial, the show did have Pam Grier chewing the background scenery as she struggled to remember her lines. That and Jane Lynch.

She's really all you need to make must-see television. But add in the factor of writing that isn't embarrassing and you can achieve something really special. Two of my current TV interests, Party Down and Glee, are both currently fighting over the brilliant comic timing of Jane Lynch.


Party Down is a superb show I only heard about a week ago, coinciding with the end of its first season. No surprise really considering it airs on the Starz Network, but that's forgetting that outside of Jane Lynch, we also get the likes of Ken Marino (The State) and Martin Starr (Bill of Freaks & Geeks), as well as drool-worthy Paul Rudd as co-creator and pilot writer! It's also a Veronica Mars reunion of sorts with creator Rob Thomas executive producing and various members of that ensemble making appearances, including a stellar Kristen Bell cameo. And did I mention that Fred Savage directs half the season? Who knew? But again... the Starz network.



The show follows a troupe of struggling actors and screenwriters whose catering job accentuates that their lives and dreams couldn't be more disparate. Party Down is funny, evolving, and with its own unique feel from workplace comedies like The Office. It has just been picked up for a second season and just ended its first on a wonderful high note. And yet... where's Jane Lynch going? Her character Constance, a one-time actress (resume: Dingleberries) with a burgeoning career in self-delusion, is the show's best comic highlight. Although as the season progressed she moved further into the background until she was indiscernible from Jennifer Coolidge!! Though smart casting decision on the part of Party Down since Jennifer Coolidge could almost - almost - make you forgive Jane Lynch's absence, she's just that good. Watch as she trips on mushrooms at a high dollar catering event in "a purple tube of consciousness," confusing lemons for "sun eggs."


Who do we have to blame for Jane Lynch theft? The Fox Network. Always blame the Fox Network... At least it turns out it's for a show with some real potential and another role that serves Lynch's best interest. Fox's Glee, which doesn't begin its season run until September, has a nice mix of good intentions and genuine quality. The show follows Mr. Schuester (played by the "I'm happy to repeat high school, he's so sexy" Matthew Morrison), a teacher longing to inspire new students as he is flooded with memories of past glee - the kind of glee that comes with having been in the Glee Club.

All that glee would be unbearable if it weren't for some honest laughs and a few surprising musical numbers. It may be a small leap from High School Musical, but it's a small and epic leap, and it leaves lots of promise with its pilot episode (currently free for viewing at Hulu.com). That promise also includes Jane Lynch as a cheerleading coach, probably equal to Constance in both meager screentime and grand self-delusion. Although if Jane Lynch reads this, it would fill me with... glee... if you'd choose to continue with Party Down. You know how Fox likes to cancel anything with redeeming value. You were on Arrested Development.

Here's the pilot episode's effectively upbeat musical number for Journey's "Don't Stop Believin." You'll either cringe or you'll be filled with... glee. Either way I think I see Jane Lynch!

Defensive Cinema #2: The Rules of Attraction (2002)

Defensive Cinema is a series devoted to films seemingly dismissed by the greater population. And me getting all defensive like and telling you why my opinions hold more water than yours.

How does youth get so jaded? Bad shrooms, contracting mono at the "Pre-Saturday Night Party Party," and sex with a film major. That's how.

"I actually lost my virginity to a townie! This wouldn't have happened with Victor. He would have taken me gently in his big, strong, drama major arms and undressed me quietly and expertly. Taken my bra off with grace and ease. And it probably wouldn't have hurt. I should have given myself to Victor last term when I had the chance. I always knew it was going to be like this..."

Lauren

Roger Avary's The Rules of Attraction is a sorely underrated film, but then it's not exactly asking anyone to like it. In fact if you showed any direct interest in it, it would probably use you, toss you aside and steal a twenty from your wallet - just to snort a line of coke with it.

It wholly manages to transcend a tired genre: the dire (and usually more cheerful) college movie. But in the hands of writer Bret Easton Ellis we can ensure there will be fewer sorority sagas, revenging nerds, and "where do we go from here?" monologues -- even with a cast composed of 7th Heaven and Dawson's Creek veterans. Ellis's novel is a warped wasteland of sex, drugs, and suicidal thoughts (sounds more like college, right?), and a tricky layering of interconnected characters experiencing some major disconnect. What they desire is fruitless but essential, void but consuming and... well who really gives a fuck as long as you're getting laid? Amidst the constant stream of parties and tapped kegs, there exists Sean, Paul, Lauren, and the rest of the Camden graduating class. America's bright future is buzzed and burnt out.


The film adaptation's mediocre reputation seems to come from the expectation that all this sex-fueled disillusionment is meant to be shocking, when really that's inconsequential to characters driven by impulse and a moment's desire... or any genuine emotion for that matter. What people seem to ultimately dismiss is a stylish and funny film with crass and cruel characters that might have more reflection than they're willing to admit. Attraction is dangerous business after all - hence the rules. And fans of Ellis should know this is his most tonally succinct adaptation, even if it's less of a cinematic success than American Psycho.

The ensemble seems surprisingly up to snuff. Shannyn Sossamon as Lauren makes a striking turn that's yet to be followed up in her career (unless you were particularly moved by the remake of One Missed Call). She finds the gravitas in a character with very little, and the sexy humor in someone that reads up on venereal diseases to prep for her dates. And James Van Der Beek hardly gives us the varsity blues either, with a performance that works even better in his most inexpressive moments. Lest we forget Sean is brother to Patrick Bateman, so we should expect there's something special (and especially psychotic) behind that slightly blank pretty face.

If there's one thing I'm not so attracted to it's the subplot involving Sean's dopey dalliances with a drug dealer. They feel out of step with the sardonic misery and malaise of the rest of the film; like discarded threads of Avary's Pulp Fiction past, or a poorly timed echo of the "Sister Christian" scene from Boogie Nights. But ultimately they don't detract from the film's purposefully scatterbrained feel, which includes stellar cameos from the pill poppin' duo of Swoosie Kurtz and Faye Dunaway, and an appearance by Fred Savage on clarinet... and heroin. Secondary characters each get their moment to shine, including two seemingly separate stories that threaten to steal the whole movie. One: the infamous Victor's tour-de-force tour of Europe, told in a smutty and sensational four minutes. And two: dinner with Richard... err, "DICK!"


So it begs the question: what exactly ARE the rules of attraction? The best I could surmise was this:

Rule 1 of 1: If you can't contain your attraction, contain it with a soft feather pillow...


...or a soft rendition of "Afternoon Delight":


After all, it's hardly skyrockets in flight for the characters of The Rules of Attraction. Lonely, one-sided emptiness ultimately lost in translation between two separate entities. That is until the one rare glimmer of a connection that forever keeps them looking.


In the end some would rather die than find themselves without the one they desire. Others should just find solace in their lack of STD's.

"Victor was fucking my roommate Lara. She gave him mono before he dumped her. I'm told that later, after I left Camden, she got really drunk and went wandering through Windham House and did the whole football team. She's now married to a senator and has four kids. How time sorts things."

Lauren