Reviews

Why cash in on the merging of various cinematic universes, where the ultimate good, Mr. Nakatomi Plaza himself decides to get an upgrade from doing mostly B movies to getting featured in, what you could call Shyamalan's welcome return to form with an effective thriller of the mental disorder variety?

Why not?

Why use a mental disorder as a scare tactic?

Why not? Plus the director's downright bad recent ventures and then suddenly coming up with "The Visit, 2015" and now "Split", make it seem he just recovered; or, it could could be withdrawal, a ten million dollar worth of fracking withdrawal. I pray it isn't. I also pray they don't add another five to that ten - Shyamalan, it seems, is better off with restrained financing, which push him to concentrate on the plot more than the air bending CGI or a hundred men shaking trees tops, to make it look windy. Or was the wind also CGI? I couldn't tell except for when Mr. Ex-Underwear-Model wanted everyone to run with him to perceived (again by Shyamalan) safety.

Yup, the audience and the critics and pilgrims like yours truly are, for lack of a better word, split. Dr. Fletcher's dramaturgy thesis on MPD, now called DID - because the guys at SHIELD (or in this case The Mutant Enforcers of Xavier) now think its disassociating to have more than one consciousness within a single human being - is there, perhaps only to fill in on the disorder and also for innovative structural attempts. There couldn't be a better 'shot by the fracking "Red Dragon" book' picture this year.

I'll tell you what really takes you off tangent and to the fracking moon; the hellish moves that Hedwig forks over to the strange as frack dubstep track, Snails by Frogbass; it could be the other way round but that doesn't change the fact that McAvoy gives a terrific, masterful show, changing in to all twenty three (one to go) personalities by the end (in the beginning there's six, tops, that Shyamalan focuses on), in quick facial transitions. It frighteningly reminded me of Ledger's Joker. And that's saying a lot.

Anya Taylor-Joy is another force to reckon with the shotgun show n' tell and running like Ripley, from a xenomorph.

It did get a little over the top but hey, after all if the keen viewer and Shyamalan are convinced of a 'superhuman' trail, then by all means.

Why not?

Do not be mistaken. This is a film by the aberrant and outlandish Lars von Trier, who after a lengthy bout of depression made a film in 2009, which is an 'uneasy-intimate' experience with subtle, slow motion shots of snow fall, an explicit shower sex-scene and babies accidentally falling out of open windows. The camera follows the entire 23 second fall of the toddler until the tiny thing (I am still trying to convince myself that it was only a film prop; it certainly was, but not the fiendishly beautiful direction) makes contact with asphalt.

The metamorphoses of the film into a full blown violent, psychological horror drama is film-making at its best and most vile. Not everything is in good taste (I look at scissors in a completely different way now), however the imagery and the smoky cinematography by an old friend of Triers, Manuel Alberto Claro make this beast one of the most intriguing, complex, mind-bending, faith-rattling & belief shattering films of all time.

It's earthy, it's puerile, it's Dafoe, it's Gainsbourg, it is their contorted and extremely sullen and explosively funeral performances, the subconsciously hateful chemistry, their intimate connection, the penetration, the castration, the clitoridectomy 'home kit' deal gone bloody is all like Freud on a coke binge. And in the end it is a numbing masterpiece and more closely; an analogy of loss, grief, companionship, witchcraft, psychiatrist-husband-pants-ego issues and a mother trying to change the shape of her baby boy's feet by making him wear the left shoe on the right feet and right one on the left. A conflict where all hell breaks loose.

Wrong sides. Completely wrong. God awful wrong. So wrong that it convinces the keen viewer of the animals that not only talk but speak of impending doom.

A fantastic study of a relationship deliberately put to trial and the consequences of denial and a full blown, jaw-dropping revelation towards the end.

Do not be mistaken. This is a film by the aberrant and outlandish Lars von Trier, who after a lengthy bout of depression made a film in 2009, which is an 'uneasy-intimate' experience with subtle, slow motion shots of snow fall, an exquisite shower sex-scene and babies accidentally (SPOILER) falling out of open windows. The camera follows the entire 23 second fall of the toddler until the tiny thing (I am still trying to convince myself that it was only a film prop; it certainly was, but not the fiendishly beautiful direction) makes contact with asphalt (SPOILER ENDS). The metamorphoses of the film into a full blown violent, psychological horror drama is film-making at its best and most vile. Not everything is in good taste (I look at scissors in a completely different way now), however the imagery and the cinematography by an old friend of Triers, Manuel Alberto Claro made Antichrist (2009) one of the most intriguing, complex, mind-bending & belief shattering films of all time. It's earthy, it's puerile and in the end it is a numbing masterpiece and more closely; an analogy of loss, grief, companionship and a mother trying to change the shape of her baby boy's feet by making him wear the left shoe on the right feet and right one on the left. A conflict where all hell breaks loose. Wrong sides. ***

'For every hundred crimes committed in the name of love, only one is committed in the name of sex.' - Joe from Nymphomaniac Volume 1.

Nymphomaniac Volume 1 also has shots of children putting on performances that they should not have to. I would love to think the editing took care of that and put in body doubles - heck no - that wishful thinking goes flying out the window as the camera zooms in on the two year old. It's a dreary tract, much like Edgar Allen Poe's tragic, horror short: 'The Fall of the House of Usher', complete with peeling walls and Grey, gloomy backgrounds inter-cut with the neon lighting of the city and the slinky, flashy call-girl costumes the girls wear to a self-invented contest. The game? I'm not telling. The prize: a bag of candies that fifteen year old love.

The bait (an insect whose larvae is called the nymph) is where the story begins. Now, you see; while watching Shia LaBeouf and Stacy Martin f*ck (yes, f*ck and not make love), the director flashes numbers on the screen. 3 + 2 = 5. Five becoming a rendition of 'The Little Organ Book: Ich Ruf Zu Dir, Herr Jesu Christ' by Bach. Trier, Gainsbourg and Skarsgard break the symphony down, they dissect it and in the end the notes and arrangement of the entire piece makes a pattern of the uterus. In one scene Joe tells Seligman a truly sickening story. And when the caretaker asks her if the episode affected her, she says no. I had the same expression of shock and surprise that Skarsgard's character did, just that the impact of the answer made me cover my mouth as a result of my reaction to the utterly appalling, mono-syllabic answer: 'No'.

It was a joy (in a hurting way) to watch Christian Slater in a significant role after a rather long time, and it was also painful to watch him towards the end. I'm not telling, you will know when it happens. Slater has not been this good ever. Mrs. H (Uma Thurman) breaks down in front of all the wrong people and if that performance does not get accolades and nods, I'm gonna quit watching the Oscars. Hey, wait a second. That's already a check on my bucket list since three years.

Nymphomaniac questions its own ideas and beliefs and Trier is bold enough to dismiss his own philosophy by a counter reaction from another character. 'I never thought of it that way', says Seligman to Joe. Plus forget LeBeouf's Sam Witwicky. You will have to, when you see shots of full penetration between Jerome and Joe. Bumblebee was super cool, however I'm sure the Nymphomaniac series will not have any merchandising to do. It's a film, a brutal, no-nonsense piece of raw, art. An explosion of repressed emotions.

I would be lying if I said the sex is only a metaphor in this film; no it is not. Sex is that nucleus in the film around which the atoms form and multiply and make their way to the darkest recesses of the sub- conscious - I'm almost tempted to watch Volume II at once, however I would like the effect of the first to settle in.

If you choose to watch (not many will - there's 'Captain America: The Winter Soldier' running at $96 mil; opening weekend) go in with an empty mind and you may come out either hating Trier and what he makes actors like Dafoe and Nielson and Thurman do or, like me, you may fall in love with the whole deal and replay it again and again in the mind to keep the ideas explored in the film, fresh.

If you watched and liked Funny Games, Melancholia, Dogville, Stalker et al. you will fall in love with the soulless surface of the film and the many Jungian ideologies and Renaissance reformation layers upon which it stands, hard and erect. This one had me; hook, line and sinker.

Remember to watch the look in Slater's forlorn eyes when he looks at his daughter after he has soiled himself in the hospital bed. Trier you f*cker.

Must watch for film affectionado; a hard-core, serious watcher. whew.

Some years back I watched the 'Louis Theroux's Weird Weekends'' crew visit The San Fernando Valley and The San Andreas Valley; CA., by appointment, to a behind-the-scenes of a gay-porn movie set. By the end of the segment Theroux asked one of the sex performers whether he was gay or bi sexual.

The answer he gave was nothing short of a second or two on the 'Ol' Sparky'; 'I'm straight.' He said while getting on his 'Cannondale Mountain' and putting on a shiny blue headgear. Theroux did not say anything, but the guy saw his face and said, 'I make 3,500 an hour, that's probably more than you make in a week.' Then he rode off.

The porn industry is worth a sweet twenty billion USD; annual, with an intricate and detailed distribution network for thousands of DVDs being made yearly; that, compared to how much material is being made and what is in it, brings up concerns when the filmmakers go to the office (made of mahogany lumber) of the AVN President, Paul Fishbein. He does not seem too happy about the independent 'porn pickets' being formed and sold with labels like Vivid, Elegant Angel, etc.

The documentary introduces the main players to us in a Pop Culture manner, which is nice to watch and a relief from watching complex tales being unfolded. You see a performer getting ready (read: rectal examination) for a scene, speaking straight into the camera and wincing at times (we hear the gloved examiner apologize and say strange things in the back), and it cuts to the same performer in a glamour pose with her name and title on the top left.

Names like; Sasha Grey, Mark Spiegler, Belladona, Otto Bauer accompanied with a title, like 'The Rookie' or 'The Professional, 'The Legend', The Pimp', et al.

The movie shows you the money, the big houses previously owned by Hollywood stars, the parties in those houses. It only hints at drug abuse and tells us a tale of a 70's porn starlet who was raped by a fan and decided to leave the industry and become a doctor, Dr Sharon Mitchell. She runs AIM and offers all sort of treatment and advice to people in porn or those who want to join. It also shows us young women doing porn to pay off their college tuition or simply to have the time of their lives, if even only for a few years.

It gives us a psychological yet an objective view of the inside (you get to hear some outlandish reasons for entering porn), where sex and money and glamour reign but those also happen to be the entrance to a tunnel whose other end opens to nothingness.

It shows the girls being forced to 'do more'. In other instances, the girls are said to have not been informed of the nature of the scene (anal, bondage, interracial) but do not protest, being new to the sharks and the money and all that melodrama.

As a matter of fact these beautiful yet mostly tormented people know that they are isolated from society because of what they do, yet they try and make their lives as close to normal as possible.

The film shows some of the most gorgeous women who perform extreme sexual acts, filling gas, rocking their baby to sleep, buying grocery, getting penetrated by four well-hung African Americans as the husband or boyfriend watches with an empty and sometimes anxious look in the eyes. It's kind of like, 'bring spouse to work' day.

The mood is changing throughout the film, with a rather desolate ending, or rather, endings as everyone goes their ways - they move on. The contrast is what brings surrealism to the screen. One minute you're watching a hardcore cream-pie scene (the works), where the lady is being treated like a dog and the next minute the same lady is on the phone with her mum, cooking dinner and taking advice.

'The real name of the film is "Extreme Violations", but don't let the ladies know that, yet.' Otto Bauer (adult performer/director) to his crew while they snicker away.

Overwhelming and uncomfortable on many levels.

The film opens with a 'Swordfish (2001)' like composite-still-camera sequence of a crime scene. The camera enters smoke and soot, dodges the blades of a police chopper - as the slo-mo sound goes a cool: thud... thud... thud... Simply marvelous.

It navigates the entire crime scene, in the middle of a desert. The coroner is frozen in his tracks as he rushes to the van, the detective is pointing at something, for eternity as his tie and 'Hartigan' jacket float in the air. A severed arm is shown being picked by a guy in a yellow windbreaker, which reads, 'LVMPD Forensics'. The sequence is imploring you to watch everything closely without any interruption except the camera itself. The title is wonderfully displayed, a metaphor of what is to follow.

When I saw the gloved hand putting a partially burnt film-camera into a plastic zip-lock bag, I knew there would be many a times when the film would deliberately frustrate and add to the audience's discomfort with its shaky shots and slippery lighting. Who knew that in 1999 a mere sixty grand, two brilliant minds and a whole lot of newly discovered web-marketing (In 1994, three film students went missing...) would re- define and create a hand-to-heart, post-modern genre under horror? I, for one, did not see it coming. It still scares the 'Hanging Stick-men' outta me.

Coming back to Evidence, I'll tell you this much: After watching I skipped frames backwards and forward and the plot kept its ground. That is something that the filmmakers should be proud of, given the grand twister of a 'whodunnit' ending, which, by the way I found to be quite lovely. Wrong choice of words for a film this bloody and ransacked.

The opening title-card tells us that video footage is known as the 'Unblinking Eye' among the ranks.

It's a joyride of a film with the beginning blending with the end with its 360 degree pan sequence, just that this time your brain is too numb by those over-the-top plot devices (workable by my standards, though) to figure that with films like these there is never an ending. One of the characters speaks of a sequel. Goodness.