Further proof that some films deserve a second chance - Altman's Long Goodbye

THE LONG GOODBYE (1973)

Reviewed by Jerry Saravia

I had first seen Robert Altman's "The Long Goodbye" twenty years ago at a Psychology of Film class. The sound was poor and the projection of the film seemed off, not to mention the fact that the ending put me off and made me angry. As a result, I hated the film but I didn't quite forget it. Having seen it again recently and being a little older and wiser, I realize now that all my initial emotions were correct - Altman has reinvigorated the film noir genre by imbuing it with haziness, with an unclear and random focus. In other words, Altman simply made an Altman film, no different than "M.A.S.H" or "Nashville" in terms of select randomness and off-the-wall comic touches and radically shredding the conventions associated with the genre in question. It is like no other Philip Marlowe picture ever made and that is how Altman would like it to be remembered.

Elliott Gould is Marlowe, a role that initially was met with skepticism by people in the industry. After all, he doesn't look like the Marlowe that Bogart played and lacks the requisite toughness - or so we think. Only a few years earlier, James Garner took a crack playing the famous private eye and, frankly, he seems miscast next to Gould. For starters, this is not the 1950's world of Raymond Chandler's creation. It is 1973 (Garner's Marlowe film version was also modernized) in the dreary, damp Los Angeles we see - the kind of world where Marlowe forgets to feed his cat, lives next to nude women who proudly exhibit their breasts while practicing yoga and making hash brownies, and promptly tries to buy the brand of cat food his cat so desires. But trouble comes when an old pal named Terry Lennox (Jim Bouton, former Yankee pitcher) wants Marlowe to drive him to the Mexican border by way of Tijuana. Never mind the scratches on Terry's face - he's on the run. The next day, Marlowe finds out that Terry's wife was murdered and that Terry has committed suicide in a Mexican hotel. More trouble brews when police detectives bust Marlowe on fraudalent charges.

Then there is the case of Roger Wade (Sterling Hayden), a boisterous alcoholic writer living on the beach with his distressed, composed wife, Eileen (Nina van Pallandt), who can't cope with Roger's rage any more. There is also the curious case of a doctor who wants Roger to pay his hospital bills, and a vicious crime boss, Martin Augustine (Mark Rydell), who knows how to make his point with a glass Coke bottle. And now about the cat...

"The Long Goodbye" confidently and leisurely balances all these characters and situations in ways that only Altman could master. His slow zooms into reflective surfaces and wading in and out of exterior and interior locations is done with such ease that it doesn't obstruct the story. In fact, the mystery of Terry Lennox and a missing bag of dough keeps one's interest. Altman and Elliott Gould improvise touches that keep one amused enough until the plot takes over, such as Gould applying fingerprint dust all over his face at a police station, or the way he strikes a match on any surface to light his cigarette.

The striking the match without missing a beat bit is vaguely satirical, as if Altman was mocking the genre and, at the same time, embracing it, keeping us clued into ambiguities while occasionally flickering with humor. The most notable change in the genre is Elliott Gould's Marlowe, a man whose mantra is, "It's all right with me." He is a weak loser type, always wearing the same suit and careless about everything and everyone in his sight. His detective abilities are solid but he takes his time with the Terry Lennox case since he truly believes him to be dead. No emotion is expressed, just disbelief. He doesn't exactly threaten anyone or make any ultimatums - he is more of a sarcastic observer who is lucky he is not immediately killed by Augustine.  

The novel doesn't have the two choice violent scenes in this film that weren't initially well-received at screenings. One is the coke bottle scene that is unnerving and brutal. I will not describe it in detail except to say that it is necessarily brutal, lest we forget that Warner Brothers noir and crime pictures of the past had similar moments of shocking violence. The second moment is the ending, which doesn't seem so out of left field as I had initially thought. Again, the less said, the better so as to not spoil the surprise.

"The Long Goodbye" is an atmospheric mood piece with faded colors and a 1970's L.A. look at odds with the typical treatment or standard issue Marlowe picture. I would say that is a major plus, in addition to the late writer Leigh Brackett's choice of accentuating on friendship, betrayal and how one strikes back at being used. Consider a carefully jolting moment, rarely discussed by critics, of Henry Gibson as the doctor whose patient is Roger Wade. Wade refuses to pay him and ignores the little doctor. Finally, the doctor arrives at Wade's party, demands the money, and slaps Wade in the face. It is a jolt that seemingly comes out of nowhere. Then Wade goes into his study and pays the doctor with a check. That scene is indicative of Marlowe's own betrayal and of having been used, leading to a shocking finale that is more at home with Chandler than I had previously thought. I normally don't do such a 180 with first impressions of a film but "The Long Goodbye" is a treasure.  

Surrogates, anyone?

SURROGATES (2009)

Reviewed by Jerry Saravia

"Surrogates" is a futuristic tale that is as much of a downer as one can expect in this day and age. The future seen here is not pretty, as many cinematic equivalents have shown, but it is also very prescient, commenting on where our society might be headed with the technological innovations that occur almost annually. After seeing this film, the last thing I would ever want is a surrogate.

Surrogates are androids in the strictest sense, with even less emotional investment than the ones seen in "Blade Runner." They live the idealized lives of their human counterparts, who lay on a bed and use remote controls to dictate their surrogates' actions. Bruce Willis is a goateed FBI agent, Greer, who uses a blonde-haired surrogate cop to do his business, which includes the investigative murder of a human girl. This leads to more cop surrogates killed by some surrogate weapon that can cause the human counterpart to lose their lives as well! The twist is that the surrogate weapon was created by a human, and all humans live in their own secluded property where surrogates are not welcomed and destroyed.

Most of the criminal investigation is not nearly as fascinating as the human characters and their inabilities to move an inch outside of their homes, since the surrogates mostly walk the streets, shop, work, etc. Humans stay indoors, consume medication for perhaps anxiety, and look beat up and essentially vulnerable. What kind of private hell are the humans living when the Surrogates can zap themselves with some electronic bong that gives them pleasure, yet the humans receive no pleasure at all?

Consider one scene that echoes "Twelve Monkeys." Willis as the beleaguered cop decides to walk the streets without using a surrogate substitute. He is shaken, deterred by the reality of the outside world, as if he had been isolated for far too long. He can't even last in a fight with real humans for too long. It echoes Willis's own time-travelling character from "Twelve Monkeys," looking more frail and bewildered as only Willis can do best.

"Surrogates" does contain its share of high-voltage action scenes and surrogates leaping up and down in cartoony fashion that threaten the narrative at times, rather than enhancing it. Still, despite a far too abbreviated running time and a few too many loopholes, "Surrogates" is full of some powerful images and it features bravura acting by Bruce Willis and Radha Mitchell as Willis's cop partner. Not a great film in the annals of sci-fi and futuristic fantasy, but certainly one of the most gripping and humanistic in quite some time with a stunning finish.

Paul Mazursky's 8 1/2 homage

ALEX IN WONDERLAND (1970)

Reviewed by Jerry Saravia

"Alex in Wonderland" is a free-floating film, devoid of specific purpose or intent other than showing that one man cannot make up his mind about what to do next. Donald Sutherland plays a movie director whose first film has not yet been released, and already he has to consider what his sophomore effort will be. Hmmm.

After Paul Mazursky scored with his debut film, "Bob & Carol & Ted & Alice," he made this picture in 1970. There is the quote at the start from Lewis Carroll's own "Alice in Wonderland" about how Alice had changed several times since the morning and, currently, she has no idea who she is. Only Mazursky's film is not precisely about this - it is about a man who has no idea what film to make. He knows who he is, I think, but he cannot decide what story to shoot next. Should it about a black revolutionary, a Navajo reservation or, as his oldest daughter suggests, a film about how he can't decide what to film? No, as he correctly suggests, that has already been done in Fellini's "8 1/2."

Speaking of Fellini, the master Italian director appears as himself at his own film editing bay, impatiently trying to ward off Alex's questions such as what three foods Fellini would eat on a deserted island! That one scene epitomizes the struggles and realities of making a film than most of Mazursky's own film. And for fans of Jeanne Moreau, she makes a welcome appearance as herself, and sings two songs.

I am not dismissing "Alex in Wonderland," in fact, there are some wonderful, watchable sequences. I love Alex's own marital squabbles that mostly include how his wife (Ellen Burstyn) places household chores as priority over his pontificating over story ideas. I also love the Felliniesque backgrounds of Alex's imagination, which include Alex dressed as a Pope and numerous parades that include clowns. There is also a harrowing sequence that involves the Vietnam War being fought on the L.A. streets while the Beatles' concert film, "Let it Be," is shown to be playing at a theatre marquee. And the two isolated moments with Alex's blunt mother (Viola Spolin) are riveting. But mostly the film drifts off into Alex's own speeches on what makes a story work and they are not particularly enthralling or memorable. The truth is that a real film director thinks visually all the time, and makes excuses to justify every single idea they have as a monumental and important one. When Alex is stuck in the wonderland of his imagination, I was more often mesmerized than not. Mazursky's own "8 1/2" homage rates a mere 7 1/2.

Stanley Kubrick: Pessimistic humanist

Kubrick: The humanity in a pessimistic, distancing director

By Jerry Saravia

Originally written for Youthquake Magazine back in May 27, 2004

Every passing year since Stanley Kubrick’s death in 1999, I have become sadder and sadder. My sadness stems from Kubrick himself and the legacy he left behind. It is well known that an artist’s death renders the artist more exposure than when he was alive. In the face of cinema artists, this is true of the late Orson Welles, and it holds true for Stanley Kubrick. It may be some time before Kubrick’s final opus, “Eyes Wide Shut,” is seen as the masterpiece it definitely is (with repeated viewings).

Consider for a moment his vital, intellectual, influential work in the 20th century. From the noirish roots of “The Killing,” to the anti-war treatise in “Paths of Glory,” to the romantic longings of a professor and his stepdaughter in “Lolita,” to the infinite universe and beyond of “2001: A Space Odyssey,” to the antisocial behaviors and violence of youth in “A Clockwork Orange,” to the tumult of a simpleton’s rise and fall in “Barry Lyndon” and, last but not least, the Vietnam War as a folly of clockwork soldiers and political mumbo-jumbo in “Full Metal Jacket.”

But there is more than just a series of entertaining, highly troubling, disturbing, provocative films to Kubrick’s résumé – the themes of sexual dysfunction and dehumanization are also clearly focused and became staples in Kubrick’s work. His films were not films – they were events – and you couldn’t forget them. As I have discovered in the past few years, even those who hate some of his work can’t easily dispense with it and move on. The films are as much a fabric of our society as any highly personal director, and of the world’s. Kubrick’s films are ours – we see ourselves in his films, for better or worse.

What has bothered me about the critical reception toward Kubrick is the charge that he was a clinical, ice-cold director, concerned more with pyrotechnics and style than with humanity. This is quite a charge, something unheard of in the mentioning of any other director I can recall. Of course, with repeated viewings, we can see a humanity stamped in his films, no matter how distancing the director is.

There is no doubt that Kubrick was deeply concerned with style and craftsmanship (he even obtained a rare NASA wide-angle lens for “Barry Lyndon” to avoid the usual lighting sources found in period pieces). Style and craftsmanship are commonly every director’s concern, particularly one with an individualistic style (I mean, how less of a craftsman is Spielberg than Kubrick?) The difference is always in the execution of style and performance to suit the director’s needs and his themes, particularly his emotional attachment to his characters who are put on dehumanizing rollercoaster rides.

For instance, it is easy to dismiss Kubrick’s “A Clockwork Orange” as an intellectually engaging film rather than an emotional one. In closer inspection, though, there is a catharsis for the main character, Alex (Malcolm McDowell), a gang leader who revels in the glory of violence. He is not a sentimental creation, but he is a likable kind of guy despite his violent nature. (How can you hate anyone who loves Beeethoven?) Through the course of the film, we see the world through his eyes, but we never forget what he is. When Alex kills his victims, it is usually off screen. But when his band of droogs turns against him, something else happens. He is beaten in prison by guards and spat on, and we see what a bloody mess he has become (unlike his murder victims). Then the Orwellian government takes over, using Alex as a guinea pig for the removal of violent behavior. We see Alex strapped to a chair with his eyelids pried open as he is forced to watch Holocaust films and sexual and violent reenactments of what almost seems like his own crimes. The man is in agony, especially when he is deemed cured and is treated to what appears to be the Theater of the Cruel, where he is again abused, kicked and tested. Out in the real world, Alex is a free man, but his parents shun him, his former droogs are now police officers who nearly drown him, and the leftist writer who was paralyzed by Alex’s actions wants his blood. No one can tell me that it isn’t wrenchingly emotional to see teary-eyed Alex in his parents’ house. Through the last third of the film, Alex has become a sorry-eyed, lost puppy – he wants affection and can’t get it.

Another film misunderstood in its emotional effect is “Full Metal Jacket,” Kubrick’s Vietnam War movie that is really just a war movie in the strictest sense. It is less about Vietnam than it is about the repercussions of the hellish experience known as war, and how it affects the soldiers themselves. There is the case of Gomer Pyle (Vincent D’Onofrio), the fat Marine recruit who is unable to meet the physical demands of rigorous basic training. He has an unending confrontation with Gunnery Sgt. Hartman (R. Lee Ermey), who imposes on his trainee and attacks him verbally and physically. Pyle is the only recruit who consistently bungles his training sessions – he can’t climb a wooden fence, he has trouble running, he is unable to do one pull-up, and so on. However, he is a hell of a marksman. But before the tragedy unfolds between Pyle and Hartman, the gleam and innocence in Pyle has eroded – he is a soldier with the instincts of a machine ready to kill. Hartman has stripped his humanity to the point where Pyle can only react with explosive rage. Even fellow recruits tire of Pyle’s screw-ups – they beat him with socks filled with soaps. We feel something for Gomer Pyle as we would for anyone who is put through the dehumanizing process of making young men into killers.

Maybe it was bad timing, but “Full Metal Jacket” followed the coattails of Oliver Stone’s powerful “Platoon” and several other Vietnam pictures. “Full Metal Jacket” was a modest financial success but critically a disaster. Roger Ebert wrote that it was like parading around Kubrick’s own little Vietnam, easy to find where you are because he keeps going in circles to the same place. “It was too little, too late,” he added, as if yet another Vietnam movie was an error in judgment. What did people have to say about John Ford’s numerous westerns when the genre was exploited for all its worth during the ’40s and ’50s? The other criticism was about the disconnected two-act structure that makes it seem like we are watching two movies. Kubrick was always experimenting with narrative, and the associations and connections between the two acts can be found if one looks closely. In the end, it was really about war as an apolitical phenomenon, taking no sides and showing that it is maddening and senseless. This may have bothered many critics.

“Eyes Wide Shut,” Kubrick’s last hurrah, is quite possibly the most emotional of all his films – a moving illumination on marriage and sex as told through the point of view of a private doctor. The doctor is Bill Harford (Tom Cruise), who has a private practice in New York City, a beautiful wife named Alice (Nicole Kidman) and a young daughter who loves to go window-shopping at the nearby toy store. A night after a big party, Alice wonders about Bill’s own feelings towards other women, particularly his patients. What is instigated is immediate jealousy from Bill when Alice tells the story of a handsome sailor she almost had a liaison with. Bill goes out in the streets of New York, looking for sex with hookers and patients’ relatives, and embarks on a nightmarish journey into a secret orgy held in a mansion on Long Island. But Bill never gets laid and further discovers that sex can be an animalistic act devoid of emotion. This realization is at the heart of “Eyes Wide Shut” – everyone has their eyes open except him. And the ending furthers this idea when Alice breaks down, saying she loves him but can think of only one thing: sex.

Most critics panned Kubrick’s Sex Odyssey for reasons relating more to Kubrick, the man, than Kubrick, the director. They felt he was behind the times, completely de-eroticizing the film’s subject matter and teasing us with prospects of fornication. Had Kubrick been so isolated that he had no notion of how human beings behave anymore? Again, quite a charge to make of a director whose sole interest has always been human behavior. The New York Observer’s Rex Reed wrote, “It is a film made by a man who didn’t get out much.” It may be Kubrick’s own fault for teasing the audience and critics who thought they were going to see Tom Cruise and Nicole Kidman in their birthday suits. Nothing could be further from the truth. The advertising campaign and media hype showed proof that the director was toying with our expectations all over again. Think back to “Dr. Strangelove” and “Lolita” with their cunning use of wit to deliver sexual innuendoes. Did anyone really think Stanley Kubrick was going to make a full-scale blue movie, a porno flick with NC-17 pretensions a la “Last Tango in Paris”? I knew that was not the case, especially when the screenplay was adapted from “Traumnovelle,” a novella written by Arthur Schnitzler, a good friend of Sigmund Freud. The film is also an attempt at understanding the meaning and need for sex in people, and every person Bill meets has a sexual connotation.

The other night I watched “The Shining” for the umpteenth time and was struck by how emotional I felt for Shelley Duvall’s Wendy, who is consistently crying and in shock over Jack Nicholson’s psychotic Jack Torrance. Mind you, I never felt much for Wendy, so this came as quite a surprise to me.

Kubrick’s films grow on you like moss, and you never forget them because they are so focused on the characters. He had the habit of distancing himself from the material because he wanted to be the observer, the omnipotent god who looks down at the situation and analyzes it. But make no mistake, he had an emotional center.

Let’s not forget Barry Lyndon’s own tragic downfall, from a simpleton to a bastard who weeps for his son’s death and his amputated leg. The loneliness of space travel and the destructive supercomputer, HAL, who develops more emotions than any of the astronauts in “2001: A Space Odyssey.” James Mason’s Humbert Humbert’s severe emotional breakdown, knowing he is losing the life he wanted to have with the sexpot title character in “Lolita.”

Stanley Kubrick cared about his characters, and he showed pathos without ever sentimentalizing their responses or their situations. He was a humanist but also a pessimist. The controversy continues.

The world is collapsing...because of Mel Gibson? Paris Hilton?

THE WORLD IS COLLAPSING...BECAUSE OF MEL GIBSON? PARIS HILTON?

By Jerry Saravia

It seems that celebrities get the major headlines nowadays. Nope, President Obama is not a celebrity but he is treated in the news as such. With the exception of your local news at night or during the day, it is apparent that news organizations look to remedy celebrities' lives by focusing on their troubling scandals and hoping and waiting for one of them to screw up. Haiti, Katrina, North Korea, the two wars currently being fought, the global economic crisis, the job crisis, the health care crisis, the BP oil spill crisis - all these crises take a backseat to Paris Hilton confusing gum for cocaine, or the other way around. For two months in 2010, nobody talked about anything else but Mel Gibson's furious, angry-laced rants and raves peppered with racial epithets, all part of private telephone conversations between him and his girlfriend model. Yes, they were shocking but...is it really news? I mean, can we put Gibson's own words ahead of anything President Obama says about Middle-East peace? I should hope not, but Gibson takes precedence over Obama apparently. I recall when Larry King was asked who he would interview if he had to choose, on presumably the same night his live show is on, Michael Jackson or Saddam Hussein? Jackson was the answer.

Mel Gibson's tirades are simply tired to me. I could care less what he has to say privately in his own home. But our society today thinks we should care because we know him. We do? I never met Mel Gibson and I don't feel any kinship with him because I enjoyed his Mad Max adventures. Same would be true with Harrison Ford, Oliver Stone, Roman Polanski, etc. I only care about him as an actor and director, and I would say his infamous anti-Semitic views hardly pinch me at all when I see him as Martin Riggs from Lethal Weapon. Now his violent verbal abuse of his girlfriend might make think twice that he is a sweet, suave man in reality, especially when he made movies like "What Women Want" or (don't giggle) "I Never Promised You a Rose Garden." Clearly the man is as mad as Mad Max, but should I hold him up to a standard of living because he espouses such hate to his girlfriend? Of course not, because it is none of my business.

Here are some past follies that either have or have not ruined celebrities and their respective careers:

1.) Roman Polanski's infamous rape of a young teenage girl that has been erroneously attributed as something it is not. I won't go into details but if you have seen the recent documentary on this case and listened to testimonies, including that of the young girl, you might think twice about completely dismissing Polanski as a pedophile.

2.) Robert Blake killing his wife, 2001. Yeah, that is a toughie. I cannot excuse murder or rape either, but somehow I can't let that disguise the fact that I love Blake as an actor. He is one of the best we have ever had, with stellar performances in "In Cold Blood" to name one. But would I support seeing more of his work post 2001? Probably not, but I can enjoy his earlier work without thinking about it. Still, the fact that he played an ice-cold killer in "In Cold Blood" and a spectral ghost/subconscious who spouts violent epiphanies in "Lost Highway" makes them scarier in retrospect in light of his real-life murderous scandal.

3.) Woody Allen marrying Soon-Yi Previn. Hmmm, another toughie. Soon-Yi was Mia and Woody's adopted daughter, though Mia and Woody had never married and never lived together. Woody took nude photos of Soon-Yi when she was a tyke. Mia found them and 1992 ended up being one of the most famous years the Woodsman ever had, litigiously speaking. Woody and Soon-Yi are still together and living, presumably, happily. Should I care? Not completely though that doesn't mean he is excluded from being judged by his actions. Woody Allen, without a doubt,  is one of the sharpest comic writers of all time and his Bergmanesque dramas, like "Interiors,"  are truly challenging and provocative cinema. But this most uncivil union bothers me a tad if only because Woody's character in many films dated younger women, though none were depicted as his adopted daughters. Like I said, a toughie but I respect the artist, not the man.

There are many other examples but the point is that all celebrities, particularly in Hollywood, have had their share of scandals galore (Kenneth Anger wrote two books about them from early Hollywood, entitled "Hollywood Babylon.") There are the unproven rumors such as Walt Disney was an anti-Semite or that Errol Flynn expressed such views and may have been a Nazi (untrue by the way), or that Stanley Kubrick shot people in his backyard and watch them bleed (also untrue, as are most of the rumors about the legendary director). Even the notorious incident that Fatty Arbuckle faced when he allegedly raped a woman with a bottle were proven to be unfounded allegations and he was acquitted, but his reputation was still sullied. The irony is that audiences were clamoring for a comeback of the comical Arbuckle and it never quite happened.

The world is all shaken up at this point but that doesn't mean that the dire straits this country is in should result in celebrityisms taking precedence. I don't mind escapism but I do not need to escape so drastically by listening to Mel Gibson's phone messages or Michael Richards' racially charged tirades. Leave that to the masochists.

Soderbergh's Girlfriend Is Like No Other

THE GIRLFRIEND EXPERIENCE (2009)

Reviewed by Jerry Saravia

Steven Soderbergh's "The Girlfriend Experience" is made in the same vein as one of his lesser-known efforts, "Bubble," with an overall emphasis on a gloomy mood and tone. This is the type of tonal piece that can frustrate many but not me: it is an exemplary work made by a director who plays with the form and never loses sight of content. 

Okay, sounds like a snore-inducing art-house picture, you say? Not so. "The Girlfriend Experience" is about a female escort named Chelsea (Sasha Grey), who employs the "girlfriend experience" by pretending to be sincere, a listener and, perhaps, feign being in love with her client. Not only that, she has to embody the girl-next-door look, classy but not too sophisticated, and certainly listen, listen, listen (sex sometimes follows). The men she employs this fantasy to are Wall Street-types or entrepreneurs dressed in business suits - they make up most of her clientele. There are exceptions (such as the Hassidic Jew who hopes Chelsea will vote for McCain) but the men all practically look alike, and profusely state everything that is wrong with the economy during the early stages of the economic collapse of 2008. And any film that mentions the wonderful documentary, "Man on Wire," (which Chelsea and a date go to see) can't be bad at all.

I do not dare give away much more because the film is done in a deliberate style of soft, muted tones, both in its DV-look and the way the characters speak. The film is sexy without resorting to one nude scene of boinking after another. For some, it may seem like the sleaze one can find on Cinemax but Soderbergh has not really made that kind of film either - there is, as I said, no sex scenes. 

But something curious happens to Chelsea, as she slowly and subtly sees a life where being an escort is no longer a reality. That would also mean leaving her 18-month relationship with her boyfriend (Chris Santos), a physical trainer, whom she lives with. And sneakily, without calling attention to itself, a certain amount of suspense is generated and we wonder what will be Chelsea's decision. Is she dejected or unhappy with her station in life? Does she see an avenue she can cross to a whole other life?  

"The Girlfriend Experience" is an elongated mood piece designed by Soderbergh to show that he can keep us glued to the screen without resorting to parlor tricks and fancy camera moves, as in his "Ocean's" films or "Out of Sight." "Girlfriend Experience" stands more in line with his underappreciated and highly underrated "Bubble," which is nothing short of a minor masterpiece. With his ever impressive resume, Steven Soderbergh has scored another direct hit and has given Sasha Grey, a former porn star, the platform for a purposely inexpressive and yet haunting performance.     

Zombie and Michael Myers make an uncomfortable mix

HALLOWEEN II (2009)

Reviewed by Jerry Saravia

Clearly the original "Halloween" movies are too innocent for today's jaded tastes. And maybe today's younger audience needs to be pummelled by relentless, grisly violence in order to stay awake. But I look for more in a horror film than gore - I love menace, atmosphere, imagination, interesting characters and, yes, some blood-curling fun to make your palms sweat. Rob Zombie's "Halloween II" is not any fun at all, though it is remotely imaginative and it does have an eerie atmosphere. It is the characters populating this atmosphere that make me vomit. 

Zombie's sequel begins competently enough with a brief flashback to a young Michael Myers discussing white horses with his mother (Sheri Moon Zombie). Then we flashforward to the dreaded Halloween night where poor Laurie Strode (Scout Taylor-Compton) is clutching a handgun and is in a blood-drenched fever state after allegedly killing the one and only Michael Myers. So far, not bad. Then the ambulance picks up Michael Myers' supposedly dead body and we get one killing of a lecherous medic who has a passing interest in having sex with corpses, followed by the driver who is killed on impact after crashing into a cow! Then we get a hospital sequence where deadly Mike Myers arrives, chases Laurie, but not before he can lunge his knife repeatedly into a nurse. Then there is another gratuitous killing, and suddenly Laurie wakes up and is in her bedroom. She lives with the Bracketts, which include ponytailed Sheriff Brackett (Brad Dourif) who has a fond remembrance of Lee Marvin, and Annie, the sheriff's daughter (played by Danielle Harris, a Halloween series veteran) who survived Myers' wrath.

"Halloween II" pushes forward with the return of Dr. Loomis (Malcolm McDowell), Mikey's former psychiatrist, as he has written a book about Myers and has become something of a celebrity. In the book, he reveals that Laurie is actually Angela Myers, which would be Michael Myers' sister! A big no-no since poor Laurie is unaware of her identity. Loomis himself seems to relish being famous, which is an askew transformation from the subdued Loomis of the original (though McDowell's acting was more over-the-top there in the first film). McDowell, however, is in top form here - he can play an obnoxious prick better than anyone and does it with class. 

Most of "Halloween II" is certainly a significant improvement over the Zombie original, a putrid work that was scarier in its prologue than anything following it. Unfortunately, Zombie can't let his gore fans down and we get several grislier-than-thou killings, most of them unnecessary and simply marking time. Most alarming is a strip joint sequence where a naked woman's head is repeatedly thrust against a glass surface and a man's face is relentlessly stomped by Michael. The sequence is just an excuse to see Michael getting his violent fix since the characters have no relation to anything else in the story, nor are they mentioned earlier in the film. Such bloody mayhem takes away from the beautiful, truly hypnotic shots of Sheri Moon as Michael's mother, dressed as a white angel with blonde curls and standing next to a white horse (one reviewer pointed out that this movie is a semi-remake of "The Blue Bird" with Shirley Temple). These are Michael Myers's visions and they are startling to watch, and shared by Laurie during her many feverish dreams, but they add up to little (though there is an early musical accompaniment that includes "Nights in White Satin" by the Moody Blues). The visions of Michael's angelic mother tell Mikey to continue killing, which is confounding, but since this is Michael's demented mind, I guess we shouldn't be surprised. 

And for all the outrage Laurie expresses about Loomis' book and of trying to get past her trauma, she has a Charlie Manson poster above her bed! And all she wants to do is party! Since the film barely develops her character or her traumatic nightmares, she is simply another anonymous victim for Mikey. She does have a haunting moment at the end where she emits a devilish smile. Unfortunately, it seems dimly haunting when you consider how little we really know about Laurie.   

And what is it with Michael Myers in this film? At times, he wears the infamous William Shatner mask, and other times he wears no mask, has a full beard and looks like Rob Zombie's doppelganger! Plus he grunts every times he punches a hole through a door, a wall or someone's face.  

"Halloween II" has oodles of atmosphere and some fantastic footage of a Halloween party that adds tension and a level of wickedness - unlike the Zombie original, at least it seems to actually take place on Halloween. Outside of McDowell's performance and Dourif's scenery-chewing lines and some occasional suspense in the finale, "Halloween II" nevertheless amps up the gore and keeps resisting its wicked visuals and some truly heart-stopping feverish montages for blood-splattering murders. And Laurie's relentless high-pitched screams, not to mention several unsavory characters that only last on screen long enough to be decimated, brings tedium to a somewhat more ambitious "Halloween" sequel than anyone could have expected.