With so many new boutique labels now unearthing forgotten gems or hidden treasures, it’s becoming quickly apparent – it’s not simply about how many or how obscure a title you can release, but it’s the importance of curation and contextualization you give your titles. For sure, you can unearth a film that’s never seen the light of day or has been cast aside by time and put it back out there, but unless you present it in such a way that it can be understood by today’s audiences, your film will probably end up on Hamilton Books in their bargain bin. That being the case it feels like we get a new label every few months cutting the teeth in the collector’s market and I had the pleasure of checking out a release by Film Masters, one of these new-ish labels who are just starting to gain some real momentum.
I first came across Film Masters thanks to their announcement of a restoration of one my biggest ISOs Redneck Miller, which will hit later this year. But Film Masters is not just a distro label, but a preservation outfit and in the few months since I’ve discovered them have released a plethora of content. While they are of course releasing physical media of their restorations, they also have a very formidable presence on their freely accessible YouTube channel, where they release scans of not only obscure films, but television as well. It’s something that really shows their respect for media as a whole, since I think older TV shows and made for TV films have their own charm and craft worthy of reappreciation.
But for this review I am digging into the 1960 sleazy supernatural thriller Tormented, by Bert I. Gordon, who helmed such B movie classics as Empire of the Ants, The Food of the Gods, The Mad Bomber and The Cyclops. Like most films of this time with seedier subject matter there is a purposeful focus on the morality of those that make certain choices and making sure they get their comeuppance. In Tormented the film focuses on Tom (Richard Carlson), a jazz piano genius who is visiting Cape Cod to marry a much younger and richer woman, than his previous blonde bombshell songbird girlfriend Vi (Juli Reding). The problem is said songbird comes to confront him and somehow they end up at the top of a lighthouse where she threatens to “expose” him and end his engagement. Well, she accidentally loses her footing mid argument and falls off the walkway at the top of the lighthouse. While grasping for dear life onto a lone piece rail she begs for Tom to help her, who instead watches her fall to her death.
With Vi out of the way, Tom tries to go back to his fancy upper class wedding to Meg Hubbard (Lugene Sanders), but not only is he plagued by visions of Vi, but the captain that ferried her over thinks there’s a buck to be made from the disappearance of his fare. While the film definitely has the expected trajectory, it works thanks to its eerie and atmospheric narrative that does manage to keep you on your toes. Richard Carlson, who is probably best known for his role as Dr. David Reed in Creature from the Black Lagoon, does a rather impressive unhinged job here as the guilt and the ghost drive him to some pretty dark places. This film came at the tail end of the actor’s career and he would only do about six more films, before unexpectedly dying of a cerebral hemorrhage at the age of 65. The Monroe-esque Juli Reding who was currently on husband 3 of 5 at the time was however just starting her career, thanks to some rather charming effects, has a rather powerful presence over the entire film – even though she dies in the first few minutes.
Thanks to its black and white cinematography and gritty subject matter, Tormented as a film feels somewhat noir-ish at times, and thanks to its ghostly leanings keeps you guessing at where it will go next. The film was shot by Ernest Laszlo who would go on to not only lens such classics as Fantastic Voyage, It’s a Mad Mad Mad Mad World and Logan’s Run, but he eventually would take home an Oscar after 8 nominations for 1966’s Ship of Fools. It’s something Tormented definitely benefits from, since these films don’t often look this good and the competency of the cinematography definitely helps to take the edge off some of the more dated visual effects. This works hand in hand with the competent script and solid performances who are all playing it straight, with a generous helping of TV melodrama on the side.
The film is presented in a new 4K restoration from 35mm archival elements and it looks like they caught this film just in time. The scan still has its grain and film texture left intact, with minimal DNR and while you can tell there was a restoration, there’s still some visual damage present. For me this only adds to the charm of the viewing experience and really helps to highlight Ernest Laszlo’s command of the frame, as he not only captures the brightly lit beach sun scapes, but the dark and dreary world Tom inhabits at night. It’s a great way to contrast not only the themes at work and characters, but it’s something that you’re not going to see captured as impressively as it is here with the darkened scenes perfectly void of all light.
When I finish a film one of my favorite things to do is to start digging into the extras and THIS is where this disc obliterates most releases. Along with a great doc by Ballyhoo Motion Pictures on Bert I. Gordon in the 1950s & 1960s, there’s the Mystery Science Theater 3000 version of Tormented (1992), an unreleased TV pilot of Famous Ghost Stories, made by Bert I. Gordon and hosted by Vincent Price, the full feature in 1:33.1 and a commentary provided by film historian-writer-filmmaker Gary Don Rhodes. (Plus SO MUCH MORE!) I walked into this release completely unfamiliar with Bert I. Gordon, but after my sitting I felt I was completely familiar with the director, and how he leveraged B movies and monsters as his way into Hollywood. The disc also does a fantastic job at contextualizing Tormented in his filmography as a film that was made when the director had finally made his way to LA and was the culmination of this journey.
While I enjoyed Tormented as a watch on its own. It’s the contextualization that you can explore after the fact by diving into the plethora of extras that really helped me appreciate it for what it was at the time, which couldn’t have been easy to bring together for an obscure deep cut like this. Using every nook and cranny left on the disc Film Masters not only give you probably the best presentation of the film you’re going to get, short of seeing it at the drive-in in the 60s, but an exhaustive roster of extras that works to give you that history on why they bothered releasing the film in the first place. You can really tell it’s because they genuinely care about the director and his weird little film and that enthusiasm transcends to the viewer, which is something that’s hard to get from a triple dip on 4k by some other distros. What can I say, Film Masters is probably my new favorite indie distro and I can’t see what they serve up next!
Bela Tarr’s best film remains cosmically, brutally prescient nearly 25 years later
Stills courtesy of The Criterion Collection, unless otherwise noted.
While Werckmeister Harmonies rivals only Sátántangó as Bela Tarr’s most accessible film as far as home video releases, many of their previous transfers failed to do justice to the visual splendor of the original films themselves. While Tarr’s cinema makes copious use of the grime and gloom of his Hungarian settings, so too did these releases–excluding Cinema Guild’s reverent transfer of Tarr’s final film The Turin Horse, all of these previous releases seemingly dragged each film through sandpaper and vaseline before burning in near-illegible subtitles and unleashing them on the home video market. The sole US DVD release of Werckmeister Harmonies was released in such a fashion before going out of print just as fast. The recent revival of Tarr’s work has led to a slew of recent restorations, including the excellent intensive restoration of Sátántangó by Arbelos in 2019. In 2023, Werckmeister Harmonies finally received its own 4K restoration, bringing back this timeless parable of fascism and existential dread in an era where its themes have become all too timely.
In the film, based on László Krasznahorkai’s novel The Melancholy of Resistance and co-directed with Ágnes Hranitsky, soft-spoken mailman Janos (Lars Rudolph) bears the weight of several responsibilities in his small Hungarian village. In addition to delivering mail, he instills scientific knowledge; in the film’s riveting opening scene, he uses the blitzed patrons of the local pub as interactive props to illustrate the mechanics of a solar eclipse–working in the language of their superstitions to slowly drive them towards a place of visual and metaphorical enlightenment. One night, however, a foreboding giant truck belonging to a traveling circus lurches into the town square. It contains a massive preserved whale, which immediately grabs Janos’ attention; grabbing everyone else’s attention, however, is the mysterious “Prince,” an unseen yet seemingly deformed creature who’s sparked riots and ominous incidents wherever he goes. The local authorities, spearheaded by Tunde (Hanna Schygulla), compel Janos and hermit-y musical theorist Eszter (Peter Fitz) to investigate the growing mobs in the town square under the guise of “preserving order.” This, however, forces Janos to witness the societal collapse that may not just be occurring everywhere else but may have been long ordained for centuries.
Werckmeister Harmonies was my first Bela Tarr film, seen under this laborious amount of visual degradation. However, the visual quality couldn’t impede the tremendous impact the film would have on me. I’d never seen a film with this amount of methodical patience in the way it treated cinematic time–to play out a moment to its exact length, no matter how short or how long. It was a resounding formal rejection of cinema’s many colorful tools, stripping it down to its rigorous formal essence. The most profound moment came in the last moments of the film’s thirty-ninth and final shot, as a heavenly blast of light provides one last cosmic sucker punch–a seemingly divine answer to the grueling events of the film.
I got the chance to meet Bela Tarr at the New York Film Festival following a career-spanning Q&A (me at 29:31!) that wildly lived up to his stoic yet headstrong and passionate nature. I asked him further about Werckmeister’s ending, discussing how much the ending tied together everything I thought the film was driving at–themes of order and chaos, God and Man, fate and free will, ad nauseam. Tarr, to his immense credit, patiently heard out the ravings of this insane 20-year-old with a smile before clapping me on the back and intoning, “is fog machines,” before disappearing into the crowd.
Certainly not Julian reeling with existential doubt.
In the subsequent decade, I’ve since learned how Tarr is a director who’s vehemently shrugged off attempts to impose meaning on his films. He’s a director who vigorously rejects the artifice cinema can impose on its viewers, and spends so much time and care into the methodical unraveling of his films precisely so that there’s no opportunity for anything fake to creep into them. Moments last as long as they have to. People are creatures of habit and sloth, following compulsions and vices to natural conclusions. Those same flaws and foibles are endemic to the systems they create, which more often persecute and punish than deliver and absolve. While The Turin Horse is Tarr’s most directly apocalyptic film, Werckmeister Harmonies certainly does its damnedest to encapsulate this feeling that we are likely going to be the cause of our demise. Following at a distance behind Janos and the others, we bear as much witness as this unfortunate deliveryman to how willing people are to bend towards an ill-defined order. Corrupt authorities take whatever action they need to to remain at the top; deprived of everything, those underfoot cling to whoever can promise change; despite seeking order, people unflinchingly embrace causing chaos and ruin if it means order might come as a result. These aren’t subtextual things in Werckmeister Harmonies–a spellbindingly horrific sequence of destruction and depravity in a hospital shows just what we’re capable of without any need for gratuitous closeups or rapid-fire editing.
The cumulative effect is unforgettable. It’s one that directly influenced filmmakers like Gus Van Sant with Elephantin the wake of the Columbine school shootings, and one that presages Jonathan Glazer’s techniques in dramatizing the progress of concentration camps in The Zone of Interest by decades. With each passing moment, you grow further away from feeling like just a spectator enjoying a film to an active, complicit participant in the film’s action. Your presence is tempered with guilt or shame, our inability to act transformed into an action in and of itself.
But still, there’s hope among the ruins. In Werckmeister Harmonies, in particular, a character who once willingly sat on the sidelines indulging in circular thoughts on order and chaos realizes either how wrong or right he truly was. The conclusion is left ambiguous–but in the spirit of Tarr’s rejection of interpretation, he makes clear that some form of change has come about. That deep down, change is possible, as much as we may collectively bend towards fascism as a resistance to societal upheaval. Tarr restrains you for as long as you need to to be inspired to break free and cause change. By showing you everything–unvarnished, uninterfered with, horrors and all–Tarr hopes you’ll see things differently.
It’s a radical approach to cinema that has become all too timely in recent years–as the world outside of Tarr’s theaters has morphed and deformed to fit the black-and-white bleakness he’d spent years depicting in his films. As Dennis Lim notes in his essay provided for this disc,
Fascism is even less of an abstract concern today than it was in 2000. Hungary has been under Viktor Orbán’s strongman rule for over a decade now. In the present-day American context, it is hard to watch the riot scenes without flashing on the violent mobs—the white nationalists in Charlottesville, Virginia; the election deniers of the January 6 insurrection—that have been a recurring feature of the Trump era.
Werckmeister Harmonies has emerged from over a decade of relative unavailability and obscurity to find it’s become less of a warning of what we’re capable of and more of a mirror to what we’ve done to ourselves. Hell, it even makes for a more languid companion piece to Alex Garland’s Civil Waras it does to the aforementioned Zone of Interest in that it bears objective witness to our capacity for evil which, left unchecked, seems only natural to overwhelm the better angels of our nature. And, like both films, it finds an urgent call for change in its seeming objective spectatorship–that only by directly confronting evil, leaving final judgment to ourselves, we are given an opportunity to forge a better path.
Fate, as I should have expected, inevitably chose to weigh in on how I viewed the ending of Werckmeister Harmonies. After years of seeing the film’s conclusion as I did, heavenly light and all, it became clear that some prints and transfers of Werckmeister Harmonies had this last-second increase in exposure, while others did not. Was Tarr’s elusive answer a decade ago an answer to something never there in the first place? I was beyond excited to hear the news of this film getting a 4K restoration–not just to finally see the film as close to its original form as possible, but to also get a definitive sense of closure to a question that had crept up on me over the last ten years.
The restoration finally came to Austin, Texas–and it was a wonder to behold, seeing Werckmeister Harmonies finally escape the prison of artifacting and aspect ratios it had been trapped in for years. Since this UHD review has veered far off course from actually being one by now, it’s here I’ll say that the video and sound quality on this disc release is equally superb, restoring the original theatrical aspect ratio and clearing out so many errant instances of wear and tear while still preserving how absolutely miserable the world of the film looks and feels. Mihaly Vig’s elegiac wail of an all-timer score still settles deep in one’s bones in the film’s monaural audio track.
But in that theatrical screening, despite experiencing the film as if seeing it for the first time, I waited on tenterhooks for that final shot.
Which played out, in wall-to-wall sound, in all of its glory.
But minus that heavenly flash.
I’ve been sitting with that experience for the last few months–even more so now that I, like cinephiles around the globe, now have a definitive 4K UHD copy of Werckmeister Harmonies available to me after all these years. It’s crazy how so much of a film’s impact can be determined by the right conditions: the time of day, who you see it with, down to the individual quirks of the version of the film you happen to watch. I can’t help but love that it’s this film, a chilling yet wonderful parable about our role as a spectator, and of the meaning we apply to the inscrutable to make sense of our lives, that happened to have such an otherwise innocuous error in its transfer that wholly shaped what I appreciate most about this film.
In its absence, though, I feel its impact even more. As revelatory as that flash was, it only confirmed something abstract that Tarr had already wrestled into tangibility. It was present in Uncle Eszter confronting the whale and literally changing his tune. It was present in the horrors of the hospital where, confronted with the opportunity to commit the unspeakable, the voiceless throngs of the mob universally chose to cease and turn back.
We don’t need external divine confirmation to compel us to change. Being able to change is already divine in its own right. It’s just a question of whether or not we will.
Like Tarr, I hope we do.
Special Features
Note: All disc-based special features are included on the accompanying Blu-ray Disc.
Family Nest (1979): In a major coup, Criterion has included a restoration of Tarr’s debut feature film, which focuses on the grueling interpersonal conflicts between a couple, their children, and their in-laws as the ongoing Hungarian housing shortage forces them to live in a singular cramped apartment. With a major focus on Irén Szajki’s wife as her patience and personal boundaries are increasingly violated by those around her, Tarr’s neorealist drama may differ in terms of the long-take style he’d develop by Sátántangó, yet the seeds of Tarr’s biting social criticism arrive hear fully realized.
Bela Tarr: In a new interview conducted for this release, film critic Scott Foundas sits down with Tarr to intimately discuss the totality of his career, including his major influences like Jean-Luc Godard growing up in Communist Hungary, navigating the endlessly shifting politics of the Hungarian film industry and censorship offices, his longstanding creative relationships with László Krasznahorkai and Ágnes Hranitsky, his particular cast-director relationship with Werckmeister star Lars Rudolph, to the circumstances of Tarr’s retirement from feature film directing after 2011’s The Turin Horse.
Trailer for Werckmeister Harmonies’ theatrical tour of the 4K restoration by Janus Films.
Essay: Film critic and New York Film Festival creative director Dennis Lim uses Werckmeister Harmonies as a framing device to discuss Tarr’s working relationship with Krasznahorkai, Tarr’s reflection upon order and disorder across his filmography, externalizing these ideas via the usage of his signature long takes, and a more sobering reflection on the possibly instinctual nature of humanity to bend towards fascism.
Werckmeister Harmonies is now available on 4K UHD, Blu-ray, and DVD courtesy of The Criterion Collection.
The team revisits Peter Jackson’s epic adaptation to determine if there’s still Beauty to this Beast nearly two decades later
Two Cents is a Cinapse original column akin to a book club for films. The Cinapse team curates the series and contribute their “two cents” using a maximum of 200-400 words. Guest contributors and comments are encouraged, as are suggestions for future picks. Join us as we share our two cents on films we love, films we are curious about, and films we believe merit some discussion. Would you like to be a guest contributor or programmer for an upcoming Two Cents entry? Simply watch along with us and/or send your pitches or 200-400 word reviews to [email protected].
The Pick: King Kong (2005)
In honor of Kong’s return in Godzilla x Kong: The New Empire, this month the Two Cents Film Club is going ape for APE-RIL, checking out a lineup of ape-themed movies with some surprises in the mix. Our fourth entry is 2005’s King Kong. Peter Jackson’s epic follow-up to his Lord of the Rings trilogy seemed as enormous of an undertaking on its first release. Jackson, once known for his grisly gorefests, was now a newly-minted Oscar-winning director whose last film tied Ben-Hur and Titanic for the most Academy Awards won by a single film. With a blank check and all of Hollywood at his disposal, he tackled a new adaptation of one of Universal’s OG creature features. Would he be able to pull off such a spectacle again with decades of VFX evolution at his disposal?
As with previous adaptations, Kong ’05 follows aspiring starlet Ann Darrow (Naomi Watts) and showman filmmaker Carl Denham (Jack Black) as they set sail for a mysterious island to finish Denham’s latest adventure picture–this time with screenwriter Jack Driscoll (Adrien Brody) and narcissistic lead actor Bruce Baxter (Kyle Chandler) in tow. Arriving at the sinking Skull Island, the crew discovers far more than crumbling ruins: the last of a thriving island civilization, who kidnap Ann as a sacrifice for their deity…the mighty Kong (Andy Serkis). As Denham and Jack brave the murderous wilds of Skull Island to rescue Ann, she forms an unexpected–and ultimately star-crossed–bond with the lonely creature.
While the Lord of the Rings is an unbeatable creative gambit that Jackson executed to perfection, his immediate follow-up feels like his real blank check, using all of the skills he’d honed over those 3 epic films to flesh out an already-classic property into something truly epic and timeless.
I’m always curious to map out how long it takes for each adaptation of the same story to hit their shared plot points–it tends to reveal something about the unique passions of the creatives behind them. In this case, I deeply love the first act of Jackson’s Kong–not just the meticulous recreation of the highs and lows of Depression-era America, but how the shared desperation of Ann, Denham, and Jack (top-tier performances from Watts, Black, and Brody) informs the overarching narrative of people searching for deeper emotional fulfillment amid their everyday struggles to survive. It’s 20 minutes before we even reach the first scene of Cooper’s original Kong, and even longer before we finally reach Skull Island–but that patience pays off in spades as Jackson’s signature massive-scale action sequences are rooted in an unshakable emotional core for the characters.
Crucially, Kong himself is treated as something human rather than just spectacle. Turning in one of the best mo-cap performances period, Andy Serkis imbues the Eighth Wonder of the World with such primal complexity. Kong’s a lonely asshole, King of an island slowly sinking into the sea, one full of creatures that either target or fear him. Like the rest of the humans invading his turf, Kong’s also hungry for something more beyond just sheer survival. Which is why, against all logic, Jackson and co-writers Fran Walsh and Philippa Boyens manage to eke out a moving emotional romance between Kong and captive Ann, and smartly use that to fuel every moment of SFX wizardry they pull off with aplomb. Sure, the final act in New York City feels like a lengthy film all its own after the first 2+ hours–but the equal patience applied to turn Cooper’s jaw-dropping climax into something unbelievably tragic is essential to this take on Kong. The Empire State Building isn’t just the location of a thrilling finale–it achingly feels like the only instinctual place for these lovers to go for refuge, even if it means certain death. While it’s a thrilling adventure film in its own right, Jackson’s King Kong feels like one of the last true epics, a miracle blend of compelling characters, practical/visual effects, and awe-inspiring action that all feel larger than life.
Having seen Peter Jackson’s King Kong three times in theaters (a true rarity for me), one might think that I would have approached this revisit as an opportunity to rediscover a dear favorite. But somehow the film had kind of fallen off my radar in the subsequent years. It has been almost 20 years, after all. But I did sense this was a great opportunity to introduce my nine year old daughter to one of the greatest stories cinema ever told, not to mention one of her first tragedies. And oh what a special viewing this was. I personally felt like I rediscovered a deeply moving masterwork that I had allowed time and distance to diminish. I’m profoundly moved by Kong as a force of nature, a lonely protector, a king, and a creature stripped of home, only to find a friend to be with at the end of all things. But what a wonder to experience the grand adventure and sweeping tragedy of King Kong with my child, who absolutely fell in love with Kong, and was devastated by his loss, and who spoke to me about what it must feel like to be Kong.
Jackson’s film honestly succeeds for me on all levels. Decades removed, I adored the cast. Jack Black is the culmination of determined, detached, opportunistic filmmaking zealot, doomed to destroy what he loves most. Adrian Brody is this dashing writer, but I love that he’s simply smitten by Naomi Watts’ Ann Darrow and his bravery and self-sacrifice drive much of the narrative forward once he’s desperately in love. Watts is timeless and transcendent, frankly, as Ann Darrow, an uncompromising dreamer with a heart so pure it’ll conquer the great depression and comfort the king of the jungle. Hell I even love the side characters of Mr. Hayes (Evan Parke) and Jimmy (Jamie Bell), adoptive father and son doomed by Black’s Carl Denham to explore the wilds of Skull Island. Jackson is perhaps indulgent with the length, but I’ll take every minute of hard scrabble Depression-era New York, every set piece of prehistoric battles, and every transcendent moment of bonding between a still perfect digitally created Kong and Naomi Watts. As fully realized as any CGI character before or since, Andy Serkis and the VFX team created a masterful Kong who makes my heart swell and shatter in a way many human characters never will.
What I appreciate most about Peter Jackson’s King Kong is its generosity. This is a film that is excited, desperate even, to give the viewer as much as possible of its pulp adventure world and the characters (monstrous and otherwise) who inhabit it. From the offbeat depression-era NYC opening (luxuriating in both the gleaming new art deco skyline and the street-level ravages of The Great Depression) to the claustrophobic sea voyage to Skull Island, Jackson wants to show off every corner of what he and the creative team created.
While this can be to its occasional detriment in terms of story economics and pacing – there are simply too many gotdamn characters in this thing – the combination of schoolboy enthusiasm and massive post-Oscar budget and creative freedom gives some of the most indelible moments in modern blockbuster filmmaking. Not only are Jackson’s horror roots on full display in segments like Anne’s kidnapping or the infamous Insect Pit, but his bone-deep empathy creates a new take on Kong that you can see echoing forward to the most recent incarnation in this year’s Godzilla x Kong: The New Empire. With motion capture performance by Andy Serkis and Weta Digital, this take on Skull Island’s monarch still holds up as a CGI creation almost 20 years later, but is also every bit as communicative as the same actor’s work as Caesar in the modern Planet of the Apes films. This is the first film where we see Kong attempting to use sign language to communicate, establishes him as not an aberration but the last survivor of his kind, and gives genuine room for him and Anne to establish rapport and affection as well as respect and fascination.
And we also get to see him fight three T-rexes at once and wreck buses in Times Square and all the cool big monkey shit that you go to a King Kong movie to see. The classic complaint against this film is that it’s just too long, and it is. It takes too long to get to the island and then they probably spend too long there given how much ground the film covers in New York, but also I don’t care. For every moment that feels unnecessary, there’s a half-dozen more that are showing you crazy shit you’ve never seen before. It’s the King Kong movie that your childhood brain remembers the original looking and feeling like, and it’s just too joyfully committed to showing you a hell of a good time to hold those long innings against it.
Peter Jackson’s loving homage to the original 1933 creature feature feels like a best-case scenario, creating an epic that’s both reverent and spiritually aligned to the original but updated with all the modern tools and resources (and goodwill) at his disposal coming off the triumph of The Lord of the Rings.
Despite a long runtime (especially in its Extended version), the film remains an engaging mix of adventure, creature horror, and tragedy that never feels like a chore. When I think of this film, what tends to spring to mind first is all the creature sequences – giant bugs, bats, dinosaurs, and of course Kong himself. A character oft remade and rebooted, he’s at his most human here, thanks to an incredible performance by Andy Serkis.
In an experience common to many videophiles, this was my introductory HD-DVD (included with the Xbox drive) and an early showcase title for the format. It’s the film I most closely associate with the concept of “HD”, and it still looks amazing almost 20 years later.
Well… mostly. There’s one thing PJ can’t seem to pull off effectively, and not for lack of budget or trying – once the (virtual) camera goes under (virtual) water, any connection to something resembling reality goes out the virtual window.
Radio Silence’s latest is also their best, and so much more.
Stills courtesy of Universal Pictures.
Sometimes a film has a high-level premise that’s so good that you’re almost surprised it hasn’t been done a dozen times already. It could be a genre exercise, or just an elevator pitch that succinctly captures something primal and immediately gripping out of a story you never realized you had to see. Such is the premise of Abigail, the new film from horror collective Radio Silence: a group of criminals are hired to kidnap a girl, only to realize that girl is in fact a vampire.
That’s a killer hook–but what is most surprising is that Abigail, originally pitched as a reimagining of the 1936 Universal horror film Dracula’s Daughter, somehow exceeds that premise to be something truly special. Radio Silence broke wide with their surprise hit Ready or Not in 2019, which mixed humor, gore, and lush scenery to create a unique experience. After Radio Silence helmed the last two Scream entries, Abigail serves as a spiritual sequel to Ready or Not, refining what made that movie so exciting, down to the locked haunted house premise. As a result, Abigail is not only Radio Silence’s most fully realized and successful film to date, but an immediate classic of the vampire genre, breathing fresh air into one of horror’s oldest genres.
The story of Abigail unfolds patiently: a group of criminals, all strangers to each other, are recruited to kidnap the titular target (played by Alisha Weir) by the mysterious Lambert (Giancarlo Esposito). Given nicknames to align with various members of the Rat Pack, there is bagman Frank (Dan Stevens), medic and logistics expert Joey (Melissa Barerra, reuniting with Radio Silence after their two Scream films), burnout wheelman Dean (Angus Cloud, in a posthumous appearance), cool girl hacker Sammy (Kathryn Newton), French-Canadian muscle Peter (Kevin Durand), and sniper Rickles (William Catlett). As the crooks slowly pick apart their real identities, strange deaths occur and cause accusations to fly freely. For a second, it seems like the film is being coy about its ultimate reveal–but once Abigail’s vampiric nature is revealed, the acceleration kicks off in earnest.
One of the great strengths of Abigail is how it uses its ensemble, with each performance being multi-faceted and well-observed. In many ways, the crooks all fall into very familiar archetypes. However, they aren’t thinly-rendered sketches, but living, breathing characters thrown into a wild and impossible scenario. Their distinct personalities are further revealed in how they react to the circumstances around them, with razor-sharp dialogue and clever set pieces giving the cast plenty to sink their teeth into as the madness unfolds.
And what gleeful madness it is. Just like Ready Or Not, Abigail’s pacing is breakneck once it gets going. It’s a goopy good time that relishes in its gothic surroundings and finding which vampire myths to incorporate or reject. A love for other vamp classics is evident throughout, with nods to everything from the original Dracula to Near Dark poking their influence throughout. Ultimately, the vibe is unquestionably unique to Radio Silence’s brand of horror, never too afraid to remember to keep it fun throughout. The beauty of Abigail is when it intermixes the human element alongside the fantastic, never afraid to wear its heart on its sleeve…before allowing that heart to spew blood everywhere.
Abigail hits theaters on April 19th courtesy of Universal Pictures.
While its bite may be uneven, this monstrous thriller continues Radio Silence’s enviable streak of unpredictable horror-comedies
Stills courtesy of Universal Pictures.
A ragtag team of kidnappers descend upon a fortified mansion, each using their unique skillset to subdue and spirit away young ballerina Abigail (Alisha Weir). They hole up in a crumbling country house, awaiting further instructions–with “Joey” (Melissa Barrera) as the sole point of contact with their pre-teen victim for compartmentalization. They stick to their aliases and enjoy the easier part of their job, waiting out the clock until they get their money. However, the members of the team get picked off one by one in gruesome ways. The crew turns on one another, desperate to stay alive long enough to reap the rewards of their increasing shares of ransom money. But as much as they harbor their own secrets, little Abigail has the deadliest of them all…
Directing duo Radio Silence (Matt Bettinelli-Olpin & Tyler Gillett) have long since proven their bonafides at blending horror, comedy, and action with films like Ready or Not, Southbound, and the last two Scream films. However, the pair still show they have dozens of fiendishly clever tricks up their viscera-drenched sleeves with Abigail, a gory blast rich with blood, guts, and laughs in equal measure. While the film may have its shortcomings, Abigail joins films like Immaculate, Lisa Frankenstein, Late Night with the Devil, and The First Omen in making 2024 a fantastic year for horror in its first four months alone.
As with their previous films, the Radio Silence team effectively channels the strengths of their cast while granting them the freedom to get weird and wild with the material they’re given. Melissa Barrera joins the team for her first post-Scream outing and quickly solidifies her well-earned role as a modern horror icon. Much like Ready or Not’s Samara Weaving, Joey is a headstrong, capable force of nature, here tempered by years of carefully honed defense skills and bitter reservation. There’s a vulnerability to Barrera’s character that she’s careful to dial the audience into without showing too much to her other cast members–a tactic that pays quick dividends as the film progresses. Abigail is yet another welcome entry in the “Dan Stevens goes absolutely unhinged” canon, as his Tim Robinson-inspired team leader has his bombastic bravado progressively chopped to pieces alongside the rest of his crew. Alisha Weir is a delightful standout as the elusive turned venomous Abigail, quickly weaponizing the innocent traits of similar characters like Dakota Fanning in Man on Fire or Kristen Stewart in Panic Room before going on such an eye-popping rampage. Supporting players all have chances to shine amidst the grisly absurdity–including Kathryn Newton (a funny flip of the coin from this year’s Lisa Frankenstein), the dearly departed Angus Cloud, humorous heavy Kevin Durand, a courageously stoic William Catlett, and an ever-mysterious Giancarlo Esposito.
The strength of the ensemble allows the film to settle into its initial place as a trust-no-one self-contained thriller, playing up the cat-and-mouse game of aliases and shady backgrounds in a quickly engaging and satisfying way. Even without its pivot into horror, widely telegraphed in the film’s marketing as its main selling point, Abigail is a fun, tense film in this regard–and given just how much Radio Silence takes its time in sticking to this original thriller mode, one could wonder if this should have even been spoiled at all, a la From Dusk Till Dawn. Once Abigail as a film and character rip off the mask of pretense, both cast and crew have a ridiculously bloody time reveling in what Abigail really is. Bettinelli-Olpin, Gillett, and writers Stephen Shields and Guy Busick pack the runtime with inventive kills, tense shocks, and hilarious banter well worth the price of admission, skewering genre tropes and conventions on its characters’ hand-fashioned stakes along the way.
However, I can’t help but feel that for all of its clever reveals and subversions, none of Abigail’s tongue-in-cheek twists ever live up to the manic mayhem of its midpoint upending of the plot. There are clever side quests and wonderfully tense moments, to be sure, but the buckets of blood at points feel more like the grease that allows the film’s wheels to spin before we get to moments that strive for greater or more meaningful suspense or impact. After several bloody sequences, I’m relieved to say the film manages to pick up steam again–with major credit to Barrera, Stevens, and Weir in particular for what becomes a magnetic and brutal dynamic together. One can’t help but feel that for all of its gut-churning visuals and gut-busting banter that Abigail might have a bit more bite with a few more judicial trimmings.
These shortcomings, however, don’t stop Radio Silence from continuing to make the horror-comedy genre look so devilishly easy to pull off. Abigail is still a sinister and silly good time at the movies, anchored by a cast gone wild and a creative team that’s more than willing to let them run rampant.
Abigail hits theaters on April 19th courtesy of Universal Pictures.
The team looks at the oft-forgotten 90s family comedy where Faye Dunaway, Jason Alexander and Rupert Everett all take second billing…to a monkey.
Two Cents is a Cinapse original column akin to a book club for films. The Cinapse team curates the series and contribute their “two cents” using a maximum of 200-400 words. Guest contributors and comments are encouraged, as are suggestions for future picks. Join us as we share our two cents on films we love, films we are curious about, and films we believe merit some discussion. Would you like to be a guest contributor or programmer for an upcoming Two Cents entry? Simply watch along with us and/or send your pitches or 200-400 word reviews to [email protected].
The Pick: Dunston Checks In
In honor of Kong’s return in Godzilla x Kong: The New Empire, this month the Two Cents Film Club is going ape for APE-RIL!! We’re looking at a lineup of ape-themed movies with some surprises in the mix. Our third entry is 1996’s Dunston Checks In. The movie boasts an all-star cast in a madcap adventure tale set in a Plaza-like hotel where a chimpanzee named Dunston finds his way in, befriends a young boy (Eric Lloyd), and hilariously wreaks havoc in one of New York’s most luxurious hotels.
To some degree, like with most “chimps on screen” films, Dunston Checks In derives a fair amount of laughter simply out of the primal human instinct to think “look at that funny monkey doing funny things”! No doubt I was not above that and indeed my daughter and I chuckled mightily throughout this film on that base level alone. But the film around the monkey on screen is surprisingly earnest and whimsical, boasting a cast of such quality as to astound someone who is experiencing this film for the first time here in 2024. The leads are a couple of child actors who acquit themselves just fine, but their father, who manages the 5 star hotel Dunston checks into and where the kids live and play, charmingly, is none other than Jason Alexander! Faye Dunaway is his cutthroat businesswoman boss, and Paul Reubens shows up as an animal catcher. I’m not here to say this is some kind of mid-90s family classic, but 5-star hotel antics, jewel thieving monkeys, endless slapstick gags, a monkey film that homages Planet Of The Apes and King Kong amidst our own Ape-ril journey, and a family coming together are enough to make me happy I sat down with my daughter and checked in on Dunston.
As others have pointed out, I was pleasantly surprised by Dunston Checks In. It certainly isn’t some hidden gem, and it certainly hits every expected “90s live-action comedy for kids” trope it can. Haggard father trying to balance being good at his job and also being a good day? Check, thanks to Jason Alexander. Outlandish antics, mostly to disrupt snooty adults? Check again. Liberating animals for abuse, a weirdly common theme of film from this era? You got it again.
What is more surprising is the madcap energy of the thing; I did not expect a moment where Alexander screams a perfectly timed and executed “Holy shit!” at his first viewing of Dunston. I did not expect multiple scenes depicting adults drinking and smoking. I didn’t expect innuendo-laden jokes throughout, including multiple gags about people being caught crawling under tables and the clear implication there. I didn’t expect to see Dunston’s blood. It all feels a bit more anarchic than similar fare of today, and like it was dipping its toe in dangerous waters by not talking down to its intended audience. Gore Verbinski’s incredible debut Mouse Hunt is probably the closest equivalent, and while Dunston never elevates to quite that level of forgotten treasure, there are enough surprising and actively amusing bits that it passes the bar of “better than you’d think” easily.
I’m not sure who ever thought that monkeys would make great movie stars, but someone clearly did as evidenced by the existence of titles both popular (Every Which Way But Loose) and obscure (Monkey Trouble). While the former made Clint Eastwood and Clive a winning onscreen duo, hardly anyone remembers the former, a 1994 comedy starring Thora Birch (in her “cute camera-ready kid” era) and a monkey who turns out to be a trained thief. The lack of success (or originality) of that movie didn’t stop 20th Century Fox from getting into the monkey movie business themselves with this comedy from 1996. Borrowing many of the same plot points from Monkey Trouble, the film pairs another cute kid (this time The Santa Clause‘s Eric Lloyd) with an orangutan (the titular Dunston) and places them smack dab in the middle of a 5-star hotel in the big apple.
There’s a tendency to go for cheap laughs in Dunston Checks In. Gags such as a continuous stream of raspberry sounds, or scenes like Dunston going crazy as he jumps over a wealthy hotel guest as she lays on her back while thinking she’s getting an invigorating massage are par for the course. Director Ken Kwapis is a capable enough filmmaker with a track record to back him up. But there’s a tendency on his part here to go for the obvious joke, believing that’s what kids find funny.
Kwapis and company do manage more right with Dunston Checks In than one might assume, however. For starters, the movie has the brilliant idea to take its wildly eclectic cast and place them in situations that are totally against type. Jason Alexander plays the straight man, Faye Dunaway does Lucille Ball-like slapstick, Rupert Everett revels in cartoon villainy, and Paul Reubens is delightfully unhinged. All seem to be having a ball and each are given their own comedy moments, no one more so than Glenn Shadix, whose every scene as a much-beleaguered hotel guest gets the movie’s most surefire laughs.
There’s also a slight, but undeniable “Eloise at the Plaza” storybook feeling about the whole affair thanks to its setting, which the filmmakers take real advantage of by placing Dunston in a variety of situations. But apart from the fun (both obvious and genuine), Dunston Checks In aims to be a tale about a boy and his unconventional friend, both largely ignored by the worlds they come from who form a bond. While the script doesn’t offer much in the way of nuance when it comes to this aspect, it more than makes up for it in both Lloyd’s natural ease in front of the camera and in the chemistry he shares with his furry, adorable co-star.
I’m not sure what possessed us to check out this 90s kid-flick with a 17% Rotten Tomatoes score, but despite its poor critical reputation it wasn’t half bad. On the contrary, it was light and fun – precisely the kind of mid-budget, live action, PG-rated family movie that used to be fairly ubiquitous in the 80s and 90s, but has for the most part been obsolesced by a modern landscape driven by algorithms and bankable IPs. In addition to its primary primate this slapstick adventure features a handful of terrific actors (Jason Alexander! Paul Reubens! Faye Dunaway!) hamming it up and, by the look of it, having a great time. In what may be the biggest surprise of Ape-ril, Dunston Checks In is worth checking out.
Picnic at Hanging Rock wasn’t Australian director Peter Weir’s first feature film, but it was the one that put him on the spotlight and cemented him as the “Peter Weir” we know today.
Many Australian films, especially period pieces or films set in the Outback (Picnic is both), have a certain uniquely rustic and dangerous air which can’t be replicated. The Australian New Wave and closely-linked Ozploitation boom of the 1970s brought about an exciting time of new filmmakers and stars, with Peter Weir and Picnic at Hanging Rock among the most celebrated and influential (second only to the twin powers of George Miller and Mel Gibson in Mad Max and its even more influential post-apocalyptic sequel Mad Max 2: The Road Warrior).
Picnic at Hanging Rock is every bit as visceral, haunting, and vital as its exploitation brethren, but cloaked instead in ethereal beauty, frilly lace school dresses, pretty parasols, and tightly pulled corsets.
The tale concerns an English-style ladies boarding school, the characters its students, teachers, and surrounding community. On Valentine’s Day, 1900, the class of girls, accompanied by a teacher and some young men employed as their driver and escorts, visit the towering volcanic rock formation known as Hanging Rock (a real location in Victoria, Australia).
Exactly what happened on the rock is a mystery – but what is known is that a few of the girls, and their teacher, disappeared, leading to a massive and sustained hunt to find the girls – or their bodies.
It’s a fairly straightforward plot, but stylistically it’s anything but. Weir infuses the tale with a surreal, sinister, and suggestively supernatural sensation. Around the base of the rock where girls make their picnic and settle for a nap, as if under some enchantment, time seems to stand still. Indeed, even watches stop – a phenomenon of the magnetic rock, an unsatisfying explanation offers.
But high on the rock where a smaller group of the girls sneak off to explore, an exploratory intrigue, expressed in slow motion and long dissolves, gives way to a screaming wind, yawning caverns, and an enticement to progress further into the highest winding crags as if under some somnambulistic trance.
This haunting mystery and sinister power of suggestion is greatly enhanced by the panflute music of Gheorge Zamfir, whose uniquely earthy and evocative compositions are perhaps the most crucial ingredient in setting the film’s singular tone.
The sense of mystery only deepens as the search for the girls lingers on, despite the best efforts of distressed policemen and search parties, and especially the tenacious efforts of the young men who originally accompanied the girls, driven by a potent mix of guilt and affection. Developments and clues which might be expected to help explain the incident only serve to obscure it further instead.
The greatness of Picnic at Hanging Rock is a little hard to quantify, a film that’s as much about its deeply evocative bestirring and suggestions and implications teeming beneath-the-surface as the literal elements of its plot.
The film is both outstanding and visually rich, and deeply deserving of this new 4K UHD presentation.
The Package
Picnic at Hanging Rock has been previously released on by Criterion in various formats (an early entry, as indicated by its low spine number of 29), including Blu-ray releases beginning in 2014 as a deluxe Digibox package with the novel included, and later in a more standard standalone release.
Criterion’s new 4K UHD release of the film includes a 4K movie disc and Blu-ray with movie and extras, in the usual transparent “Criterion style” case and accompanying booklet (which has been revised to highlight the new UHD transfer). It’s described as new 4K digital restoration, supervised and approved by Peter Weir and director of photography Russell Boyd, with 5.1 surround DTS-HD Master Audio soundtrack.
One thing I’m not overly fond of is that Criterion 4K packages look virtually indistinguishable from their Blu-ray editions, with only a sticker on the wrap and a few small text signifiers to tell them apart. Certainly it’s no help when browsing discs at Barnes & Noble, especially by spines, and probably a source of great confusion to retail employees who might be tricked into price matching discs across different formats. I understand this is due to Criterion’s emphasis of the content over format, but some distinguishing designs would not be unwelcome.
Special Features and Extras
Most of the extras are in 1080i and have a prominent combing effect which may be noticeable on some equipment.
Interview with Peter Weir (25:00) – an interview with Weir is accompanied by clips from the film and assorted still images. My favorite part was Weir recalling meeting author Joan Lindsay and asking her the questions he had been explicitly instructed not to.
Everything Begins and Ends (30:24) – A more recent look back at the making of the film, featuring producers, cast, and crew members.
Introduction by David Thomson (9:30) – the author and historian shares a video essay introducing the film and its legacy
A Recollection… Hanging Rock 1900 – vintage documentary produced for television and hosted by executive producer Patricia Lovell, featuring interviews with cast and crew members as well as Joan Lindsay, author of the novel’s
Homesdale (1971), a black comedy by Weir
Trailer (4:35) – a vintage trailer, notably long and plot-structured by modern standards
English subtitles
Booklet with an essay by author Megan Abbott and an excerpt from Peter Weir: When Cultures Collide by Marek Haltof
A/V Out.
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Except where noted, all 16:9 screen images in this review are direct captures from the accompanying Blu-ray disc (not the 4K UHD) with no editing applied, but may have compression or resizing inherent to file formats and Medium’s image system.
Simply put, Caye Casas’ The Coffee Table is the most transgressive anxiety-inducing 90 minutes (!) you will endure in 2024, I guarantee it. While I caught the film at Fantastic Fest last year, it just hit DVD and VOD thanks to Cinephobia Releasing and I’ve been waiting with baited breath to spring it on unsuspecting viewers, after enduring it at the fest. The pitch black Spanish comedy is the story of Jesús (David Pareja) who while out furniture shopping with his wife Maria (Estefanía de los Santos) and newborn son happens upon an opulent and gaudy coffee table. In one of the most relatable scenes I’ve witnessed on film recently, we have a man that desperately wants this overpriced, ugly piece of furniture with 2 ornate golden nude women holding up a pane of glass, and his very sensible wife wanting nothing of it. That first scene does a remarkable job at grounding the film in reality, by making these characters so sympathetic and relatable.
Maria eventually relents and once they get it home she steps out of their apartment to grab some groceries while Jesús assembles the monstrosity, tasked with also keeping an eye on his son; allowing her the first break she’s had since giving birth. The problem is while putting together the table Jesús accidentally decapitates his infant son on the glass. The most unexpected part is just how he reacts, which is exactly how you expect a man who just accidentally cut his newborn son’s head off would, and I think that is where the film’s primary strength lies. There’s searing guilt, there’s anger, shame and then the shocking denial. When his wife comes home from shopping, Jesús, not wanting to confront the grim truth lies, simply says his son is sleeping. If that wasn’t enough, their next door neighbors tween daughter who is obsessed with Jesús, is threatening to lie to Maria, saying they had relations, to split the couple up, so she could have him for herself.
While The Coffee Table decimates you with pure grief and disbelief, which is played completely straight, director Caye Casas’ flawlessly plays against it with a pitch black humor. This manifests in how the director slowly ratchets up the pressure cooker around our poor protagonist in this heartbreaking situation. David Pareja makes Jesús’ grief and descent completely tangible on screen, making sure to never sever the audience’s connection. It’s a tightrope of a performance that is careful not to fall into the comedic trappings, and works better than any shocking gore or practical effect could. Opposite him, we have Estefanía de los Santos who is so sincere as his partner, that it just works to amplify the remorse that you’re feeling for David. The pair work together in a way, that levity aside, works to unnerve the viewer who is helpless to watch this all unfold.
The Coffee Table may no doubt be too much for some, either due to the inciting incident or its tense aftermath. That said, one thing you can’t argue is how truly effective every minute of it is. I haven’t felt this anxious watching a film since Uncut Gems, and that’s another film that locks you in with its characters, only to turn the screws on its audience throughout the runtime. Caye Casas does this downright masterfully in how he not only keeps the tension growing throughout the film, but how he chooses to end the story, which leaves the viewer both flabbergasted and oddly at ease. So while I can’t recommend The Coffee Table to everyone, for those on the hunt for your next transgressive treat you need look no further than a film that still haunts me to this day, and because of that I can’t recommend it enough.
Mike Cheslik’s Hundreds of Beavers which hit VOD today (AND they also just added an encore show at Philly’s own PhilaMOCA) is one of those films that defies the conventional elevator pitch, which is why it actually took me so long to sit down and check it out based on the available stills and synopsis. The film is like a 90 minute live-action black and white episode of Looney Toons, where a brewmaster’s hard apple cider bar is destroyed, and the destitute alcoholic is then forced to become a trapper for food and sustenance in the 1800s. He then falls in love with the merchant’s daughter and is challenged to collect “hundreds” of beaver pelts to win her hand from her father. The film’s plot is equal parts Wile E. Cyote and Legend of Zelda as our trapper is forced to first level up his clothing and hunting implements, before he can begin attempting to outsmart his prey who is more often than not, one step ahead of him.
Visually the film is ambitious and unlike anything you’ve seen, and if anything it feels like a distant cousin of the DIY masterwork The People’s Joker with its heavily digitized pixelmash collage visual style. The film’s monochromatic color palette and distressed look, feels like a budget necessity more than anything else. It’s a rather inventive way to not only give the film a retro look, but hide the rough edges of the film’s hundreds if not thousands of no-budget VFX shots that should be a commercial for Adobe. Not to take anything away from the piece who’s visuals only help to allow the viewer to descend into this whimsically hyper violent and juvenile world that works mostly because it never takes itself seriously and will definitely make you laugh, like that first time your heard a dirty joke.
Beavers is cribbing from everything from Charlie Chaplin to Tex Avery to create this world where cartoon physics are real, and animals are in fact grown-ass adults in suits, which adds a surreal and absurdist bent to the humor. The film also does a lot to soften the edges of the violence, not just with the humor that surprised me with just how funny it can be at times. This is all basically thanks to the film’s star Jean Kayak, who’s grasp on the physical humor needed to make this all work is downright impressive at times and reminiscent of a young Bruce Campbell. Hundreds of Beavers is proof that all you need is a great idea and the fearlessness to craft a feature from the digital void that can play not only festivals, but living rooms as well, where I am sure it’s going to be discovered and shared at so many parties for years to come.
Civil War the latest by Alex Garland is a dystopian action thriller that takes place in a “not too distant future” and chronicles the final days of the second American Civil War. This has the Western Front (Texas? and California), taking on the remainder of the United States, which is led by a president, just called “the president”, played here by Nick Offerman who has cocooned himself in a concrete encased White House. Like a lot of things in this film, his politics and what started this war is all pretty vague. The narrative follows a seasoned war photojournalist (Kirsten Dunst) and her writing partner as they make their way across our war torn nation, with an AR-15 around every corner, on their way to Washington, DC in an attempt to interview the president and photograph him before the capital falls and he is dispatched.
This urban hellscape as someone who lived right outside of Philadelphia during the riots a few years back really hit a little too close to home, along with some of the other imagery Garland chose to lift and present here in IMAX. For some people, these things in America at the time were very real things, along with the military presence in some major cities thanks to the national guard. While we have these very real scenarios, but with the how and the why carefully drained out of every situation, it robs them of their emotional weight. Garland is very careful not to play the events presented as a north or south thing, a race thing or even a conservative or liberal thing, which honestly makes no sense and will leave most with more questions than answers. The tension of these very real events is something Garland works hard to recapture and channel in the style of an action film and recreate on screen, and it is complemented with a sound mix that gives Dunkirk a run for its money.
That being said I don’t want to take anything from Dunst, who gives a career best performance playing the no-nonsense photojournalist, struggling with PTSD and as a fan makes this film worth the watch. Dunst commands every moment she’s on screen as she attempts to navigate this world as she is forced to take a younger inexperienced female photographer under her wing. While most seem to lock into the ant-war, ‘water is wet’ message since our protagonists are all press, they exist in this other area where they are able to skirt having any motivation linked to the overarching struggle around them. It may be enough for some that we just want to to see them make it out of this exercise alive, but short for a few conversations about where they’re from, the film doesn’t even dig too deep into our characters, which could reveal some other deeper motivation, other than them being a bunch of perverse voyeuristic adrenaline junkies.
This thread of the media’s role in these events, which is cemented by the film’s closing credits, paints even our protagonists with a rather sinister brush and it’s the only clear stand the film makes. We witness more than a few scenes where we watch 2 to 3 press standing over a dead body in an almost pornographic manner, fighting over the scraps of the carnage trying their best to get the goriest money shot. In fact this film’s media message is so poignant, it punishes Dunst’s character who shortly before the final act makes a gesture that shows that she possibly thinks she may have gone too far. It’s a clear moment of reflection, that along with that third act looks to offer up some form of redemption for her character, who begins to crumble under the weight of it all.
Civil War is a film that feels a lot like that guy at the office that likes to complain about politics, but doesn’t vote. The film brought to mind Gualtiero Jacopetti and Franco Prosperi’s GoodBye Uncle Tom, a film made by Italians about American slavery pre-Civil War. Tom is pure lurid exploitation, that never misses an opportunity to exploit its subjects for another loaded shock. I felt like Civil War is very much cut from the same cloth, a foreign filmmaker exploiting the violence, chaos and turmoil currently at the heart of America, who’s not concerned with really digging into how or why we as a country can pull itself out of this, or even if we should. The film instead leaves the viewer shell shocked and with more questions than answers, at least here in the US. Most international audiences will probably relish in its anti-American message that paints our country without hope and unworthy of salvation, which couldn’t be farther from the truth.
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