9/11 Reimagined as a Monster Movie

CLOVERFIELD (2008)

Reviewed by Jerry Saravia

"Cloverfield" is an anxiety-ridden, claustrophobic nightmare of a movie. It is 9/11 reimagined as a monster movie, only the monsters are not terrorists but rather an actual monster with a Godzilla-like snarl and rage against anything in its path. The fact that it is set in New York City makes this movie impactful and the monster significantly scarier than I had imagined. 

"Cloverfield" states from the beginning that we are watching a government file - found footage of a horrific night in New York City. Anxiety seems to set in right from the start. Yuppies are at a going-away party held for the young vice-president of a company, Rob (Michael Stahl-David), who is travelling to his new job in Japan. We are watching a hand-held camcorder capturing these events and if you are reading this and saying, "God, not another amateur found footage flick a la "Blair Witch Project," think again. We know something is about to happen, but what? The new vice-president is royally pissed that his platonic female friend, whom he had slept with, is seeing a new guy. And then, the horror starts. An earthquake sound rattles everyone. An explosion is seen in the distance. The severed head of the Statue of Liberty rolls along the city streets. Pandemonium sets in. It is a monster with a lethal tail, destroying any and everything in its path. But why, and where does it come from? "Cloverfield" never answers these questions.

"Cloverfield" is a straight-faced, interminably terrifying rush of a movie, laced with a real sense of terror. The monster is barely seen so we have to imagine its rampage, eliciting from our hand-held point-of-view shots only glimpses (we really get a sense of the enormity of the creature at the end). The movie never slows down for a second and the anxiety of getting away from the terror builds, even for its rather short 74-minute excursion. It helps that we care about the characters. Michael Stahl-David's Rob cares about his newfound girlfriend, even if she cheated on him, and races to find her in easily one of the most thrilling rescues I've ever seen (let's say it deals with a nearly toppled apartment building). Hud (T.J. Miller - hilarious stand-up comic in real life) is the camcorder-carrying member, documenting all the action and providing a few nervous laughs (as the late Roger Ebert suggested, how much power does that camcorder battery have that it lasts through an entire night into the next day?). There is also Marlena (Lizzy Caplan, a hypnotic presence), the dizzying and dazed girl whom Hud has a thing for. We care just enough about these characters to hope they make it out alive, and director Matt Reeves allows for a few contemplative moments where we get to focus on the trauma and the impact it has on its victims.

"Cloverfield" is a great movie experience but it may be a bit much for those who are still conflicted and traumatized by 9/11. There is a lot of that imagery here, including clouds of dust that may make you squeamish, more so than in Steven Spielberg's dark, bleak remake of "War of the Worlds." Aside from Oliver Stone and Paul Greengrass, fewer and fewer films have truly dealt with the tragedy of that fateful day. Action movies, horror films and other genre pictures have used the iconic imagery of 9/11 to spice up their own films. "Cloverfield" feels utterly real and in the moment, words which I never imagine using to describe a Godzilla rip-off/homage. But this movie is not eye candy - it is an emotional response to caring for one another and trying to survive in these tough times. This is where "Cloverfield" really strikes its chord.

Skippy as a metalhead!

TRICK OR TREAT (1986)

Reviewed by Jerry Saravia

I am no fan of heavy metal music nor am I a fan of Marc Price. Therefore it seems unlikely both would be linked together in a movie. "Trick or Treat" has no tricks up its sleeve and is no delicious treat to sit through.

Marc Price plays Eddie Weinbauer, an introverted heavy-metal fan who is obsessed by one metalhead, Sammi Curr (Tony Fields). Curr dies in a hotel fire and now Eddie is devastated (he hears this news while writing a letter to him). Eddie feels Sammi is the only one that could understand him, and he is definitely right (both are from the same high school). The local DJ (creepily played by Gene Simmons) gives Eddie the only copy of Sammi's last record. But when Eddie plays the LP, he notices that there are hidden messages conveyed when the record is played backwards. The messages contain instructions on how to torment and kill all the school bullies that are hounding Eddie.

Though it has a good enough premise for a low-budget horror flick, the movie flounders after a nicely effective opening. Marc Price, formerly known as the nerdish, oblivious Skippy on TV's "Family Ties," is completely unbelievable as someone who would love heavy metal music, much less dance to it. His line readings in close-up shots reek of complete implausibility - he stares and winks while delivering jokey sentences. I am not surprised that Price has never gotten far beyond the confines of this disastrous horror pic - all I can say is that he has less charisma than on the TV show. He doesn't look like a heavy metal fan, and his long black hair and puppy dog eyes elicit zilch in terms of nuance or any emotion.

The movie flounders with many setpieces where Eddie confronts the bullies and is terminally tricked and embarrassed in front of the whole school (my favorite is when Eddie is thrown naked out of the shower into a women's gym class). A nice touch is seeing heavy metal singer Ozzy Osbourne play a reverend who considers heavy metal music immoral. I also like a bit involving a reptilian creature that has its way with a horny teenage girl in the backseat of the car (though I hope someone can enlighten me on what the creature has to do with the rest of the movie).

"Trick or Treat" has no wit, no surprise, no atmosphere and no scares. Trick and treating is probably more fun than watching this steaming pile of junk.

Buscemi's Ode to Valley Stream

TREES LOUNGE (1996)

Reviewed by Jerry Saravia
(Originally written in 2002)

"Trees Lounge" is the story of Tommy, an unemployed drunk who flirts with the ladies and lives in a depressing small town on Long Island, New York. He can't find work as an auto mechanic so he starts driving an ice-cream truck after the owner dies of a heart attack (played by veteran Seymour Cassel). Tommy can't help but drink himself to a stupor at the Trees Lounge bar where he maintains an apartment upstairs. Night after night, he drowns himself in disillusionment with his friends. Tommy's life might have some meaning, though, when he has a brief dalliance with a teenager who can't inhale cigarettes, Debbie (Chloe Sevigny). Problem is she's too young and her father, Jerry (a terrifyingly funny Daniel Baldwin) may just kill  Tommy if he finds out.

The movie is packed with a great cast of actors including an old drunk David Lynch-type named Billy (Bronson Dudley) who continually stares into space; the fat drunk moving company owner, Mr. Hyde (Mark Boone Jr.); Tommy's old and pregnant flame, Theresa (Elizabeth Bracco); Chloe Sevigny as the aforementioned ingenue who enjoys going for a ride in Tommy's ice-cream truck; and Tommy's former angry employer, Rob (Anthony LaPaglia) who is Theresa's husband.

Most of all, it is Steve Buscemi who makes a big impression as writer, director and star of an exuberantly 

fresh and wonderfully made sleeper. His rat-like features and skeleton body underlie a deeply troubled soul 

searching for some escape from this town. At its best, "Trees Lounge" looks and feels like a depressing smalltown where life continues to go on, even if its inhabitants do not.                                               

It is time that the Academy Awards recognize the talent of independent spirits like Steve Buscemi (as of 2002, they still haven't). If Hollywood hasn't learned the sad truth yet, it's that quantity isn't everything.

Terry Gilliam's Unfinished Opus

LOST IN LA MANCHA (2002)

Reviewed by Jerry Saravia

I remember being a cameraman's assistant during the Zozobra Festival, an annual event in Santa Fe, New Mexico. There was live music and food, and it went on for many hours. After it was all over, the TV director who helped to direct it for live TV was visibly upset. It was a disappointment for whatever reason. Maybe she didn't get all the shots she had hoped for, who knows. But that glazed look of disappointment is exactly what you see in director Terry Gilliam's face in the fascinating and upsetting documentary, "Lost in La Mancha."

Terry Gilliam, the former Monty Python member who made movies with big, fantastical ideas and epic, profound visuals that no one else could conjure in films ranging from "Brazil" to "12 Monkeys," is seen on working on his latest project, "The Man who Killed Don Quixote," a labor of love he had been trying to adapt for ten years. A 32 million dollar budget has been approved with European investors (Hollywood turned its back on it). Costumes are designed, sets are constructed, actors are hired, and everything seems to be in working order. A French actor named Jean Rochefort has been hired to play Don Quixote, and he looks the part and has learned enough English to do it justice. Johnny Depp has been hired to play a hero from the future who plays the part of Sancho Panza. Three actors are hired to play giants. As I said before, this production looks good and practically classic Gilliam.

Problems arise on the first day shooting in the desert where fighter jets are in the skies, the extras have not rehearsed their roles, bad weather leads to flooding, etc. Gilliam gets bewildering stares when he asks if the production's equipment is insured. Rochefort is clearly uncomfortable due to possible prostate pain and has to fly back to France to see a doctor. Delays continue and, after all the investors come to visit a scene near a waterfall with Depp mouthing off to a dead fish, a pervading feeling of doom settles in. Will Rochefort be able to come back and continue his Don Quixote role? Is this all the assistant director's fault?

A lot of this is engrossing material and, almost simulatenously, perplexing - why didn't Gilliam seek to replace Rochefort or why not keep shooting whatever scenes were needed without Rochefort? Also, despite the fact that Depp was not the blockbuster star he became until "Pirates of the Caribbean" when this movie was shot, why not take the time-travel concept further, rewrite it a little and introduce a new character played by Depp or maybe Marlon Brando? There are many what-ifs in this scenario - for a hefty budget, the production could've been remedied without being shut down or maybe the Europeans are less forgiving than Hollywood when things go wrong and the budget increases. I sense there is more to this documentary that we are not seeing.

"Lost in La Mancha" serves as food for thought on the logistics of what can go wrong with the shooting of a big-budget movie. But there are too many questions and not enough answers as to the film's unfortunate shutdown. Orson Welles once tried to make a Don Quixote movie with the added plot of a director trying to make a movie about the subject. Gilliam could have done the same, without documenting just his frustration.

A Poor "Black Man" adopted by Mabel King

THE JERK (1979)

Reviewed by Jerry Saravia

Comedy is a rare gift for anyone, whether it is the writers or the actors who have to perform it. Timing is everything and Carl Reiner's "The Jerk" is an oddball comedy. It was Steve Martin's first foray into a comedic leading role, playing the most insanely dumb and most ignorant white man on Earth. You know you are ignorant when you think you're a poor black man.

Martin is Navin, adopted by Southern black sharecroppers who bear nothing but absolute love for him. One day, after hearing a radio channel where jazz music is playing, Navin is inspired to hit the road and appear on radio! His family supports him but they are afraid he might discover what a cruel white man's world it really is. Nevertheless, after Navin hitchhikes across the country, he works at a gas station (and assumes the public toilet is his bedroom!), works at a circus where he gets a tattooed, motorcycle-driving female daredevil who consistently has sex with him, operates a mini-railroad ride for kids where he meets the sweet Marie (Bernadette Peters), and eventually invents a new pair of eyeglasses with a built-in support mechanism for the nose so they do not fall off. Naturally, Navin's new invention makes him filthy rich. And this is where the film lost me. For somebody so dimwitted and naive about everything, it turns out Navin inadvertently invents something that is supposedly useful. The fact is that the sympathetic Navin becomes a wild and crazy guy who wants to party and has no scruples - I just didn't buy it.

"The Jerk" has too many long pauses, too many hesitations when in fact it should drive forward with the special brand of that kinetic Reiner engine (it worked in "All of Me" and "Oh, God!"). The engine this time floats around, and some gags run on too long. When Navin tries to buy time with some discovered Latino thieves at the gas station, I lost patience because the gag is drawn out. The payoff works but the buildup is slow as Navin keeps running back into the gas station over and over again to keep the thieves waiting. Same with a crazy shooter (M. Emmett Walsh) who tries to kill Navin at the gas station. The shooter shoots at one paint can, then another, and another, and another until you say, get on with it already!

I liked "The Jerk" overall and Steve Martin is often quite hysterical. He is the kind of physical comedian who can't stay still for long - he always has to gyrate or use his body language to emphasize distress or anxiety. Jackie Mason is a showstopper of a presence with his perfectly timed one-liners. I can't help but adore Mabel King as Navin's adopted mother - her unadulterated love for her son is heartbreakingly real. I only wish that the comedic gags were exerted with far more energy and pizazz.

Curtains for the critics!

THEATRE OF BLOOD (1973)

Reviewed by Jerry Saravia

Vincent Price was the Grand Guignol of cinema, the man with the snarling, exquisite voice that pronounced chilling, spine-tingling horrors. His charm and elegance left impressions of cold, remorseless evil, but with a smile. At his best, he remained true to this persona, fixating audiences with his stare and arched eyebrows and twirling mustache. Though his career was strewn with villainy, "Theater of Blood" was an attempt at showing audiences and critics that he could be a towering actor when it came to drama, if only someone had given him the chance.

Price plays Edward Lionheart, a hammy Shakesperean actor who has endured critical beatings in every one of his plays. He had been accused time and again of being over-the-top yet also as someone who could make a grand exit. Lionheart thought he would be bestowed with the prestigious Critic's Circle award for best actor in his last play when instead a young newcomer receives the award. Lionheart visits his critics at a gathering and lambasts them for ignoring his work, and supposedly commits suicide. A few years later, one critic after another is killed in grisly ways, and the murders ape the murders in the very Shakespeare plays Lionheart had appeared in. Nobody thinks of accusing Lionheart at first, considering he is supposed to be dead, but Lionheart's own daughter, Edwina (Diana Rigg), may have the answers to the culprit responsible.

All the critics are astounded at what is happening. Police protection is used, but the critics never realize the lengths to which this murderer aspires to. A wine tasting event turns sour. Fencing practice becomes a realistic duel. A cooking show turns into a Grand Guignol of tastelessness. A hairstyling dryer becomes an electrocution chamber. The best of these characters is the always colorful Robert Morley as Meredith, a critic who treats his poodles as if they were his own children. There is also the understated Ian Hendry as Peregrine, the youngest of the critics, who was most savage in his attacks agains Lionheart's acting, and possibly the most reasonable.

"Theatre of Blood" has an imaginative conceit at its core - the systematic execution of critics who rip apart actors's performances - but it is nothing more than Hammer horror delivered with a high body count. Yes, all the critics meet their maker (save for one, of course), but the gore is likely to turn off viewers who've enjoyed Price in the delicately strange surroundings of the "Dr. Phibes" movies. I could have lived without seeing blood spurting from decapitated bodies, electrical shock that turns a body into toast, poodles used as a delicacy on the order of "Titus Andronicus," and many other stabbings and mutilations. Yes, gore has gone to far more explicit extremes since 1973 to be sure, but this black comedy thinks gore in and of itself is funny - it is not. There is no maniacal glee or imagination in the killings - they look too much like leftovers from any Hammer horror film (note: I am no big fan of Hammer in general). We are obviously dealing with a demented actor who doesn't see how over-the-top and hysterical his acting has become, not to mention how killing his critics does not improve matters. Had the film concentrated on Lionheart's soulless charisma, it might have been a real winner. As it is, it is merely passable, wicked, crude fun.

Despite the bloody theatrics, "Theater of Blood" does have the towering presence of Vincent Price and he makes the most of his juicy role. He snaps, crackles, shouts and delivers with every bit of wickedness in his body - it is a bravura performance. Just imagine if he had been allowed to tackle Shakespeare in the any of the mentioned plays Lionheart performed in. We might have seen that Price's talent was not just horror.

My mind is crowded

THE DEVIL AND DANIEL JOHNSTON (2005)

Reviewed by Jerry Saravia

I've never heard Daniel Johnston's music but, like any introduction to someone I have next to zero knowledge about, "The Devil and Daniel Johnston" is a haunting and powerful documentary that will prove illuminating enough to want to sample some of his tunes.

Tracing the life of Daniel Johnston proves exhausting and exasperating and frustating, to be sure. Here is a Sacramento, California man (who looks like a shaggier version of Paul LeMat) with manic depression who, from an early age, decorated his basement bedroom into a full-fledged studio for writing songs and drawing his Captain America character in portraits of good and evil. Daniel wanted to be as famous as the Beatles, loved a classmate who was his muse named Laurie (she married a mortician), worked at McDonald's as a busboy (to the point where McDonald's was getting calls from agents), eventually landed a spot on MTV, got acquainted with groups like Sonic Youth and Half Japanese, and then the trouble truly started. He had episodes where he thought the Devil was everywhere, even inside his own friends (he had an obsession with the number 666). He thought people were out to get him, even his own manager whom he fired. It gets to the point where he attacks an elderly woman in her home, and where he nearly kills himself and his father in a private plane. Johnston's reasons for these two strange events were that the elderly woman was pushed out of her two-story bedroom window by the Devil, and the plane incident was his own doing because he was Captain America at that moment. Eventually he is in and out of mental hospitals, which strangely enough builds his legendary status, especially in Austin, Texas.

If you are a fan of Ted Zwigoff's "Crumb," one of the best documentaries ever made, then you'll like "The Devil and Daniel Johnston." Whereas Robert Crumb could separate art from his life, Daniel Johnston feels they are one and the same. Here is a tortured, stubborn artist who filmed most of his life with an 8mm film camera and a video camera, sometimes reenacting his own hellish arguments with his Christian fundamentalist mother by assuming the role of his mother. The question then arises: what contributed to Daniel's mental breakdown at an early age? Was it is his parents who insisted he get a job? Was it the love for Laurie whom he still felt triumphant over even when she got married to someone else? Did his lack of attaining status serve his self-destructive phase? Of course, his albums were never big sellers (5,800 copies were sold through Daniel's new manager at the time) so was he ahead of his time, or are the myths of Daniel's haphazard, chaotic life what make him legendary? The viewer will have to decide.

By the end of "Devil and Daniel Johnston," we see Daniel still living with his parents in Texas and still plugging away at his music with a local punk band. It is difficult to say if Daniel was as manic-depressive as he seemed or if he could control it through his art. That parallel is what makes this film as poetic about the artist's soul as any film I've ever seen.