Jurassic World (2015)

I think I can confidently say that anybody who feels in the slightest bit nostalgic about the works that represent their childhood will agree with the following statement. There are some things you don't fuck with, and Jurassic Park is one of them. The makers of the crappy third installment, which couldn't even be saved by the lovely Sam Neill's presence, learned this one the hard way. So when I knew a fourth Jurassic movie was on its way... well, I figured that modern film animation could make for some really wonderful stuff... but the third one... the third one!!

Sad thing is, I didn't even get to see this movie at the cinema. My Pop did, and he said it was an awesome experience. So we invested in the DVD, and have already watched it three times in as many months. I can safely say that if it ever gets a theatrical re-release, I'm there. The visual spectacle of this movie was wondrous even on a twelve inch screen. They pull off a real, excellent modern re-run of the Jurassic series, and make it work well. Surprisingly well.

The remains of Hammond's original island has been thoroughly invested in, and become the tourist attraction of dreams. Vast glass emporiums house interactive games, holograms, artifacts and every sort of franchise and merchandise you can imagine (oh, hey Starbucks, I didn't know you were invited!), and the beautiful South American mountainous terrain is home to all kinds of dinosaurs, which are no longer only visible to tourists from behind wire fences.

Two kids, moody high-schooler Zach (Nick Thompson) and sweet, thoughtful little one Gray (the very talented Ty Simpkins from Insidious) have been sent on a VIP week-long trip to the resort, because their uptight aunt Claire (Bryce Dallas Howard) works there in some senior, executive position that requires her to strut around in all-white outfits and talk on her matching cell phone constantly. Gray suspects it is to get rid of them while their parents figure out a divorce, but Zach is typically nonchalant and scorns his little brother for being so emotional.

The movie makes the questionable move of painting aunt Claire as the evil career-woman who is being mean by having to actually turn up to work. The boys are upset/annoyed when she reveals she cannot spend time with them until the next day, and their mom makes her sister feel guilty for it. But Christ guys, do any of you understand the concept of work? Ya know, with contracts and shit? As in, you have a formal obligation to senior people and are not at liberty to just bugger off as and when you like? She has to work one day out of the seven the boys are staying. C'est la vie. I mean, yes, seven years is a bit of a long time to have not seen your family, but the whole idea of evil aunt Claire choosing to do boring old work and not have managers up her ass about her sudden, unauthorised leave is about the only issue I have with this entire film.

The runaway train of the movie is not Dennis Knight making bumbling attempts at stealing embryos or Jeff Goldblum making far suaver attempts at stealing baby T-Rexes, but the exact scenario you'd expect when you mix commercialism with extinct creatures: dinosaurs are old news, and people are getting bored. They need something bigger, scarier and 'cooler'. So thankfully, good ol' B.D. Wong is back on the case, cooking up some inventive new dino recipes, ready to milk that cash duct for all it's worth. But mix in a bit of Deep Blue Sea, and you've not only got a scaly antagonist that can run fast and eat faster, but it can camouflage and it can scheme. Ooh yeah, the monster is a-turnin' on its creator. And this time, it's personal.

Jurassic World paid its dues in Development Hell for nigh on a decade, and I believe its time on the inside did it good. More, it waited until it was right for the world. A movie like this in 2005, as society was then, and as computer imagery was then, it could easily have come out like Scooby Doo! The ideas of the movie are so perfectly in keeping with the modern world, and the scale of the entire operation is believable. We know our Western society is doomed from the tsunami of media, vanity, consumerism and commercialism that has drowned it in recent years, and have little struggle in imagining a world where the rich man at the top says "take my money and do something dangerous and stupid". This version of Jurassic has a level of cultural reflection that the third one was lacking (along with many other things).

However, this is a harsher world we're living in. One that's stripped us of the right to see a moderately adult movie without the seat-kicking and question-asking of young children in the theatre. Hence, with a 12A certificate, it's one to judge carefully before sharing with kids. My six-year-old daughter has not seen it, and will not for some time. It's not particularly that the deaths are gorier or scarier (lawyer on a toilet, anyone?), but they're harsher. Would you rather be taken in one fell swoop by the jaws of a T-Rex, or tossed between about five different predatory creatures, while simultaneously drowning, before finally ending your life inside an animal that's inside another, bigger animal?

Now, there are a few fairly standard boxes ticked here: stuck up businesswoman, check; tough dinosaur-hunter guy who can solve all her problems with his penis, check; fat guy first to get eaten, check; Asian dude second to get eaten, check. But honestly, I'm just shortening the boring critical bits so I can get back to praising this really good movie. Visuals are really breathtaking, premise is strong, action is thrilling and imaginative, and acting is good. The gorgeous Ty Simpkins is getting a special shout out though. He gives a very tangible and emotional performance, and claws at my heartstrings even more than little Tim did in the first movie. He is an absolute gem... and his hair upside down is one of the reasons I wake up in the morning.

The Green Inferno (2013)

So guys, hands up who's freaking psyched for Eli Roth's The Green Inferno finally getting a release after a couple of years on the shelf due to funding issues? Two huge thumbs up on this end! In another Sleepaway Camp-type coincidence, I heard of the release a few days back and rushed out to get it, then rushed back home to watch it. I got straight on to my sister Relly, who as I have previously chronicled is a horror freak of intensity equal to mine, who, as it happened, was in the middle of downloading it to her hard drive. But she sternly warned me not to ruin anything for her, as she had to wait til the evening to watch it. So I bit my tongue, and kept it to myself for a little while.

Photos of Roth directing on location are very cute!

Is there any horror fan who doesn't like Roth's work? I mean, if you want to be a boring bugger, he can be childish or sensationalist, but that's where the fun is! Filmmakers have been experimenting with comic relief in horror, and of course with pushing the bounds of decency, for decades. Roth is merely one of the ringleaders of his generations of filmmakers. He cares about his movies being enjoyable, and compelling, and unexpected, and he pretty much always pulls it off.

I first read about The Green Inferno a couple of years back, when doing some more research about Cannibal Holocaust, and got worryingly excited at the prospect of Roth pulling an Amazon Cannibal trick, then seriously pissed at the prospect of it never being released. As time went on, it was dragged, kicking and screaming, further toward the back of my mind, until last week, I saw a promo Facebook page for it, and headed for the nearest HMV like Sally Hardesty through the woods.

Justine (Lorenza Izzo) is an uptight college student who's desperate to be cool and dedicated enough to join the bare-footed, beardy protest clique on campus. In her class, her tutor informs the students in rather general terms about the practice of female genital mutilation (FGM), much to the surprise and horror of the kids, who act as if they've never even heard of it before. If this is really the case, I ask A) Where the hell have you been?! and B) If you are so behind with world news and issues, should you be taking this kind of course? But anyhow, Justine half-heartedly attaches herself to this cause, until she is invited along to a protest meeting with the cool kids, where her blunt and careless attitude pisses off the lead protester Alejandro (Ariel Levy).

He is planning an expedition to the Peruvian jungle where they will save the indigenous tribes from loggers who threaten to wipe out their environment, with the help of every douchebag's best friend: social media. In a sort of last-ditch attempt to prove her humanitarian nature, Justine signs up, and heads off on the at least partially-dubious trip with a whole bunch of other young 'uns, who, naturally, are various shades of douchebag. One is a spindly stoner played by Daryl Sabara, A.K.A. Juni from Spy Kids, one is an alternative chick who chats bullshit about her 'next tattoo', one is a soft, lovable chubster, you get the picture. And for a good long while we wonder just how suspicious we are to be of Alejandro, and the expedition as a whole.

A very basic summary of this movie is Cannibal Holocaust x Cannibal Ferox + Eli Roth = The Green Inferno. Although the progress of the action takes nicely unexpected steps and turns, the group still, of course, end up at the hands of some local tribe who paint themselves red and shove bones through their noses and run around in just loinclothes and necklaces. You know the drill. And although Roth took the same questionable option as Deodato by employing real natives for his tribespeople, this movie is far slicker and more professional than the other two cannibal pics, and doesn't give in to the temptation to make it Found Footage (thank God).

The acting is nothing sterling, and there is some silly, amusing dialogue dotted about. There is also a shot of Eli Roth's cock next to a tarantula. Yeah. I noticed in the end credits that Roth is listed as Sabara's 'Hand Double', and when I thought about it, when else in the movie did we see nothing but that character's hand? Oh yeah, when his dick was in it. So there's a cute titbit of trivia for you... Roth figured his whole self wasn't needed for his traditional cameo, for his fabulous cock could do the trick just fine. There are some brilliantly unexpected thrills, and in short, I was not disappointed. I was taken aback somewhat by the Ferox ending, and the motivations behind it. But this is nothing short of Classic Roth, and I struggle to imagine what sort of typical horror watcher wouldn't enjoy it. Tuck in!

Girl House (2014)

Hey guys, fancy being pleasantly surprised by how good a movie is, even when you're sure it's going to be a typical exploitative gorefest with as many naked girls crammed in as a compact disc will hold? Well then, check out this slick Canadian slasher entitled Girl House. In a sentence: psycho killer in house full of webcam porn girls. Right? It sounds cheesy and stupid and gratuitous. That's what my Pop thought when he pointed it out to me in a shop, and that's what I thought when I went to watch it today. So I was somewhat taken aback when I realised I was in fact in for a creative and intriguing horror-thriller. And the surprise addition of the Thriller is one of its potent ingredients.

Kylie (Ali Cobrin) is a college student whose father has recently passed away, leaving her mother penniless and living abroad somewhere. She has been approached by some guy in a suit who says she'd be perfect for his company. And there's no funny business. He's not some greasy-haired cigar chomper hollering 'Hey honey, you wanna be a big time movie staahh? Wanna come sit on my casting couch?' She is fully aware that the job is doing webcam shows. But this does seem like a surprisingly decent company.

Girl House is different from the rest: it's like a cyber Playboy Mansion. All the girls live in a gorgeous secluded house which is rigged up with cameras as if installed by E! themselves, and their USP is that clients get to watch them in any room, at any time, whether they're sleeping, showering, playing pool or stripping. The idea is that the people watching get to feel like they 'know' the girls, and therefore are more loyal and better paying customers. The house has security guards and high walls, the operating system is protected by a whole team of computer specialists. The location is untraceable, and the system unhackable. But then, the Titanic was unsinkable.

All starts well. Kylie settles into the mansion, everybody is nice, and her first show (although very mild) goes pretty successfully, especially when she attracts the attention of Loverboy, an eager user who plans to come back for more. It looks like she'll be able to earn her good money, send it to her mom, and all will be well. And even when a guy from her high school recognises her, and confesses his eternal love for her to the pal he's watching with, he manages to start a relationship with Girl House's favourite New Girl. The introduction of these two guys, Ben (Adam DiMarco) and his buddy Alex (Wesley MacInnes), adds real dimension to the plot, and is written well enough to fork the road without losing the quality. It is their involvement that adds the Thrill to the equation.

When the Webcam Porn Rampage starts, everything is, of course, being broadcast live on the website, much to the horror of its clients (and particularly amusingly, a young boy), and Ben and Alex bear witness. They become the unofficial Day Savers by making many frantic phone calls, driving a 70 mile distance at top speed, and hacking the website. This level of commitment to rectifying the bad situation in a third party is most unusual in horror. But they are great characters: distinct, well acted and level headed.

There's really nothing not to love in Girl House. The script by Nick Gordon is excellent - well paced, imaginative and thoughtful enough to distinguish the dialogue of each character - and Matthews' direction is strong; all the actors are in the Good to Great range, and production design is wonderful. And if none of these more artistically admirable qualities are enough to draw you... there's also lots of hot girls in various stages of undress and a whole bunch of creatively staged murders.

All Hallows Eve (2013)

Season's greetings to all! Having just returned from my mum's house for the winter festivities, with a collection of horror movies bestowed to me by my sister, I have much new to write about, and today's is for a movie my sister declared one of the scariest things she's ever seen, and as I have documented here, she is a hardcore fan like me, and does not crack easily. It is All Hallows Eve by one Damien Leone, who research informs me has been developing something of a YouTube following with his short horrors. Two such pictures he incorporates into this anthology feature, his directorial debut.

The movie opens on Halloween night, at a house where Sarah (Katie Maguire) is babysitting two adolescents Tia and Tommy, and they have just returned from trick or treating. Turning out their candy bags, a VHS tape falls out, and the kids manage to wrangle Sarah into letting them watch it. Most definitely ill-advised, but where would a horror movie be without a clueless babysitter who is surely old enough to know better? In a cross between The Ring and Creepshow, the video (as this is one of those few households like mine which actually has a working VHS player hooked up to a TV) ties together the short films of Leone into a feature plotline.

That being said, the plotline is somewhat evasive, and the significance of the tape is dropped on us in the closing minutes. The finale of this movie is thrilling. As is the third of the three shorts on the tape which leads into the finale. The first short involves women kidnapped from a train station by Leone's signature character Art the Clown, played menacingly by Mike Giannelli, and taken to a satanic cult for rape and/or sacrifice. I'm pretty sure I spotted Eden Sher from The Middle as one of the girls, though I have not been able to find anything to back this suspicion up. This short is decent enough - fairly college project-y - and an obvious mark of a decent filmmaker in the making.

The second is somewhat silly, but again, research enlightens me. Poor Leone had some pretty severe monetary and time restraints whilst trying to pull this feature project together, and needed to produce both the middle short film and the core storyline in a frantic rush. And, having been involved in several indie productions, to various capacities, I could totally understand his plight. He said the middle short just didn't come together like he'd imagined. My first year film class project, which I did entirely by myself, was great and got an A, and I was really proud of it. My second year project was interrupted by various difficulties, and despite getting a B, I knew it was a piece of shit. Sometimes creative projects (particularly those with a deadline) just don't work out on paper the way they did in your head, and at least Leone was accepting enough of that to admit it.

Now don't get me wrong - the second short is not bad. It's just... flaccid. It starts well, consequences are dire, things are getting kind of creepy. A woman is moving from the city to an isolated house in the country with her (presently away) husband, when all electronics suddenly shut down and something crashes in the backyard. I think the real error comes with the on-screen acknowledgement of the creature. It's an alien. And a really, really typical looking alien. And it's a guy in a suit. And not only do we see him, but he becomes a very visible second character, which is majorly off-putting. The unknown is often scariest. Art the Clown appears again, quite inexplicably, in the last shot, as the painting the unseen husband has been obsessing over. At this point, I was groping for a link between the character, these two scenarios, and the 'real life' in which a babysitter and two kids are watching.

The third and final short on the tape is the first of several Oh Shit moments in the homestretch of All Hallows Eve. The first two films are really very tame in terms of horror or gore. They could probably both pass for a 12 certificate (or PG-13). The third goes all out, and involves a woman stopping for gas in the middle of nowhere in the middle of the night. As she pulls up, the attendant is kicking Art out of his joint for smearing shit on the bathroom walls. The attendant gets a pretty raw deal. The girl, however, after thinking she's escaped time after time, suffers one of those fates that you come across every now and then that sears its way onto your brain for life. Although this site carries a hefty Spoiler Alert throughout, this is one element I shall not give away. Because it is probably the shock of it that makes it such an effective bridge to the finale of the Babysitter thread.

And as for the actual ending... what will become of the babysitter and the kids? Again, I shall restrain myself and leave it vague, but I must comment upon what a clever piece of filmmaking it is. In the years that I have looked at film journalistically, I have learned to separate myself from the fiction created by consenting adults working a sometimes challenging job for varying sums. But this ending is one that really got inside my head and played with me, and actually left me struggling to sleep. I very nearly gave in to the trick and turned the movie off prematurely. I tell you, I felt twelve again, struggling to sleep because of a movie! It was almost nostalgic.

Although it's not particularly consistent, All Hallows Eve has a stellar payoff, which justifies its slow build up. It's a really good scare, and that is something I find harder and harder to come by.

The Rocky Horror Picture Show (1975)

For many years, I have made the same bold statement to any person with whom conversation has turned in an any way relevant direction: 'The greatest creation of mankind is The Rocky Horror Show.' Now, I know...but Luna, what about all the fantastic scientific and technological breakthroughs that have allowed us to live free, healthy lives, and able to watch such classic motion pictures?! Your comments do not go unheeded, friends, but you know how I love me an essence, a time capsule, a window, a feeling, when it's captured in art so fantastically. And you also surely know that I love me an inspirational figure. Who doesn't? And on the (in no particular order) list of great Guthrie Inspirers are Roger Ebert, Stephen King, Wes Craven, Ira Levin, and Richard O'Brien.

In the cute Cambridgeshire village which plays glorious home to many of my childhood memories, we had an annual early-December party in the Village Hall entitled The Festival of Frolics, in which villagers would perform, entertain, get drunk, smoke indoors (remember those days?) and have a fucking good time - kids, adults, pensioners, all there, having real fun together. When I was about six, my mother and teenage brother were due to perform with a few of our friends, a song and dance routine. They had been busy getting wigs and makeup and feather boas together, and my sister and I were very excited. As my friend James' dad Stephen got up onstage that night in red tights and space-clown maquillage, he invited everyone to give him an R... as we spelled out the four remaining letters with him, my mother and brother and their friends strutted up onstage in long black coats, before throwing them off with the opening bass beats of the Time Warp, to reveal corsets, stockings, suspender belts and stilettos. Yes, my 17 year old brother too!

My sister and I thought nothing of it, except what fun! The next day, Mum played the show soundtrack for us at home (which quickly migrated to my bedroom), and not long later introduced us to The Rocky Horror Picture Show. Now, Mum had strict rules: You girls can only watch up until Eddie dies. Now I type that, it seems like a funny thing for a lawyer to be telling her six and four year old daughters. But we had found something special even in the music, and having born witness to the first half of the movie, we had to see the rest. So, being resourceful kids in what turned out to be a village full of Rocky fans, we spotted a friend whose parents had the VHS on the shelf, and snuck in a midnight screening. Badasses!

A phenomenon I'm sure many film fans can relate to is the one in which you watch subtly 'adult' movies as children, which you appreciate aesthetically, and then each time you watch it again as you mature, you understand another joke, the plot takes on a different dimension, you feel sympathies for characters you formerly detested. Noticing your own maturation of perspective is something really cool that favourite films can offer you. Especially when you're a six year old watching Rocky Horror. So I loved the songs, and I loved each wacky, totally individual character, but I was totally unfazed by Rocky and Frank's homoerotic relationship, or Magenta and Riff Raff's incestuous one, or Brad and Janet's sexually repressed one. Most of the humour I didn't understand for many years. But even then, there was something truly fun and magical about this crazy musical my family had introduced me to. It got to the point where our stepmother hid her copy of the video, she was so sick of hearing it. (Would it be cynical of me to suggest that one upside to having two sides of the family was having two VHS copies of Rocky?!)

Of course, the movie at home by yourself is one thing, but Rocky The Experience had yet to happen. When I was 13, a Sing Along Rocky came to a local theatre, so we had the Diet experience, whilst still getting to feel like badasses for wearing short skirts and high heels. But when I was 15, the real thing happened. I went with my mum, her partner, my friend and boyfriend (who came away with his entire torso signed by our theatre-going contemporaries), and my friend and I went all out on our costumes. We were 15, so our response to everything was a swift 'Fuck You', and we wore our shortest skirts, black lace bras and open leather jackets, teamed with fishnets and platform heels. As we headed through a car park of perplexed-looking businessmen heading home for the day, the slightest creep of anxiety hit me. But we had to only turn the corner to be swept up in a hoard of glittery, lacey, silky, stilettoey goodness to guide us in a bold path to the theatre.

I was the frizzy, dorky kind at school, and so in the midst of my rebellious streak, I stood in the grand foyer of that theatre buzzing. Never had I been in such rich company, surrounded by people who in one stark way or another were just like me. Whatever other shit was going on in each of our lives, we felt liberated and really alive when we were all together, in the theatre, in our craziest costumes, to share in this one musical-theatrical product written by a 30-year-old unemployed actor to pass the time. But even the feeling I had in the foyer was eclipsed by the first three keyboard notes that opened the show inside the auditorium. As those notes dropped, the room just erupted with cheers and cries, my ears screaming and my throat along with them. It was like a pressure change, or more an energy change. It felt like all the ecstasy and antici...pation we collectively felt as this show began manifested in some psychic wave and washed around us. It's odd how many of those life-defining highs and blissful calms I have experienced in a theatre, and they've often felt like spiritual experiences. And this is what I believe is so special about The Rocky Horror Show. Not just for me, but for millions of others all over the world, sharing in this show is the most profound, communal, and liberating high we could ever ask for.

And what's so amazing, is the origins of it all. My mum once told me that Richard O'Brien (who, it is certain, played in Jesus Christ Superstar back in the early '70s) was told he would never again work in theatre after being caught sniffing coke in a dressing room by Andrew Lloyd Webber. I have never found any source to back this story up (although Mum may have been told it by her actor brother who worked in the West End - but this doesn't exactly validate it either), but O'Brien has often told the tale of how, in a humble televisionless existence, he passed cold winter nights of unemployment by penning his sci-fi B-movie parody rock'n'roll musical. It opened on a theatre's spare stage, which seated an audience of less than 100, scheduled for a week's run. But something special happened, and word spread, as my dad's nostalgic tales of '60s and '70s life for young men and women often concur, and the show pretty much never stopped.

Maybe I am a total artfag for it, but I find many intrinsic qualities that I admire and am grateful for in the movies, and one of those is the occasional special production that can speak to every generation. Be it The Wizard of Oz or Disney's Classics, when the universal elements align, and place every right person and thing in the right place at the right time, a unique thing is born, and it brings me joy to think that all of those actors, directors, writers, artists of all descriptions, are beloved way beyond their own lifetimes for something they helped to create that became dear to so many people.

Now, I realise that the first almost 1400 words of this lengthy more-essay-than-review have barely touched upon the actual Rocky Horror Picture Show, ie. the 1975 movie. But as such a dedicated lover of the work, I felt it of vital importance to share an account of Rocky's true effect. And I set to writing it having just watched the Rocky Horror Show Live broadcast, which was an absolute scream. Not only did Stephen fucking Fry make a guest appearance as Narrator, but the legend himself, Mr Richard O'Brien did too, and sang out those final, fantastic, chilling lyrics that just floor me every time: And crawling on the planet's face, Some insects called the human race, Lost in time and Lost in Space, and Meaning. Christ, that's weird. I actually got the chills just typing those out. Watch this Live show recording if you get the chance. It is one in a million!

Anyhow, since back in my beloved old '70s, some buggers at 20th Century Fox fancied milking the show's cult success, they a movie of it. And thankfully, they green-lighted keeping the gems of the original show's cast: creator O'Brien as Riff Raff, the handyman, the charismatic Patricia Quinn as Magenta and the iconic lips, Little Nell as Columbia and...and...*serious drum roll* the legendary Mr Tim Curry as the insatiably seductive Dr Frank N Furter. Time may change me, my celluloid freezes time. Gods bless it.

To be honest, this is one of those movies where I really don't feel like explaining the plot, mostly because everyone knows it, and if you don't, just take what passion you had endured from me thus far and get your ass to see the movie!! So, I'm just going to approach this as 'among friends', as if you all know what I'm talking about.


The Rocky Horror Picture Show is just perfection. In my opinion, the best arrangements and vocals and actors to ever come together to perform it. Susan Sarandon and Barry Bostwick are onboard as, as Patricia Quinn once put it, the 'token Americans' to keep Fox happy, and they're both fantastic, with Bostwick bringing a surprisingly strong singing voice and nice faux-masculinity and Sarandon serving up some of the most delightful comic timing and characterisation she's ever done. And the crazy thing is... although Brad's solo song is deleted, Susan Sarandon is not as good a singer as she is an actress, and most of the cast had no screen acting experience, it is still perfect. How is it that often, it's the younger, professionally yet-unpolished, uncalloused groups who tend to happen upon these game-changers? Despite all these deficiencies, it is just brilliant. It is funny, it is exciting, it is engaging, it is at times heart-wrenching, and ultimately, somewhat chilling. It takes us through a spectrum of emotions, all of which lead back to absolute pleasure.

And perhaps the most poignant element of Rocky is summarised in one line of lyric from one of its songs: 'Don't dream it, be it.' Rocky represents liberation and inspiration and aspiration, it urges us to do what we really want and need, and to feel free of repression. The movie continually breaks the fourth wall, inviting us in to share its philosophy, addressing us as its unconventional conventionists. It's good, cheeky, innocent fun, in which we can be who we really feel like, no matter who we have to be elsewhere. This, my learned friends, is why Rocky Horror is the greatest creation of mankind.

Black Christmas (1974)

Today I decided to revisit a retro early-era slasher from 1974. Much can be learnt about the genre from watching the earliest examples. Where Last House on the Left gave us among the first "bad guy jumps out just as victim is escaping", Black Christmas presents POV killer shots, predating Sleepaway Camp, and even Halloween. As Halloween would go on to do, the opening sequence is from the perspective of our antagonist, here the deliciously ambiguous Billy, who is used to absolutely perfect extent.

Despite the writer's claims that his script was inspired by a Canadian mass murder, it seems far more likely that it originates in the form of the urban legend, The Babysitter and The Caller. We all know it: an innocent young woman is all alone in a big house, looking after the neighbour's child, when she is hassled with threatening phone calls, which are eventually traced from inside the house. On top of the 2006 remake, this concept has been used in several other horrors, including the original and remake of When A Stranger Calls. Now that remake was a really tense, terrifying ordeal... right up until they showed us the killer's face, and then he was suddenly in plain sight for the remainder of the film. It killed the effect like the words 'not tonight' kill a boner. It left my sister and I movie-blueballed, and we were not impressed.

So the first time we saw this fantastically '70s original movie, we were overjoyed. Not a single glimpse of our stalker's face did we get... all we ever saw was a silhouette, and one eye... once. This keeps things terrifying. Consider in Silence Of The Lambs, when Clarice has finally cornered Jaime Gumb in the house, she is confident and proud, and ready to take him down. However, when the place is plunged into darkness, she is scared, because she knows she is being watched, but can't watch back. This is exactly the primal fear that Black Christmas taps into, and it is immensely effective.

This honestly is one of the superior early '70s horror movies. It is simple, understated, surprisingly unexaggerated, and yet overwhelming in its atmosphere. Lesser movies (and certainly the majority of modern ones) like to use that typical shrill string music to create eery, still scenes in which threats may be lurking; Black Christmas embraces the silence, and recognises its merits in scaring people. But where appropriate, sound is used creatively....

The movie is set in a sorority house a few days before Christmas. All the girls are partying and readying to go home for the holidays, the resident gang including Jess, played by the beautiful Olivia Hussey of Romeo & Juliet, and Barb, wonderfully portrayed by Margot Kidder. And all the festivities cause the appropriate ruckus to mask a surprising number of murders within the house, performed by the creep Billy, who lives in the attic. The girls receive illegible phone calls from a guy they've dubbed 'The Moaner', and take it all fairly well. The drama that stops this from being a totally straight-up slasher pic manifests between Jess and her troubled musician boyfriend Peter. He is under immense stress about an upcoming exam at the academy where he's spent the past eight years, and she is unintentionally pregnant, and plans to abort.

This is another pattern you'll notice in early genre examples: these were not just gratuitous gore shows, but often had some political or ideological theme about them. To me, Black Christmas was something of a statement about the women's liberation movement that was gathering such momentum at the time, and the opposition it faced from those not so hot on the idea of equality. Each of the women at the house are independent in nature, and working hard towards a self-sufficient future. They are massacred for their troubles by a confused, reclusive, faceless man. In the foreground, we have the dispute over abortion between Jess and Peter: he insists that she keep the baby, even forbids her to abort it, and Jess refuses, insisting that she will not be forced to give up her future and ambitions. Very noble and sensible sentiments. But Peter is "an artist - he's highly strung", and so when one mad phone call is attributed to him and his anger, the finger is pointed at him. After all...have we ever seen Peter and 'Billy' in the same room at the same time?

Now the ending of the movie concludes its message and stance. It is easy for movies depicting female suffering to be dubbed 'misogynist' and the like. Actually, it is easy for people, out to get offended on others' behalf, to dig out something to complain about in almost any movie. But you know what I mean. Some may say, having watched a house full of independent, middle-class young women being slaughtered by some limp gimp of a man, that the movie itself is misogynist. Firstly, it seems to me that misogyny is rather like going into labour: you notice a million little things that could be a symptom of labour, but when it's actually happening, there's not a doubt in your mind about what's taking place, and how could you, in hindsight, have thought that those tiny things were the real thing?

If an entirely male crew wrote, directed, produced a movie which expressed severe hatred for women; if the casting agents said to each actress hired, "Thing is, we hate bitches, and we plan to degrade, marginalise and otherwise offend you by making this picture"; if the entirely male crew had showed up to press releases and premieres vocalising their hatred of the female population, and highlighting the movie's intention to express hatred and discrimination... then perhaps, we could say a movie is 'misogynist'. But otherwise, movies of quality tend to carry some message or moral at their core, not necessarily shared by its creators, but something worth expressing. It is a medium. Don't shoot the messenger, right?

If this movie, broken down into a basic motive, was something close to Independent Woman = Threat to Masculinity, therefore Independent Woman + Threatened Man = Dominant Male, therefore Problem = Solved, then perhaps there would be some undercurrent of masculine insecurity, as raved about by Siskel and Ebert back in the day. But if the formula were as simple as this, with women being punished for their independence and self-assurance, then surely Jess would pay the ultimate price for daring to abort Peter's baby. Perhaps we'd even be subjected to some MacDuff-style forced c-section for a particularly melodramatic effect.

But, if ambiguously, Jess survives the ordeal, and Peter is killed. If basic survival vs. death is totted up, does the movie's sympathy swing in Jess' favour? But what of the ambiguity of the ending? Billy is obviously still lurking, so it obviously wasn't Peter. He may yet kill Jess, but so far as we witness, he does not. The way I read it, Black Christmas is addressing the opposition to the women's liberation movement. Billy, the opposition, has claimed many victims, who remain unnoticed and unmissed. Jess, the liberated woman who will have an abortion, has come through male oppression, and will live on to do as she wills. However, Billy is still stalking, observing her with the potential for being another victim. Bottom line: Female liberation has gained its momentum, but it is still under threat, and must be conquered by assertion.

NOTE: I felt the ending I just concocted was sufficiently emphatic that I should leave it there, but I must somewhere add that this movie contains some of the most psychedelically '70s outfits a vintage hippie like myself could ask for. Guys in fur coats, anyone?!

Eden Lake (2008)

Holy shit, what a movie!! Our British cinema industry isn't really in too much of a habit of making horror movies nowadays, although Hammer was recently revived for periodic releases. Eden Lake is a tragedy, a living portrait, a social statement - it is everything you don't really find in modern horrors. Back in the '70s and '80s, as I have discussed in other reviews, horror was used as a channel for points to be made. Black Christmas examined the defensive patriarchal opposition of the women's liberation movement, Last House on the Left reflected on class tensions and Vietnam angst, and it is exactly the movie that I saw serving as inspiration throughout Eden Lake. It is a powerful, gripping, appalling horror of the strongest kind: the ones that lie squarely within the bounds of reality and possibility.

Jenny (Kelly Reilly) and Steve (Michael Fassbender) are your typical young middle class couple with their whole lives ahead of them. Jenny, a sweet thing with a very Mia Farrow quality about her, is a nursery school teacher, and approaches everything sensitively and smilingly scorns her partner for swearing. Steve is the lovable, rugged Irishman, who likes to kid about, but thinks and acts with reason. Steve is planning to propose to Jenny, and so takes her for a weekend away at a remote quarry that he visited with his dad as a kid, which is due to be developed into a luxury gated community. The first night of their trip, the couple stay at a pub B&B, where flabby slobs wearing tracksuits and gold chains clutch pints of 'Wifebeater' and spit at the pavement. The beer garden is overrun with gobby Northerners who smack their kids about and constantly yell. The opposition is established.

When the couple get down to the quarry, it is a vast and beautiful wildland with a lake running through the centre, but thankfully, they are driving some fancy Jeep which handles the terrain with relative ease. The sign for the new development called Eden Lake is graffitied with the eloquent slogan Fuck Off Yuppy Cunts! Down on the beach, a gang of chavs show up and start wreaking chavoc (see what I did there?!) Naturally, they have an aggressive dog in tow, that terrorises strangers, and an obnoxiously loud boombox. Steve casually approaches, and quite reasonably asks them to turn the music down and keep the dog in line. Here we have a defining moment, which fully establishes the theme of the picture as class conflict.

I have lived in various parts of England all my life, and have a fairly diverse experience of social classes and cliques. Our society has changed immensely in recent years as 'benefits culture' and what sociologists refer to as the Underclass have been on the dismal rise. This means that the timewasting dickheads from school who came from bad homes no longer have to earn a lifestyle for themselves, but have it handed out to them, and the formerly widely-held working class pride of providing for one's family seems to have gone out of the window. The actual working class, who work in lower paid and lower skilled roles, is shrinking in population, as the effortless underclass lifestyle begins to be inherited. A whole generation have seen their parents sitting on their arses, smoking and screaming and getting everything for nothing, and so the cycle begins. The majority of violent offences are committed by people of this very nature. In this country, turn on the TV at 9am and you will be treated to a smorgasbord of the nation's most dim-witted, thuggish, shameless and useless, being made into a spectacle, and at the most tasteless of times, celebrities.

Eden Lake addresses the battle of the classes. Jenny and Steve are middle class, respectable and well behaved. The gang of youths, which includes Jack O'Connell and Thomas Turgoose from This is England, are the underclass, who have no respect for others and no idea of civil boundaries. A wide shot of both parties sat on opposite sides of the beach illustrates the spectrum of not only class, but inherently morals, values and humanity. The gang further antagonise the couple, and steal their car. This leads to a fistfight in which Steve accidentally stabs the dog. You can practically see the infamous 'red mist' fall over the owner's eyes. From this point on, it's fair game, as far as the kids are concerned.

Let's discuss the kids, and that's what they are. The ringleader is the terrifying thug Brett (O'Connell), who is volatile, controlling and violent. Everything that goes on is his idea. He has a few other boys with him, some look no older than 12, and a witless girlfriend Paige, who is ordered to film the gang's atrocities on her phone. Brett literally forces these children to inflict violence on the couple, and when things don't go his way, the most effective, yet vile and haunting moment in the movie takes place. Another child, a very young boy named Adam, who looks about ten or eleven, is roped into the proceedings, and when Jenny narrowly escapes her death and runs for the hills, Brett hangs a petrol-soaked tyre around the child's neck and sets his head on fire. This image haunted me for years after I first saw this movie, and it was with it in mind that I approached a rewatching with caution. But it is exactly what it should be: it is the crucifix in The Exorcist, it is the eyeball in Hostel... for a serious movie (and I say this to exclude any ceaseless exploitation fests that are lesser works) to reach its full impact, it has to dare to make its statement without any sugar coating. If we are to fear for society, for our children, on the message we take from watching this movie, we have to be given something to really fear. And here, we fear not demons or even evil adults, but twisted children. Brett's rage is boundless, he is wicked to the very core, and this we can be sure of, because of this single act.

Poor Steve has bled to death and been burned after being captured and tortured by the kids. It looks like Jenny might make it, now that she's managed to kill one of the kids, stolen a van and sped off towards town. But if the middle class heroes, or at least one of them, survived the ordeal, then the movie wouldn't be making its point. She unwittingly crashes the van in the garden of (here comes the Last House twist) Brett's parents' house. The family assist her at first, until they get a frantic call from Brett telling them what's happened, and they realise the van belongs to a family member. As is typical of these sorts of people, a gang of about half a dozen furious men arrive to avenge their thug kids, and Jenny is dispatched. But not before we see Brett appear, and get beaten like a puppy by his old man, and disappear to his room where he glares at himself lengthily in the mirror, as if in acknowledgement of his disease, but gutless self-absolution. He sees his own treatment, as many a PC social worker would, as justification for his own actions. He is not human enough to recognise his responsibility in breaking the cycle he knows all too well the effects of.

There is a primary and secondary message in all this. The first is that Britain is finally broken; no matter how the civilised reason and negotiate, they will be beaten down by senseless violence. The second is that violence is a cycle; the aggressor was formerly the victim of a senior aggressor, and has been conditioned into a mindset of violence. Eden Lake is terrifying because it is so true. It was met with some criticism over stereotyping of working class people, but as I have already addressed, the numbers of people like the children in this movie are on the rise, warranting a classing of their own. There is still, as ever, a perfectly peaceful, respectable working class out there who live honest and good lives. But in a country where Jeremy Kyle can make three shows a day for ten years and still find new people to appear, I concede that people can't really be blamed for drawing such conclusions.

Born Innocent (1974)

Every now and then with a child star, particularly one from the '70s, you have to wonder what their folks were thinking. I don't really plan on questioning how well juveniles are taken care of on set: it is a tricky topic, given the often inevitable outcome of the poor soul's trip to Hollywood. Some (Jodie Foster and Brooke Shields) turned out to be well-educated, classy and talented adults. So after The Exorcist (all dubbings and doubles aside), was there anything Linda Blair's parents weren't OK with? Video interviews with Mr and Mrs Blair show them to be very decent, loving and caring parents, which is all the more baffling: at least Terri Shields made herself obvious as a maniac with such ludicrous claims as "people want to see a sexy child". Linda's Act I consisted of regular victim roles, and one would surely be excused for questioning her overseers' choices. But then, despite being far less mainstream these days than Foster or Shields, Linda also turned out great. Solid B-movie credentials over the decades, solid commitment to various charities and animal organisations, including her own, and a good sport at horror conventions galore.

Exhibit C in the Blair Victim Files, after The Exorcist and Sarah T. respectively, is Born Innocent. Another (many more came) made-for-TV movie which took advantage of Blair's cute face and apparent lack of parental controls. Sarah T. was a good girl really, who became sucked up in depression and addiction and expressed remorse for the damage her troubles caused to others. Chris Parker is different. At least in the end. The sour-faced youngster is introduced with a swell of sympathetic string music that reoccurs throughout the movie. Chris is a young runaway who has been arrested again, and makes herself scarce in the holding cell crammed with young, female Peter Stormare types. She seems out of her depth in the whole runaway business: the other girls look ready to chew the balls off a wrestler, but Chris crouches in the corner, her sweet face obscured by her hair.

When hauled up in court, the ball is dropped on Chris at the same time it is on us. The Judge rather compassionlessly reveals that her parents have handed over full custody of her, making Chris a Ward of the State, a.k.a. Hapless Victim of Society. So off she is carted to a half-way house for unruly girls, where she is swiftly and clinically examined by the Nurse Ratched of the joint, a steely woman named Lasko. Stripped off and her cavities searched for substances, Chris seems further still out of her depth when told, "Girls get drugs in here any way they can." At this point, she's probably starting to wish she had smuggled in some dope.

Cute little Chris quickly comes to the attention of the resident aggressive dyke, who leers at her and seems to have a gang of cronies at her disposal. The staff are all incompetent, and mostly very hostile, with the exception of counsellor Barbara (Joanna Miles) who defends Chris from punishment when she offends the others. However, none are efficient enough in dealing with juvenile delinquency, as the tough lesbian proves when she and her gang corner Chris when she's in the shower. They pin her down and rape her with a toilet plunger. (So Mr and Mrs Blair, about your supervision of your 15 year old daughter's role choices...) That said, this scene is incredibly powerful, and is tackled with gritty realism by the actors and cinematographer. Without this scene, we would not have a full understanding of either the abuse of Chris, or the abuse in general of institutions. At this stage in the game, Chris is the softened victim, who recognises her own pain and feels sorrow.

Having earned a little merit, Chris is granted a visit home. Being that she was an affluent runaway, it's safe to assume that this is not such a privilege after all. Within minutes of being home, shit is going down. Her dad is one of those short, wide, balding assholes who goes red all over with rage. Her mum is a hopeless neurotic who just sits home and chainsmokes. The dad beats the mum, and Chris helplessly looks on. The dad later abuses his daughter, remarking on her tight jeans and smacking her about. The one person left to turn to is Chris' brother, who, although seemingly regretful, offers up every excuse he can muster as to why he cannot save his little sis from the abusive background he fled himself.

It is a sad situation when, actually given the option, Chris returns to the institution in favour of staying on at her parents' house for a few more days. And isn't it a miserable statement about the realities of child abuse? This incident cements the poor kid's downfall. She finds herself with nothing to live with, no life to return to, no goal to work towards; she might kill herself if she hadn't found some evident comfort in her bitter surroundings. Accompanied down the muddy slope by the same mournful string instrumentals, Chris eventually hits the bottom. She is finally just another runaway, problem child, young convict. Another brick in the wall, graffitied with 'Jesus Saves' and 'I Wish I Was Dead'.

Sadly, some forty years later, this is not one of those films we can say feels dated. The message, or warning, still rings hauntingly true. Life is easily fucked up. Especially when you're a parent fucking up your child's life. Talk of The System, and all its atrocities, is no less nowadays. Some may argue that it's only ever gone downhill. Children, being taken from or discarded by their parents, being circulated like unclaimed luggage on a carousel, through a stringy network of homes and institutions, and finally deposited on the other side of parental responsibility, with no qualifications, no support, no home and very little other than crime to turn to.

Wes Craven: The Guy Who Guided Generations of Gore

Whether you know me in everyday life, or through my reviews, you will know that my favourite horror movie of all time is Last House On The Left, and I regularly bring it up, as well as its creator Wes Craven. The movie, and the novice young hippies who made it happen, have served as great inspiration to me in the last few years. It taught me about how to make a brilliant picture with minimal resources; about those magic moments where exactly the right people make exactly the right statement at exactly the right point in time; about appreciating a piece of art as it was intended to be viewed, in the context of its surroundings at the time of conception. Not to mention it introduced me to the music of David Hess.

I have loved horror movies for as long as I can remember. I think it began with R.L. Stine's legendary Goosebumps books, and the subsequent TV series. My village library had the episode The Haunted Mask on video; the scariest episode ever made, and even the cover of the tape scared me. But no matter how many nights I couldn't sleep, I couldn't stop bringing the tape home. I just loved to be scared. It was at the shamefully late age of 20 that I discovered Last House, and it did as Roger Ebert promised: it "rocked me back on my psychic heels." It was a whole new level of horror, yet it was one of the oldest levels of horror.

Wes Craven was a cool and interesting guy. When he started out making movies, he was a married philosophy graduate, a father of two young children, with liberal hippie ideals who was breaking out of his fanatically religious family background. His pal Sean Cunningham (later creator of Friday the 13th) recruited him to write and direct a mind-blowing horror picture he'd been given funding for. The whole production was cheap and unofficial: lack of union relation, lack of permits, and nothing but KFC on the menu. And somehow, the talented guerrilla crew of just 28 people, created a bold, fierce work that Ebert, who solely appreciated and recommended it, correctly predicted would be a sleeper hit.

Despite an early struggle, and ultimate submission, with typecasting, Wes went with his strengths, and established himself as an icon of Horror. Many of his legendary works have proved inspirational enough to be remade, spun-off and sequelled, and his imagination has given birth to some of the genre's most infamous figures. And this morning, the sad news has broken that Wes has passed away, at the age of 76. What an incredible legacy to leave behind. What a fascinating, diverse journey his existence was.

Four years ago, as I sat in the lecture room of my Film Studies class, I found my calling, when my analytical essays turned out to be really pretty good. I started doing it in my spare time, and dreamed of becoming a real-life Film Critic, with a big shiny Press Pass that got me straight into the theatres, and a column in actual print with my words upon it. About a year ago, I was hit by a tornado of cynicism, and told my mother I thought I might train as a teacher. Writing would just have to be my hobby. But the experiences of several NQT friends of mine were no real picnic, and the all-consuming nature of their careers left it clear to me that although teaching may be the safe option, it would ultimately wipe out any real ambition I had. What sealed the deal was when I watched a documentary on horror movies, and I felt totally, and weirdly, at peace. Scary movies, enjoying them, writing about them and discussing them, was what I really loved to do. And I was actually good at it. It took some daring, but anyone who ever made it had to take the leap. And I'd rather have tried and failed, than resign myself to an unfulfilling life.

The work of Wes Craven has communicated with me in many ways, and his lifelong activity in service to the great Horror genre, and its hoards of fans, is what will see his spirit and wild imagination immortalised, in all its dark, bloody, fantastical, gory glory. Mr. and Mrs. Craven, lunatic Baptists that you were, thank you for giving the gift of your son Wesley to this world. It is probably the greatest thing you ever did.

Creep (2015)

Netflix can't keep up with me in bed. Honest to God, every night, I lie there, scrolling endlessly for a new horror movie to watch. I've watched them all, and they send a new one our way perhaps once a week, once a fortnight during a particularly dry spell. Despite its periodic impotence, Netflix continues to do good for indie movies and original series, offering a widely visible platform for their hard work. I have seen some obscure movies thanks to Netflix... Willow Creek to name a terrible one...Devils Backbone Texas to name a moderately better one, Afflicted to name a very decent one. And following these three titles in their found footage style, comes a movie far more daring and bold in its approach, in the form of Creep.

Not to be mistaken with British picture made in 2004 with Run Lola Run's Franka Potente and Harry Brown's terrifying Sean Harris, which is a far more disturbing experience than this, but only because it really goes there with the physical violence. This Creep really likes to play psychological games though, and on the most vulnerable of people. The movie taps into the widely held fear of strangers from the internet. As almost any freelancer could surely tell you (and I can certainly vouch for this), while scoping for suitable jobs to lend your skills to, you are liable to come across a bit of a weirdo every now and then. Creep's freelancer is Aaron, a cameraman, who has answered a Craigslist ad for a $1000 working day at some remote (albeit fucking fabulous) house up in the mountains.

Now just as much as $1000 for a maximum of 24 hours of your time is a pretty tidy sum, it is also almost so much that you rather expect you'll be fellating some hunchbacked hermaphrodite in a dirty basement by the end of the day for it. I mean, at least when Nev Schulman goes poking around with internet weirdos at their very own houses, he takes Max with him for backup (not to mention the considerable MTV crew, but still...). This cameraman goes it alone, and although this particular error doesn't see him to his fate, it seems a stupid move for a seemingly intelligent, college-educated fellow like Aaron (Patrick Brice). His personality, his sensibility and sensitivity are what escort him to an early grave, when that classic puzzle of Etiquette vs Instinct kicks in.

Up at the beautiful house in the mountains, Aaron finds nobody home. He is suddenly snuck up on by a weird looking fella played by Mark Duplass who, for better or worse, was adorned by the Lord with the face of the world's most prolific child molester. He reminds me somewhat of Michael Shannon's darker roles, but with the deadpan hardness of Ted Levine. One look at the dude, in his gorgeously sculpting running lycra, and we are certain who our titular Creep is. He is Josef, and he is weird. He is instantly very hands-on, hugging Aaron, insisting that this is by far the least weird thing that will happen today. Very encouraging. He swiftly invites the cameraman in, and hands him his $1000, thereby ruling money out of the equation, and making the encounter a 'relationship.' Further encouraging.

Josef explains that he is a cancer survivor, whose illness has returned in the form of an inoperable brain tumour, and he has little time left to live. Thing is, his lovely wife, who remains absent throughout, is expecting their first child, and so he wants to make a video diary of a day in his life, for his son to watch when he is older, in memory of the father he never knew. Very touching, and a pretty decent premise. For Aaron is no street-smart yob who throws a curse out every second word, he is sensitive and discreet, so he is never going to tell this poor dying man that this idea is very creepy and that he'd rather leave the premises post haste. He is going to suck it up, and sit tight, camera in hand, no matter how bizarre it gets. Cos let's face it, guilt stings worse than a knife wound.

It starts off as an 'Uncomfortable' reading on the Weirdometer. Josef strips off and bathes, holding his imaginary son in his arms and playing with him in a manner that would instantly look innocent were there an actual baby present. They go for a hike in the woods, during which Josef continuously runs off and jumps out at Aaron. He seems to get off on shitting people up. When they get back to the house, Aaron is talked into staying for a drink, despite his intention to leave. During this time, Josef makes a very queer confession. The cameraman has pulled one of those "oh yeah, the camera's definitely off" tricks. A while back, he found his internet browser history full of bestiality porn, and conceded that his wife had some sick fetish, which she flat out denied to him. So he went away under the premise of a work meeting, then broke into his house that night, wearing a fearsome wolf mask (Josef names it Peachfuzz, and brandishes the thing throughout the movie) and raped his wife, much to her delight. But when he returned from his 'business trip', she never mentioned anything, and was suddenly happy, and the internet history was clear again. By now, the Weirdometer is registering a solid 'Fearing for one's orifices'.

After Josef's shaking revelation, Aaron can't find his keys, and starts to get agitated, as he has been trying to leave for quite a while now. Josef plays it cool, and convinces Aaron to stay the night, but the poor stranded one drugs the weirdo's whiskey, and he passes out. While he's unconscious, Josef's phone rings, and the woman on the other end warns Aaron to get the hell out, as her brother is crazy, and there is no wife or child. This is the glorious 'Oh Shit' moment that sends the rest of the movie into its delicious downward spiral. Every good horror movie needs at least one of these moments: the impact that provokes a physical reaction in you, where you feel a thud in your chest, or a prickling in your stomach. I think to enjoy a lot of movies, we must temporarily resign our consciousness to that of the film, in order to fully receive its intended effect. When a picture lacks this artistic climax, it can fall dismally short of its potential. As Above, So Below is a recent demonstration of this.

From here, Aaron finds himself the subject of a dreadful stalking, which is handled in a sensitive and surprising manner. Many a horror victim have found themselves hunted from afar, but it is unusual to see a lone male stalking another lone male, with zero supernatural influences involved. The movie starts to steer towards the Fatal Attraction route, in which the perfectly plausible actions of an unstable human can be not only scary in a jump-out-of-your-seat, in-the-moment way, but also in the slowly-building-sense-of-menace way. It achieves what the better horror movies do; it's like the film version of clitoral and vaginal orgasms: they are quite different, singularly enjoyable, but best used in well-crafted combination. That we can be jumped out on and given the rushes of adrenaline whilst viewing, and later be haunted by a sense of real-life dread that could follow us home, is horror movie magic.

Found Footages are not usually known for their artistic camerawork; they are more of an excuse for the sloppiest and most negligent of production values. But movies such as Creep effortlessly demonstrate the making of an effective movie with minimal requirements. The one camera which records the story is used thoughtfully, and maintains a perfect balance of potent and meaningful shots, and spontaneous realism. When the camera (or Aaron, or us...it's all basically the same) finds itself suddenly in some symbolically-constructed scene, it is believable as coincidence, or accident. We are never reminded of our passive safety as an audience, not even when this stunning money-shot is thrown our way...

Duplass and Brice wrote the movie as a duo, with Brice directing, and it seems like acting in their own creation was a good move, both artistically and financially. Brice appears to be your typical Film School grad, with this being his first feature length credit. Duplass has far more works to his name, but they make a formidable team. Brice's academic and practical expertise help to make the entire picture look and feel beyond its means, and Duplass' acting experience lands him a role which he seems to be remarkably comfortable in. I say this, not to flippantly suggest that he has an extracurricular penchant for stalking or murder, but to emphasise the realism he achieves. Serious horror antagonists must be handled as such, not as a character to pretend to be, but as a being who we are to believe exists, and so has regular, human feelings and emotions. Ted Levine's Buffalo Bill is a great example. He is ridiculous, monstrous...and yet we know him. He could be that scruffy guy you see shuffling around the supermarket sometimes. More terrifyingly, Duplass could be your kid's school principal.

I believe professionalism is the key to Creep's success. It is not treated as a thrill ride, with a jump quota to fill and millions to make in box office dollars. It is treated (thank you, Mr Brice) as a serious, compelling story. Minimalist and realist. No need for effects, fancy equipment or even a cameo by Robert Englund. This, as a former academic film student myself, is what we strive to achieve in the field. It's got 'it'. Now, you see that long white bar across the top of the screen upon which you read this? Click it, type in Netflix.com, and thank me later.

The Pagemaster (1994)

"Just because something is a part of my childhood," writes Tommy Nelson on IMDb, "doesn't mean it's good." I must somewhat guiltily admit that I agree with Tommy. The Pagemaster was one of the movies of my sunny Cambridgeshire-based '90s childhood, with basically everybody I knew owning a copy on VHS, and all of us watching it, joyously and frequently. My copy had a Making Of featurette after the movie, which I would watch, fascinated. My stepmother would ask why the hell I wanted to watch that, and I would tell her because I wanted to know how they did it. She said, "well with artists and computers, of course", as if that were the extent of the effort involved. It was the need to know the secrets of the movie industry as a young child that really made the critic I am today.

I still own a functioning VHS player, for those few tapes which do not exist on DVD. To my absolute (and completely unexaggerated) horror, there has never been a UK DVD release, and the best I can get is a Region 1 import, or a Blu Ray, which I have no means of viewing. But the other day, a friend cleared out a bunch of her now grown-up kids' old videos for my daughter, and what the hell was among them? Yes, one of the top 10 movies of the '90s years of my childhood! (and that will surely become an article on here in due course!) So yesterday, my daughter and I sat down to watch it together. And I ended up noticing several things about it that I never saw as a child. Not bad things, necessarily, but some really leapt out at me.

For example, the movie is only an hour long. When you consider the then-advanced technology, big name stars and voice artists... it cost 27 million fucking dollars to make! And sure, three mere years after that smarmy git James Cameron broke new f/x barriers with the epic Terminator 2: Judgement Day, it's nothing terribly special. But it was a lot for its time, especially when you take into account the meagre box office performance of $13 million (yet, I suspect, the video - and video game - sales must have brought it closer to profit). So it's interesting that all of these resources would produce only an hour's worth of material.

Look at that little face!

But I primarily digress; let's get to the plot. Macaulay Culkin (who I only yesterday realised was a very cute kid) plays Richard Tyler, a bespectacled, paranoid little geek, who is obsessed with accidents, and the statistics that protect him from them. His bedroom is adorned with homemade 'No Smoking' and 'High Voltage' signs, earthquake survival kits and fire extinguishers... it's bordering on darkly humorous. But in reality, it's sad that a kid is already so haunted by fears that shouldn't have crept up on him for another ten years or so. So this is established as the situation that will be rectified by whatever adventure he happens upon. His poor parents desperately try to encourage their son to take the most banal of chances, like climbing the ladder of the treehouse his Pop (Ed Begley Jr.) is building him, and sending him to the hardware store for a pound of nails.

Suiting up in reflective jacket and motorcycle helmet like a knight going to battle, Richard mounts his trusty pimped-up Safety Cycle, complete with tall warning flags, windshield and double headlights, and heads out. Thing alert: when Pop sends Richard out to get the nails, it is a bright and sunny day, and when he actually heads out, it is almost dark outside, and storm clouds are brewing...how long did it take him to get kitted up? Anywho, Richard heads cautiously off, gets caught in a storm, and flees to the nearest building -- an ornate old library that looks more like one of the big museums in London. It is the library of dreams, with massive high ceilings and dark marble pillars and cases of leather and gold bound books reaching up out of view. Here he is met by eccentric-as-ever Christopher Lloyd as Mr Dewey, who has a "talent for guessing what people need", so perhaps could have done financially better in Deuce Bigalow's gig.

Whilst looking through the vast, maze-like bookcases for the public telephone, Richard comes across a wild mural on the dome of the ceiling, depicting several classic literary character, and the wizard-like, robed Pagemaster (Dewey's alter-ego). The kid slips on the wet floor and knocks himself unconscious, waking up to great globs and geisers of paint gushing down from the ceiling to form a giant CGI dragon, which consumes him and transforms him into an illustration in the book world. Here, he is instructed by the Pagemaster to pass three tests of Horror, Adventure and Fantasy, before he can find his way home, each of these genres materialising as anthropomorphic books, brilliantly voiced by Frank Welker, Patrick Stewart and Whoopi Goldberg respectively.

Whaddaya know?! I found a pic that demonstrates the terror!

From here to five minutes from the end, Richard and his friends run through incredibly short episodes with the classic literary characters, who are each depicted as very one-dimensional villains -- nothing more than a menacing obstacle to temporarily delay Richard's progress back home. However, they are all unusually dark. The entire picture is, more so in imagery than in theme. Colours are dark greys and greens, and there are a couple of images that still haunt me to this day. I actually regretted, at these points and others, showing it to my five year old. What a stupid bugger, I thought. The shot that takes the cake, is when Jekyll transforms into the hideous Hyde, coming straight up to the 'camera' with his hands concealing his face, and suddenly whipping his hands away, scr
eaming his name and giving the poor kids in the audience a full-screen close-up of his truly hideous face, and their parents a haemmorage-inducing earful of that shrill scream-pitch that only youngsters can reach. The close runner-up is during the friends' tackle with Captain Ahab in the middle of the ocean. Moby Dick, here depicted impossibly large and fierce in the eyes, charges their boat vertically, and shown from a bird's eye view, thundering imminently upwards towards them and chomping the boat to toothpicks.

The dark visuals and themes of the movie mentioned, another Thing pops up: the skies in the Pagemaster's world have an uncanny knack for turning dark green or red the instant the latest villain rolls up to be slain. And that's the other thing... these villains are in the habit of disappearing without actually being slain. Moby Dick savages the boat, and is never seen again. So what, did he just get bored and swim away? Surely he's still very much in the area. What does the evasive nature of these villains' pursuits teach Richard? Because this is, of course, the classic Wizard of Oz format, with a youngster with life lessons to learn being swept up in some fantastical journey away from their comfort zone and befriending three characters who will help them reach the correct realisations. Labyrinth adopted the same format, as have many, far less superior family pictures.

So what is Richard supposed to learn from this, quite frankly terrifying, ordeal? The animated portion of the movie's swift conclusion seems to summarise that he needed to learn to be brave. What did books, or reading, have to do with this lesson?... *cricket chirp*.... *tumble weed*...
And why exactly did he need to learn this? I suppose his neurosis wasn't completely healthy for a kid so young, but Roger Ebert rather correctly points out that the lesson here is that Richard needs to toughen up, take it like a man...he is basically trained to be a marine. And all with literature providing a false facade for the lesson. I almost scold myself for being so fucking cynical about a movie that brought so much excitement to my young life, but in a proper, grown-up review of a family film, the truth can hurt.

On the odd occasion, I have come across my hero Ebert dismally slating one of my favourite movies. The Lost Boys was a good example. The Pagemaster is another. One of the many phenomena to occur when you watch certain movies with frequency from childhood into adulthood, is that you come to realise that just because something has sentimental and nostalgic value, does not make it artistically rich or masterfully created; although The Lost Boys is very much both of these things, The Pagemaster is not. And it's often difficult when you hit the wall of maturity, when you see the product through adult eyes, which are lensed by knowledge of life and reality and common sense. One may be inclined to feel sadness, disappointment, emptiness as a result of this phenomena. Thankfully, I have learned to separate the quality from the nostalgic, and so, all these years later, can still enjoy The Pagemaster, and feel like I'm five again, whilst acknowledging with myself that it's not a well made movie.