HorrorFest: Premature Post-Mortem

Having attended most of the HorrorFest so far, on AtraBilious and DocBenway’s recommendation, I’ve come to certain conclusions. Firstly, all horror movies are made on a budget scraped together by selling the director’s furniture in a garage sale, stealing it back from the suckers who paid good money for some asshole’s shit on the side of the road, and then reselling the furniture to a bona fide pawn shop. That’s if the films are any good at all. The higher the budget, the more seriously everybody takes themselves – which makes sense, because there’s so much more to lose. But this also means that everybody immediately forgets that ultimately all horror movies are based on a premise that is incredibly and deeply silly. (For an example of which, see Dark Reel with Lance Henriksen and Edward “Lay Off the Fucking Cocaine” Furlong.)

Hellboy II: The Golden Army

All hail the hellspawn, as once again the fate of the world rests on Hellboy and his friends from the Bureau for Paranormal Research and Defense. The inimitable Ron Perlman returns as the demon affectionately known as “Red”, with the indestructible red fist and a penchant for cats and cigars. He’s aided once more by his fiery girlfriend Liz (Selma Blair) and an aquatic empath named Abe, plus a vaporous new German agent (Family Guy’s Seth MacFarlane). This time they’re up against an elf prince who plans to unleash an army of golden golems to punish humanity for crimes against nature.

Jerusalema review

Gone are the days when local [i.e. South African] movies had to be treated like the special-needs child at the grown-ups’ table. This has something to do with high-profile “souf-êfrican” successes like “onse ‘Monster’ Charlize” and Tsotsi, but also with a growing confidence in the local industry, which has seen a greater willingness to experiment. Local filmmakers’ exposure to higher standards and new ideas, through the influx of international productions to our shores hasn’t much hurt, either.

So it’s encouraging to see this trend continue with Jerusalema, the latest locally-produced film to hit our shores. And the film opens with a bang, or at least the aftermath of one. This clever bit of subterfuge makes for a welcome change from the obviousness that plagues too many local films, and promises good things from its writer/director. We follow Lucky Kunene on an intriguing journey from the grotty flat in a run-down section of Johannesburg, to his youth in Soweto and back again. And it’s a journey that takes in a great deal more of the South African experience than many previous films, from the poverty in the townships, to the affluence of the supposed suburban bliss, to the seedier parts of the city.

En nou vir iets heeltemal fokken anners.

In the last few weeks we’ve done the silly, we’ve done the funny, we’ve even done the obituary. We’ve also updated the site so that the links now show the current headlines. We’ll be trying to keep these more up to date from now on so that visitors can feel free to click away, safe in the knowledge that you won’t be magically transported to a different time and place – the equivalent of waking up and seeing today’s newspaper dated “July 15, 1952″. [This is for the africans site, by the way. Link at the end of the post.]

So in keeping with the atypical, today’s missive will be vaguely more serious ones, since all those cartoons are making our teeth ache already. So let’s hope you all are ready to become informed, because it’s time for our new feature:

Annals of Journalism: Crap-shooting Science

Mediocrity blows

Watching The Mummy 3 this week, I realized something: bad movies are easy to review. So are really good ones. The great ones acknowledge their debt to a long cinematic heritage, and they’re willing to make you think. Like great films, terrible films also provoke a specific reaction – usually, irritation or laughter. And if the film is really bad, it’s relatively simple to poke holes in the hilarious plot, or the acting, or the bad casting/costume/continuity mistakes.

The most difficult films to review are the mediocre ones, the ones that aren’t bad enough to enjoy or good enough to remember. Films that are “merely mediocre” don’t give you much to go on, frankly, and more often than not, they’re simply boring. Indifference is hard to write. (Although I’ve done that, too, when I did a review of The Incredible Hulk for my usual writing outlet, africans.co.za. I wrote one for MyChannel24.com too, but god and the admins only know what happened to it.)

The Mummy 3: The O’Connells return, with plot holes galore.

When you knowingly go to see a movie that features mummies – living, breathing, cognizant, undead beings made from sand and the ancient equivalent of duct tape – you are willing to put up with a certain amount of ridiculousness. You go in, as it were, with the dial on your Belief turned to “Max. Suspension”. It’s a contract you enter into with the filmmakers: you will, for the requisite hour and a half, or longer, voluntarily accept the existence of an obvious impossibility; furthermore, you will not only fail to doubt its veracity, you will also invest a great deal of emotional energy in its fate and in those of the people around it.

WALL•E, Or The Ghost of Chaplin Walks.

Okay, so I suppose I have a reputation by now (at least among regular readers of Africans, thus an average of three to six people) of being a somewhat harsh critic of popular culture. (At least I hope so.) Okay, so I hate bad lyrics, and bad movies, and bad remakes of other movies, and pretentious cunts, and so on. But really – am I all that bad? Am I ever unfair? Biased? Opinionated? Upset? Sure. But I am always, always right.

Biased, moi?

Pariah Carey: If she only had a brain.
Thanks to my valiant efforts, nobody would dream of defending Noel Gallagher’s lyrics, or suggest that Tom Hanks’ performance as Forrest Gump is any less ridiculous or patronizing than Steven Seagal’s claim to be the apotheosis of Native American learning, Zen environmentalism, and blues music. No-one would dare to argue that Mariah Carey selects her lyricists with half as much care as she expends on her choice of nail polish. (Incidentally, a recent scientific study reported in the popular media has shown categorically that this is exactly the same amount of effort she expends on choosing her record companies, or her misguided film vanity projects, or the next five words coming out of her mouth.)

If It Ain’t Fucking Broke, Don’t Fucking Fix It.

If you look at my articles on africans.co.za, next to the title, you’ll see that I chose a picture of the Hulk as my avatar. You’ll also notice that it’s taken from Ang Lee’s Hulk. Not the “re-imagining” being released around the world this week – the original. Now, if you don’t know me, or if you’ve never been drinking with me when the subject comes up, you may be surprised to hear this, but when I made that crack about how any scene in Ang Lee’s Hulk is better than Batman Begins I was being deadly serious. Deadly – as in, argue with me, or deign to disagree, and I will personally see to your eternal demise. When the apocalypse comes and our mortal bodies are resurrected, the Dear Lord Jesus himself won’t be able to scrape together enough of your earthly remains to put you back together again.

Africans Lays Another Easter Egg, and Film’s Frequent Flyer Wants His Money Back

I watch a lot of movies, and increasing amounts of TV. Okay, so I seldom make it as far as the cinema, and I don’t actually own a television set, but that’s why, on the third day, Jesus came down from heaven in an ark made of manna and gave us laptops and DVDs and chocolate rabbits who reproduce by laying eggs, like the dinosaurs who never existed, instead of through live birth like real bunnies. Whatever. (I’m sure the bible says something about the messiah delivering his people from TV licence inspectors, or logic, or something. [Of course, protection from these things, while appreciated, is not half as useful as protection from his more belligerent converts. Christ preserve us from his followers, thank you very much. Keep your army of morons away from me. That would be nice; cheers.])

See any white rabbits recently?

Being a connoisseur of the modern media as I am, I am frequently amazed at the shit people are willing to watch. Most films are completely insipid, a mutant orgy of second-hand storylines, choppy pacing, and walking clichés. (Yes, that last one is supposed to be taken ironically, you spazzwank.) This means that any film you see is liable to be a slow burn of mediocrity that, if you’re patient, will gradually reveal its ruthless derivativeness. But being a bit of a hater, I have a strong reaction to anything I watch, and there is often one moment where I can tell whether I’m going to love or hate it: The moment on the shrimp boat in Forrest Gump where you realize that Oliver Stone already made this film, back when it was called Born On the Fourth of July, with Tom Cruise of all people in the role of the disabled Vietnam vet, and you realize that you’d rather see a Tom Cruise movie than the crap you’re currently watching. The first time Roberto Benigni’s character decides to turn the holocaust into a game to keep his son occupied, rather than just strangling the annoying shit like a more considerate person would do. (It may take an entire village – or concentration camp – to raise a child, but it takes only one adult to put them out of our misery.)

Not even Jesus likes Tom Hanks.

These moments don’t always arrive at the same time in the film, of course. Many films prevaricate about whether they’re going to be “the shit” or “just shit”. Or they try to dissemble quality (henceforth known as “Oscar-baiting”), and sometimes they even succeed – with some people, anyway, or for long enough to collect an airplane-carrier’s worth of awards.