June 5, 2010 § Leave a comment
By Lars Trodson
The most driving question behind the new horror flick “Splice” is this: Would two rock-star bio-scientists that have appeared on the cover of “Wired” drive around in a bright orange Gremlin with racing stripes?
I don’t think there’s a logical answer to that, but then again there is very little about “Splice” that makes any sense. The movie is such a bundle of contradictory emotions — none of which are handled well — that the audience is left confused and ultimately defeated. At two key moments in the film the audience did not react with horror or shock but with laughter. What does that tell you?
The movie itself is a mutant; a kind of genetic splicing of “Rosemary’s Baby” and David Cronenberg’s “The Fly.” In fact, this film owes a lot to Cronenberg. It has the flat, cheerless, angular feel of so many of Cronenberg’s early films. (“Splice” was shot in Canada). But that’s not really a compliment. So what is happening here? Clive (a seriously floundering Adrien Brody) and Sarah Polley (much more focused than the material given to her) are geneticists who have helped spawn a mutant organism that is designed to provide the basic DNA to help fight disease throughout the world.
However, the conglomerate they work for, Newstead Pharma, only wants them to concentrate on animal diseases. Elsa and Clive think they can help the human race. When this suggestion is rebuffed by the hard-nosed CEO (Joan Chorot), they perform a clandestine experiment which leads to the birth of a mutant child, whom they call Dren (Nerd spelled backwards!). That’s a bit of that fun bio-chem humor!
The movie then spends the next 90 minutes trying to hide Dren away from the world. Polley, Brody and the actors who play Dren are virtually the only people in the film, and it’s a shame they are so tiresome. Director Vincenzo Natali brings not one iota of freshness to the proceedings. Polley, despite being a genius scientist, has a penchant for using the word “fuck.” When watching newly spawned chromosomes “dance” on the computer screen, Elsa tells Clive that is he “Bob fucking Fosse!”
When looking at photos of a new apartment, she says “Fucking love it!”
Or, when Clive asks Elsa a question about protecting Dren, she responds, “Fuck! How?” Maybe this is screenwriter Natali and co-screenwriter Antoinette Terry Bryant’s attempt at character development.
Clive, for his part, favors funky black tee shirts with cute sayings because, you know, he’s a genius who doesn’t take himself too seriously. And he drives an orange Pinto! After Clive and Elsa repeat their endless and repetitive debates about whether bringing a mutant child with a deadly stingray tail into the world is ethical or not, the movie becomes seriously unhinged.
Dren (played, while young, by Abigail Chu and when older by Delphine Chaneac) starts to grow up and she is increasingly frustrated by the fact that she is shut away from the world. Dren kills a cat with her tail. Elsa clocks Dren on the head with a shovel. Dren grows a pair of angel wings. And she falls in love with Clive. Yep. Although we’re told she is aging rapidly, the scenes in which Clive and Dren dance and begin to show affection for each other have that special Saturday Night Live-spoof feel to them that the best horror film directors always strive for.
The audience reacted to this tender moment appropriately: we all laughed and laughed. The scene in which Clive and Dren actually have sex, though, has a repugnant, ugly quality to it because this creature, Dren, is primarily portrayed as helpless and needy. We discover that Elsa has mommy issues and that there may be other, Darker and More Mysterious Issues at play here than we originally thought. Dren’s “language”, a series of chirps and clucks, becomes mind-numbingly annoying. But by this time the audience is well ahead of the filmmakers, and the whole enterprise comes to a predictable, deflating conclusion. Several members of the audience blurted out the obvious even before it happened, which was not so much to spoil it for the other members of the audience, but rather an attempt to communicate to the filmmakers that they had wasted our time and money.
Well, they had, you know.
I’ll tell you what did wig me out. A few seats down from me sat a woman who had taken off her shoes.
Several times during the film she obviously put her bare feet down on the movie theater’s filthy floor.
Now that was creepy.
September 28, 2007 § 1 Comment
Editor’s note: Take Three is a occasional feature at Roundtable Pictures in which Gina Carbone, Mike Gillis and Lars Trodson review the same current film.
Much was made of the “Reservoir Dogs” look-away. How Quentin Tarantino moved the camera to the left while Mr. Blonde cut the cop’s ear off, forcing us to imagine the blood, the pain, the carnage, while we just hear the screams.
David Cronenberg is no such tease. He’ll show us the blood — oh yes, he would’ve given us a close-up of that ear and followed its progress to the floor. In “Eastern Promises” he has two men’s throats slit — one in jagged amateurish chops like Junior slicing Mom’s burnt Christmas roast, the other a long swift cut that momentarily leaves the wound bloodless, tilting the gaping head back like the open mouth of a Muppet. Canada’s horror maestro may have graduated into classy A-list Oscar bait, but he’s still not above a good knife in the eye. Squish! All the better that the knife be wielded by a naked man covered in tattoos and, by this time, blood and bruises. Masculinity on display in all its raw, slippery power.
What can he say — the man has a history of violence. And he’s getting better. There’s nothing subtle about blood, yet Cronenberg has shown fluency in the nuances of human behavior and how to surprise viewers long after surprises are expected. “Eastern Promises” is another story of good men who aren’t all good (or strong) and bad men who aren’t all bad (or weak) and the women who get screwed in the mix. It’s set in London, concerns Russians and stars an American, an Australian, a Frenchman, an Irishwoman and a man born in East Prussia, which is now Russia, so … close enough.
The title could cover a dozen meanings, one being the promises told to poor young Eastern girls about a better life in the West. Tatiana is one of those girls and the story begins in the dark in the rain (get used to that) as the pregnant, drugged up 14-year-old faints, gives birth and dies in a hospital. Her sole possession seems to be a Russian diary, which ends up in the hands of Anna (Naomi Watts), a well-meaning midwife who wants to help the baby find its living relatives.
She follows the diary’s trail to a restaurant run by sly, charismatic Russian mob boss Semyon (Armin Mueller-Stahl) and his simple, arrogant son Kirill (Vincent Cassel). An alternate title could’ve been “The Driver” since the main character — besides Anna — is Nikolai (Viggo Mortensen), a smart Siberian thug who works with the father and son and repeats “I’m just the driver” as an excuse for staying out of conflict. (Doesn’t work — that nude scene? You might’ve heard of it since Mortensen’s ballsy four-minute blood-bath is already earning a cine-reputation to rival the “Dogs” ear.)
All of that plot is just brush strokes. There’s much more to Anna’s story — like why she’s staying with her beleaguered mom and protective but casually racist uncle. A lot more to Semyon than the kind grandfather act. More to Kirill — like the unforgivable name he’s called, worse than rapist, murderer, drug dealer, thief, sex trafficker. And, as you might guess, a lot more to Nikolai than driver. Like, Wolverine-worthy hair.
Mortensen and Cronenberg had their first pairing in 2005 with the subtle character study “A History of Violence.” Critics lathered the film, director and actors in praise. Fine, deserved, but better to have saved the real cinematic kudos for “Eastern Promises,” which is not only also an intriguing character study but a cultural think-piece and enjoyable mob thriller. There isn’t a weak link in the egalitarian cast — no distractingly bad accents, no showboats — and Steven Knight’s script is sharp and deep enough to reward them all.
For all his three-dimensional humanism, it’s clear Cronenberg likes his men to get their hands dirty and enjoys watching small-boned women dish out sass. In short, everyone in a Cronenberg film has to have the same kind of balls he does or they won’t make it out alive. Sounds like a bloody good plan from here.
Gina Carbone still thinks of Viggo as “the blouse man” from “A Walk on the Moon.”
By Lars Trodson
David Cronenberg’s “Eastern Promises” is so deeply satisfying, so emotionally rich, that watching it is almost like reading a novel. The story is sumptuous both verbally and visually. Bursts of action are set against much slower, meticulously crafted scenes of such quiet conversation and facial expression that viewers will feel as though they have spent time with real people, in a real place.
“This is not our world,” says the mother of the young woman at the heart of this mystery. “We’re ordinary people.” And that’s what the best movies do: they take us ordinary people into places where we would not ordinarily go. And that is what this movie does so astonishingly well.
There isn’t a move, a verbal inflection, or a shot out of place. Once in a while we get to see a movie that a director or writer has been leading up to his entire career, and this may very well be that movie for David Cronenberg. It would be no shame if he didn’t top it, but it will be thrilling to watch his work continue to evolve.
The setting of “Eastern Promises” is London, but this London is a dark and closeted place, and it is home to a Russian crime family. These are cruel people, transplanted by choice or by birth or by the long arm of international law, but the story here is not about political or social corruption, it’s about moral rot, and it is about the bright spots of redemption that sometimes come with these stories.
At its center are four actors who embody their characters so beautifully that they effortlessly (for us, the watchers) guide us into their milieu, a setting at once unsettling and familiar, and they are the tour guides we need. These are not characters, not symbols, not icons, but rather people functioning the best way they know how, even if their function in life is to be horrifying and disgusting. The actors are Viggo Mortensen, Naomi Watts, Vincent Cassel and Armin Mueller-Stahl. All are exemplary, trading in the surest of performances that are so complementary to Cronenberg’s sure-handed direction.
The story is a simple one, thank goodness. At the outset we witness a mob hit, a disconcertingly difficult and bloody killing, and suddenly we switch to a local pharmacy where a glassy-eyed girl wanders up to the prescription counter. We know something is wrong, and the pharmacist says he cannot give her methadone without the necessary papers. But she is hemorrhaging blood, and the next thing we know we are at the hospital where nurse Anna (Watts) is part of the medical team trying to save her. It turns out she’s pregnant. The young mother dies, her name is Tatania and she’s Russian, but the baby survives. The only momento left behind of this horror is a diary, written in Russian by Tatania, which tells the story on which all of the following events hinge. Anna’s instinct is to find a home for the baby. There is almost nothing more powerful or determined than when a mother (even if not biological) wants to protect a child. Remember that.
Anna, although obviously English, turns out to be of Russian descent. She lives with her English mother (Sinead Cusack, in a vivid performance), and her decrepit uncle Stepan (played by the acclaimed director Jerzy Skolimoski), who is Russian and, in the throes of end-life depression, drinks too much and feigns bravado by claiming to have once been in the KGB.
It is Stepan who at first refuses to read the diary because it was taken off a dead person. But Anna fans through the little book to see if she can find a clue to Tatania’s story, and finds a card from a place called the Trans-Siberian Restaurant. Out of curiosity and naiveté, she locates the restaurant – an upscale place that seems to cater wholly to a Russian clientèle – and meets the silkily ugly Semyon, played by Armin-Muhller Stahl. He not only owns the place but happens to head up the local chapter of the crime family. We quickly understand he has some connection to Tatania and her pregnancy and death.
That’s enough plot.
So many movies today seem excruciatingly unimaginative — in their characterizations, in the writing, in the plot, in the settings, in the photography — that the attention to life in this Russian enclave in London seems not only exotic but vivid. Cronenberg flawlessly integrates images of food and dress and the sounds of music and language and violence, so much so that we feel as though we’ve wandered into this place. Just one detail seems perfect: most actors playing characters who are asked to speak a foreign language almost always do so haltingly. They only speak three or four words in the non-native tongue at a time, giving you the feeling they are feeling their way through the language. Not so here; all the actors speaking Russian seem to do so instinctively, and it strips away the idea that we are seeing actors you are somewhat familiar with playing such unfamiliar roles.
For his part, Mortensen may have finally found the role that separates him once and for all from Aragorn, the part he so memorably played in “The Lord of the Rings” series. In “Eastern Promises” he plays Nikolai, the chauffeur to the family headed up by Semyon and his psychotic son, Kirill (Cassel, whom you may remember from the idiotic Jennifer Aniston movie, “Derailed”). In this film, Mortensen looks like a cross between classic Kirk Douglas and early Mickey Rourke — not bad role models at all. Mortensen has a sleek, elegant physique, and he exudes calm and the kind of sharp, feline reactive nature you’d expect to see in a criminal who is comfortable being just that.
Throughout the picture he wears a puckish, almost surly pout, and you can read that as either being disinterested or disgusted by what he sees and does. Actors very, very rarely control themselves the way Mortensen does here, and what he has done, finally, is create one of those masterful movie performances that are sure to wander through your mind long after the film has finished.
There has been a lot of talk about Mortensen’s naked fight scene in the Turkish bath, and it has unfortunately been described in the most lurid terms — as though the sheer audacity of it was the only point. This is the crudest reading of the scene; if you do not find yourself squirming while watching it — which is exactly what violence in movies is supposed to do — then you are inured to the empathetic unpleasantness that such scenes are meant to convey. It’s a set piece, to be sure, but one wholly in keeping with the design and mood of the picture; it plays out organically and it is memorable not only because of the staging but because we know such a guy would find himself in precisely that kind of predicament.
The power of this scene is also a testimony to the craft of film editing (by Ronald Sanders, who also did Cronenberg’s “History of Violence” and “Spider”), and throughout the picture the editing is superlative. Scenes that are contemplative flow sweetly, and the expositions in violence are jarring — without using the hyperactive jump-cutting so popular today. Cronenberg and his cinematographer Peter Suschitzky obviously talked about how camera angles can enhance a mood, as opposed to how a roving camera can be a showcase in and of itself. Suschitzky captures the brutality of the violence, but his camera also turns warm and inviting in those scenes that require such a mood. There are parties at the Trans-Siberian restaurant that convey lovingly the creepily loving atmosphere in which they take place.
Naomi Watts doesn’t need my confirmation as a great screen actress. Here, she is beautiful without being ostentatiously so (unlike her friend and fellow Australian Nicole Kidman, who apparently was weirdly sexed up in the recent “The Invasion”), and her quiet performance very early on exudes the toughness she is required to show more explicitly later in the film. Her nurse Anna is both frightened and determined.
So much of the film’s emotion is played out in the facial expressions of the actors. Cronenberg and Suschitzky don’t get too close, which is exactly why movies of this caliber need to be seen on the big screen. When Semyon nonchalantly starts to ask Anna personal questions, such as where she lives and works, the camera focuses on the questioner — in this case Armin Mueller-Stahl — and we see the malevolent intent in his pursed lips and cold eyes. It is only after these odd questions that Cronenberg cuts back to Watts’ Anna, and her face is slightly contorted to show the creeping unease we all are feeling. How satisfying is it to have an actor portraying exactly the same emotions the audience is feeling, and how wonderful for a director to explore those feelings. Film students should take note. Film editing can deftly and beautifully add to the experience, and here everything is working to complement not just the mood but the story.
One last note on Vincent Cassel (son of actor Jean-Pierre Cassel). His Kirill is a sociopath and pedophile, and nothing in his performance makes us like him, or empathize with him. What we do understand, however, is his rage and his self-loathing. I won’t, and wouldn’t, say this was enough to make us forgive what he does. But what we do know at the end of the movie is that we have met Kirill, and we do not want to see him again.
Cronenberg, however, is another story. We do want to see his name on a marquee again, and we will. It is thrilling to watch an artist mature, and while some of his movies have been baffling (“Naked Lunch”, “Crash” — not the recent Oscar winner) he has almost always been interesting.
In a strange way, “Eastern Promises” reminded me of the two late movies by John Huston: “Prizzi’s Honor” and “The Dead.” Nothing in those two movies even remotely resembles the content of “Eastern Promises”, but in those films Huston seemed to allow decades of filmmaking just to naturally take over, and we saw a showboating director relax enough to trust his instincts and let the more humanistic and easy rhythms of his craft take over.
In “Eastern Promises” — aided, I should say, by a lovely script by Steve Knight (who penned the great Stephen Frears’ highly praised “Dirty Pretty Things”) — Cronenberg takes the invaluable lessons he has learned in 30 years of low-budget and genre filmmaking and alchemizes them into the kind of supremely felt movie experience that is not only exhilarating but quietly profound.
Truth and Dare
By Mike Gillis
“Eastern Promises” is a dare.
It’s a dare from director David Cronenberg to tour an uncomfortable realm of violence, head on and far from the beaten path. But it’s also Cronenberg daring himself to use some of his best if not slightly shopworn tools to deeply ponder the riddle of violence.
He succeeds, almost completely, and marvelously.
“Eastern Promises” hurls us immediately into a London we don’t know, where the Russian mob rules. It is an instantly convincing setting, buoyed by Cronenberg’s decision to exclude most of the familiar London we know exists outside this little but harshly structured world.
It soars, though, thanks to stunning performances from its principal actors: Viggo Mortensen as a Russian mobster with his share of secrets; Naomi Watts as a London-born nurse who delivers the baby of a dead Russian prostitute, which propels the story; Vincent Cassel as the son of Russian mob kingpin Seymon, played with superb restraint by Armin Mueller-Stahl; and supporting roles from Sinead Cusack as the nurse’s mother; and director Jerzy Skolimowski as the nurse’s Russian uncle, Stepan.
Cronenberg has built a career exploring the history of violence, and its uneasy relationship with good, evil and sex. He’s not afraid to spill blood, copious amounts, to get to the point.
And he spills blood in “Eastern Promises,” by the gallon and mostly by the rough edge of a blade. But the lingering violence — a few moments more on a knife to the eye than most can stomach — is tempered with some remarkable flourishes of restraint. For instance, the diary found on the dead mother by Watts’ character, is heard in scattered voiceovers, sometimes blending with another character reading it aloud. Its the horrific account of a 14-year-old prostitute, which spill some mob family secrets. It would have been easy for Cronenberg to use flashbacks to tell this story, but hearing it read or narrated, and repeating the names of characters we already know, is more disturbing than what Cronenberg is able to show us elsewhere. It is the perfect balance.
Much has been said about a bath house fight scene in which Mortensen bares all. It would be a shame if the scene is remembered only for that detail. It should stand out as the best example of Cronenberg’s skill at peeling back preconceptions of movie violence and finding the heft of real-world horror. It is one of the most tense fight scenes I have ever seen.
Cronenberg takes two missteps. Both involve throat slashings. His intent, I’m sure, is to demonstrate the physical difficulty of such a primitive act of violence. The first victim’s throat is sawed more than cut, which strives for realism, but actually misses an opportunity to explore the true wreckage of violence. Cronenberg shoots both scenes straight-on, and lingers there, not so much for effect, it seems, but to relish in the effect. Cutting to the side, or back and forth for reaction, would have even prolonged an already horrible moment. The second slashing is worse; Cronenberg has his victim open his scarf and jacket for us so we’re able to clearly see the delayed effect of a precision cut.
Those are small gripes, though.
The picture’s violence is necessary, a setting itself. “Eastern Promises” reminded me of the filmmaking of the 70s and 50s, where story and characters are interwoven into a rich tapestry of smart plot with plenty of threads to explore.
It’s Cronenberg’s best to date.
August 14, 2007 § Leave a comment
Read the Roundtable Pictures review here:
By Mike Gillis
Even David Cronenberg’s earliest, most visceral and admittedly sloppy works — “Shivers,” “Rabid,” “The Brood,” “Scanners” — shed more light on the human condition than shed blood. They are consumed by wild exploration of the borders between psychology, technology and anatomy, a theme the director continues to probe to this day.
Cronenberg, who was quickly labeled a horror director and penned off in that stable for many years, easily and almost effortlessly transcends genre trappings. “Videodrome,” despite initial marketing as a horror movie of the week, remains a literate, sexual and uneasy take on thought control in popular culture.
Cronenberg found commercial success with his remake of “The Fly,” which despite a modestly bigger budget and some star power (Jeff Goldblum and Geena Davis), again revisits the messy merger of body and science. Cronenberg actually scored an earlier hit with “The Dead Zone,” the second-best Stephen King adaptation (“The Shawshank Redemption” being the first), which led to all kinds of offers from Hollywood, including, most inexplicably, “Flashdance.” I recall Cronenberg explaining in an interview he told his agent at the time, the infamous Dawn Steele, that she would never thank him for taking the project, despite her insistence. “I will destroy this,” I recall him saying to Steele.
The director enjoyed substantial critical success with “Dead Ringers,” in which Jeremy Irons plays twin brothers, both gynecologists, whose fates are hopelessly sealed by biological predestination. It’s been called one of Cronenberg’s most pessimistic works, but it’s also one of his most Hitchcockian — not to compare the two directors — and operates from within an almost noirish framework. A perfect vehicle for a picture that also probes sexual jealousy and drug addiction.
Then there’s “Crash,” based on the peculiar but fascinating book of the same name by J.G. Ballard, which imagines a group of fetishists who sexualize car crashes. The film, which Ted Turner refused to release while he owned New Line Entertainment, was lost theatrically in the NC-17 black hole. It’s an odd failure for Cronenberg. The material seems tailor-made for the director, yet he can’t push his picture far enough. It’s shocking and unsettling, to be sure, but one wonders if there’s simply too much left to explore.
In recent years, Cronenberg has pursued similar themes, even more assuredly. “Spider” remains an underrated masterpiece, based on the novel by Patrick McGrath, which delicately and meticulously dissects the machinery of an unraveling mind.
“A History of Violence” deserved an Oscar. Although it earned a nomination for William Hurt in the supporting role and for its screenplay, it’s director — the whole picture — deserved the recognition. I defy you to find five better films from 2005. (The film did rack up numerous awards elsewhere.)
And so, that’s my long-winded way of saying I’m looking forward to Cronenberg’s next picture, “Eastern Promises” due next month, and in typical Cronenberg style, without much fanfare. The film reunites Cronenberg with Viggo Mortensen, who starred in “A History of Violence.”
Here’s a look at the film’s trailer:
July 11, 2007 § Leave a comment
The late 1970s and early 1980s were the early and formative moviemaking years for me. But it wasn’t Martin Scorsese or Robert Altman or Woody Allen who first caught my attention. I was drawn to the likes of George Romero and David Cronenberg and a young Sam Raimi. I was also inspired by Tom Savini, who baptized special makeup effects in a well of gore. Those were bloody days, when splatter films littered the cinematic landscape.
I still have a soft spot for the well-crafted horror picture — see “The Descent,” for instance — and can still appreciate a clever effect when I see one. And although my tastes now run with the camp of “what you don’t show is worse than what you do — I can easily stomach the gore.
But as far as horror goes, there is very little that makes the grade these days. That includes the oeuvre of Eli Roth.
I can’t say all of Roth’s films are bad. I haven’t seen “Hostel – Part II.” I’m not interested.
What’s curious about the rise and fall of Eli Roth — and he is falling hard — is that he worked diligently to construct his own moviemaker mythology and people fell for it. Boy can he talk. Hundreds of interviews with Roth are scattered across the web, from the biggest publications to the most minuscule genre offerings. Almost every one of them features Roth talking about how he resurrected the genre, how his film is art, how he has saved horror.
I’ve noticed this: Almost to the critic, those who stand behind Roth gush to mention they have talked to director, sometimes regularly, and he’s a really nice guy. Some critics even choose to defend Roth without having seen his films, because … he’s a nice guy who worked hard.
So, is it cold of me to say, who cares?
I learned some time ago that a film isn’t any better because its director is a nice guy. Isn’t it about whether the movie can stand up on its own? There are very few directors who deserve to take sole credit for a film — a so-and-so film, a film by so-and-so — but so many do, as if the director is the picture.
New York Times film critic Elvis Mitchell recently caught up with Roth in Interview Magazine. Mitchell made a point about exploitation’s particular style and characteristics, not without affection. Roth, however, wouldn’t have it. His films are art, he insisted, and the violence is an outlet for a country that fears terrorists are about to lop off the heads of Americans at every corner.
Roth has gone on in subsequent interviews to blame the poor box office receipts for “Hostel 2” on rampant piracy and moronic critics who reviewed a leaked work print. As others have pointed out, he has blamed everyone but himself.
Could it be the movie just isn’t good? Could it also be, as moviegoers seemed to indicate, the appetite for “torture porn” is already satiated? How many “Hostels” and “Saws” can people tolerate? Roth’s plea to fans to flock to the cinema for “Hostel – Part II’s” second week or the film would vanish forever seems to have gone unheeded.
Of course there will always be an audience for Grand Guignol. And fine films will continue to be made that fit squarely and successfully in that genre. The difference, of course, is they will survive on their own, without any prompting from behind the camera.