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Hellraiser: Revelations (2011)
Despite Bradley's Absence, "Revelations" a Revelation
It's not often I feel compelled to write IMDb reviews. Many times I've wanted to hop onto the site after having seen a movie to share my likes or dislikes about it, but for the most part this desire quickly fades and instead I just end up writing about a select few movies: Those for which I felt an extreme passion or extreme hatred. Usually the latter; in the case of Hellraiser: Revelations, the former.
Without saying too much on the plot-- the word count won't permit me-- this is the first Hellraiser since the fourth to be intended as a Hellraiser film (and not a hasty rewrite of an unrelated horror script) and the first since "Hellbound" to treat the Cenobites and their backstory the way Barker wrote them. Gone are the global-domination seeking, demonic Hellspawn that made a twisted mockery of the series; back are the sexually amorphous, amoral hedonists that made the characters interesting and frightening to begin with. Make no mistake-- the Pinhead here is a far inferior version of the previous entries', and Doug Bradley's presence is sorely missed; he brought a certain charisma to the character this is difficult to articulate, let alone replicate, and his absence from the movie is in fact its most glaring flaw. The return to true "Hellraiser" form, though, should please fans of Barker's originals: The characters who fall into the path of the box are not intrepid reporters but shallow, narcissistic perverts. Missing from many of the sequels was the idea that the box-- and by extension, the Cenobites-- sought prey for a reason, and that the fates that befell them were simply amplifications of what would have become of them in everyday life.
This all said, the movie is not completely devoid of flaws beyond Bradley's absence. The production had a notoriously short shooting schedule, and it shows in the super abbreviated running-time and its resultant pacing. The further the movie goes on, the more rapid and sloppy the pacing becomes, to the point that the climax of the movie rapidly falls apart, as characters start displaying traits that were only hinted at before and which needed more development for their actions to be taken seriously. It's a disappointment that such a strong feature fell apart so quickly, and in so glaring a way. Yet even this butchered pacing isn't the movie's biggest flaw.
Normally I shy away from addressing other reviews; however, because of the direct-to-video nature of most of the Hellraiser franchise, and the close-knit community created as a result, it's difficult to separate a review of one of the entries in the franchise from the fan reaction. In this case, the absence of Doug Bradley and his relative silence on the script, coupled with Clive Barker's vehement distancing of himself from the project, has led to near universal disdain for the film. Note that I haven't included anything about the movie itself; and here is where the biggest flaw of "Revelations" lies. Before the DVDs were even pressed, "Revelations" was doomed not because of its inherent value but because fans had decided already that this was going to be the worst Hellraiser ever (a difficult undertaking, considering that the last four entries were unrelated horror stories hastily doctored to include Pinhead, and three of which-- Hellseeker, Deader, and Hellworld-- were abysmal). And thus the prophecy was fulfilled; I've yet to read a review of the film that takes it seriously as anything other than a Hellraiser movie without Doug Bradley. The acting is criticized, when it was on par with the amateur theater quality of the previous entries; the cinematography is called "cheap" though it's the first entry since "Bloodline" that doesn't look like a made-for-TV movie; and... well, that's about all I've seen anyone have to say about this, so far, beyond "Where's Doug Bradley?" That's the biggest reason I came here to write this review. An honest attempt at a decent Hellraiser deserves an honest, decent review, and hopefully that's what I've done here. So if you're just looking for a Barker-approved entry featuring Doug Bradley, yes, this will disappoint you. If you're willing to look past that and return to the world of "The Hellbound Heart," this very well may become one of your favorite Hellraisers.
Wadd: The Life & Times of John C. Holmes (1999)
Fascinating Glimpse into the Life of an Impotent Porn King
John Holmes is one of those unique figures that pretty much everyone has heard about but no one really knows about. The adult film star with a thirteen inch penis, his name is synonymous with the American pornography industry, with the subculture that surrounded it in the late 1970s and early 1980s, and for true crime buffs, with the gristly Woderland/Four on the Floor Murders. However, one would be hard pressed to find many people who have actually seen one of his films, except for clips featured in documentaries and gag internet downloads that do nothing more than display his erect member like an exhibit in a modern-day sideshow. Likewise, even if one can track down individuals who actually viewed any of his films in the theater when he was still the king of porn, those individuals would probably not be able to tell you much about him beyond a description of what was between his legs.
"Wadd" aims to fill in the gaps in what turns out to be the rather fascinating life story of John Curtis Holmes, the Ohio farm boy who grew up to be literally and figuratively larger than life-- while not really having a life of his own.
The topic was first touched upon in 1981's "Exhausted," a video biography of Holmes produced by one of his admirers. That movie, parodied as the "love letter" that Julianne Moore's character makes in "Boogie Nights," was produced during Holmes' lifetime, shortly before he became one of America's most wanted fugitives, and affords viewers the unique opportunity of hearing Holmes tell his own story in his own words. Unfortunately, Holmes, as "Wadd" demonstrates, was a tremendous liar, even when it would be more beneficial to tell the truth. As such, "Exhausted" only functions as a novelty piece, or for the psychoanalytically inclined, as a porthole into Holmes' ever blackening soul. For the real story, one must go to "Wadd;" and it's one hell of a story.
Starting in the middle with Holmes' heyday as the undisputed "King of Porn," Wadd seamlessly moves through the various chapters of Holmes' life, from his childhood as an all-American boy to his salad years as a forklift driver. The segments on Holmes' early life come across as equally shocking to those depicting his involvement in the Wonderland Murders and the revelation that he knowingly exposed other adult film starts to HIV. The reason, perhaps, is that there is little indication that the Holmes of 1975 would do the things that the Holmes of 1983 did. Before he was "Johnny Wadd" he was a bashful kid driving a forklift who had to have his mother sign a form permitting him to get married, since his all-American, Cat's-eye-glasses-wearing wife was a few years older than him and he was a minor. His progression to a drug-fueled, soulless monster is well documented and believable; interviews chronicling his abusive childhood demonstrate that the capacity for evil was always festering in Holmes, not in the form of malicious intent but in the form of weakness. For all of his on screen prowess, "Wadd" shows Holmes as someone who was ultimately impotent. What began as a quest to quash an inferiority complex became an addiction; Holmes got so much gratification from the porn biz that Holmes as an individual ceased to exist. The beast whose painful, AIDS-related demise is recalled in the film's closing moments is not an evolution of the scrawny, crew-cut kid; it's what the kid left behind.
That is the heart-- and tragedy-- of Wadd: Holmes' demons could easily be anyone's, but he was given the unique opportunity to have them unleashed and nurtured in fantastic fashion. Despite the fact that he succumbed to them and became someone else, the people who loved him remained themselves, and were left to deal with the aftermath. The film's end, juxtaposing interviews in which the same people describe Holmes as both a drug-fueled maniac and as someone for whom they felt genuine love, is jarring and heart wrenching. Even if there is no sympathy to be felt for Holmes, the pain his loss caused his family and friends is real and startling.
According to the IMDb, one of the directors of "Wadd" chose not to be credited, instead opting to have his/her name listed as "Alan Smithee," the pseudonym used by anyone in the film industry who is so displeased with his or her work that they do not wish to be associated with it. That's a shame, because "Wadd" is an incredible feat of biographical film making. Opting not to use voice-over narrations or anything that creates the illusion of an overarcing narrative, "Wadd" is entirely composed of interviews with Holmes' friends, family, enemies, and acquaintances, all of whom are permitted to tell their side of the story in their own words. The result is a film with no agenda other than to give the viewer as unbiased a presentation of Holmes' life as possible-- and the result is utterly fascinating.
The Ransom (1977)
Absurd but Amusing "Dirty Harry" knock-off
A sniper clandestinely jaunts around a city, randomly killing people and demanding that he be paid a ransom in order to stop. In response, a take-no-prisoners, rough-around-the-edges law enforcer steps up to take down the threat by any mans necessary.
Sound familiar? If you think I'm talking about Dirty Harry, you're right. I'm also talking about "The Ransom," which I myself saw under the title "Maniac!" and have also seen under "Assault on Paradise" and "The Town that Cried Terror!" (the distributors seemed unusually fond of their exclamation points). It was a trend in the 1970s and early 80s for hack directors to churn out low-grade knock-offs of successful, high-budget fare in attempts to cash in on the craze; we still see this phenomenon today with direct-to-video flicks that were tossed together in response to some pop-phenomenon (case in point, the direct-to-DVD "Snakes on a Train" and "Zombies on a Plane" made in apparently two weeks in order to prey on the interest generated by the "Snakes on a Plane" phenom). However, in the 70s/80s, these movies actually made it into the theaters, and more often than not they starred people that the audience actually recognized.
The movie is rather tame by 70s standards; there's really not that much blood to speak of, no nudity (that I can recall), and limited profanity. In a year that saw some of the nastiest of the exploitation nasties hit the screen, "Maniac!" is notable for being more silly than sleazy. Even if it had been produced independent of "Dirty Harry," the script, on its own merits, is one massive exercise in corniness. Start off with the fact that the sniper here is a disgruntled former competitive swimmer named Victor who has a bone to pick with the United States because of Vietnam-- I think. His motives are never really addressed in the movie itself, and are left to be explained by the film's closing song, an obscure Byrds number. To show his solidarity with the disenfranchised, Victor dresses up like a Native American and talks in pseudo-mystic metaphors; oh yeah, and instead of using bullets, he kills his victims with a jacked-up crossbow. He's apparently also got an accomplice who dies halfway through the movie in what's supposed to be some kind of mid-film twist, but it's so poorly executed and messy that it's not really clear what's going on. I got the impression that it was supposed to be the narrative equivalent of Harry finding out that he has to let the Scorpio Killer go free halfway through "Dirty Harry." Even as I write this I'm not certain if there was really another guy or not, and if so, who the hell he was and where the hell he came from.
In order to bring Victor down, the townsfolk retain the services of Nick McCormick (Oliver Reed), a rough-and-tumble detective who's so macho that he can make a woman willingly go to bed with him by pulling a gun on her, holding it at crotch level and telling her it's loaded (Reed's "ladykiller" scenes come across as parodies of the misogyny rife in 1950s lad culture; I'd call it clever satire if I weren't so sure that it was unintentional). The movie never really explains where Nick came from; we're just supposed to presume that all corrupt land barons read "Soldier of Fortune" magazine and are familiar with its want-ads.
Judging by his performance, Reed didn't seem to particularly care where he was going to end up after this. It's often hard to tell whether or not he's sober; there's parts of the movie where it becomes almost impossible to focus on the plot, as Reed's blatant drunkenness takes center stage. Most of his dialogue is delivered in a tooth-clenched growl that is either Reed acting very poorly while sober or very good while intoxicated. He's also inexplicably on the verge of breaking out into a body-drenching sweat in several sequences, even when men of comparable weight and wearing similar clothing have visibly dry skin, another indicator that the sauce was driving his performance just as much as any actor's motivation. Nevertheless, given the material, Reed actually does a pretty decent job. Hammered or not, taken tongue-in-cheek, Reed's fun to watch here.
The movie unfolds sloppily, with mediocre action sequences mixed in with bad subplots about corrupt businessmen and promiscuous TV reporters. There are some car chases, a fairly tense cat-and-mouse sequence involving aforementioned corrupt businessman and Victor, and eventually a kind of boring mountaintop climax that employs the ridiculous cliché of the bad guys killing one another off and allowing the hero to walk off into the sunset with clean hands. The action sequences are actually the highlight of the movie, as whatever money could have been spent on a competent writer and sober actors was apparently dumped into the film's rather impressive location shoots and cinematography. Much of the action takes place in the mountains of Phoenix, AR, and the camera crew was at least adept enough to give us some incredible eye candy.
It's hard to tell while watching it if it ended the careers of everyone involved, or if they all knew that they had reached the end of the line and intentionally chose this project out of either desperation or as a means of career suicide. The director, Richard Compton, had a minor success a few years prior with "Macon County Line," a western-exploitation film; after this, he spent the remainder of his career directing episodes of TV series. Granted, some of them are top-notch--his "Star Trek: The Next Generation" effort, "Haven," is a highlight of that series' first season. Still, it seems to be a step down to go from writing and directing your own movies to hopping around different TV series.
If you're looking for cheap entertainment and happen to find this, either on VHS or bootlegged on DVD, pick it up; it's worth an afternoon.
Resident Evil: Apocalypse (2004)
Mediocre action film, so-so horror/sci-fi film, poor film
Loud and nasty; those are the two most appropriate synonyms I can think of to describe this film, which most likely won't be going down with either of the "Dawn of the Dead" movies, "28 Days Later," or any of the "Return of the Living Dead" pictures as a hallmark of zombie/rampaging virus victim movie-making.
Virtually devoid of plot, RE:A opts, instead of the more sophisticated, unsettling approach of any of George Romero or his successors' works, to give us 99% action and 1% dialogue, a poorly constructed ratio if there ever was one. The film is full of jump cuts, with captions and on-screen images implying sequences which would've been devoid of action and all talk had they been included. Those unfamiliar with the games will be left virtually clueless as to what's going on as the time line jumps between hours and days during the first quarter or so of the relatively brief film (about an hour and a half, according to my watch). This is a game-to-film transition gone very, very bad; it would be time much more well spent to actually play the game. The movie comes across as a Cliff Notes version of watching someone else play Resident Evil: Nemesis, except using live actors instead of CGI.
In a city of the undead, the human element is nil, and oft times the question comes up why we're even watching these people; Milla Jovovich is the only character even really remotely root able for, and the only reason for that is that she's a familiar face. Characters quickly come and go in rapid succession, getting killed minutes (and in one instance, seconds) after we find out their name, with no explanation as to who they are or why they're doing what they're doing. In a quarantined city about to be destroyed, there's only one motivation: Get out. This could've been played on similarly to the way Night of the Living Dead played on a similar situation, but every character aside from Alice has the same thought process, reactions, and attitudes, and are differentiated only by their physical appearance and dialect/slang (for some reason, Racoon City, apparently in Illinois according to the globe at the end, has equal parts population British, French, Russian, and American citizens). Had the director/producer/writers decided to include any dialogue in place of the unending action, and had that dialogue been well written, this is a film that could've had some potential maybe not as a great horror flick, but at least as a good auctioneer. Instead, from beginning to end we're subjected to computer graphics, CGI sequences, and virtually un-ending stretches of poor camera work and amplified gunfire as the undead are dispatched in poorly lit, badly focused environments that barely gives the viewer time to try and understand what they just saw.
What little speaking and character we're left with is divided evenly into clichés (the cold hearted business executive, the steely soldier, the tough woman cop, the token funny black guy, the token tough black guy, the mindless, unstoppable killing machine) and cliché ridden dialogue (an evil corporation/the government causes disaster because of greed and immorality; aforementioned steely executive has innocent people killed by steely soldiers; a pseudo-pimp drives around in a Cadillac shouting obscenities at white people; a brainwashed monster remembers love and relents). It comes as no surprise that one of the people responsible for this is Paul W. S. Anderson, who gave us the "inspired" House of the Dead, which opted to include images from a 1980s arcade game in lieu of actual footage. Anderson seems to like zombies and guns, but otherwise has no grasp on any sort of movie-making mechanics. He doesn't give the viewer a reason to care for the people getting killed, or even explain why they're getting killed, in some parts; early on in the movie, characters are confronted in a church by giant, apparently zombified lizards, who attack with enormous tongues and climb down walls. But as the film demonstrates, the virus causing zombification doesn't create anything, it simply reanimates dead cells, leaving us to question what these things were exactly, and where did they come from? Nowhere in the "living" world are there six foot tall, ten foot long reptiles that can snap a human neck by wrapping its tongue around one. The entire film follows this err in logic and lack of creative input, right up to the convoluted last five minutes of the film, wherein we're all but given the announcement that there will be no resolution, only the promise of a third film.