Film Reviews by NP

A vintage slight against radio personalities is that they have a ‘perfect face for audio’. Stephen McHattie, who plays outspoken Disc Jockey Grant Mazzy, has a great for ‘Pontypool’, a thoughtful Canadian horror. His every beleaguered expression add great weight to his performance here, as he is essentially the voice that informs us of a growing sense of unease around the town. His producer Sydney (Lisa Houle, McHattie’s real life wife) shakes her head in despair every time Mazzy says something deliberately provocative, and capable young Laurel-Ann (Georgina Reilley) holds things together with a quiet calm. All three central characters are instantly likeable, their professional relationship fascinating, especially the constant ‘creative disagreements’.

All this provides a solid background to the growing panic and horror that is spreading steadily throughout the outside world. A lot is asked of our three main characters. Their growing panic is all we have to communicate the evolving virus outside. It’s a long time before we leave the studio. We are as shut away as they are. I’m not sure I’m entirely convinced by the manner in which the disease is spread, but such reasoning does lead to some very memorable moments.

Deliberately going against the ‘show, don’t tell’ rule in this way won’t appeal to everyone, but I find it a very worthwhile – and above all, innovative – way of telling a story. The reverting to a pre-taped story (of a missing cat) takes on a more sinister turn because it means that the station is no longer broadcasting live. Writer Tony Burgess (who wrote the novel on which this is based) and director Bruce McDonald ensure that things never become dull.

The blizzards that cast an unforgiving white shadow over the ‘outside’ adds another layer of isolation and bleakness to this highly enjoyable production. Highly recommended.

When we first meet night-time radio host, the permanently dishevelled Charlie Crowe, he comes across as a boor. When we subsequently meet his gold-digging ex-wife, his foul estranged son and arrogant replacement husband, we sympathise with him a little. He has no time for time wasters on his radio show, and ridicules and dismisses a caller who claims to … ‘see’ things. You might successfully identify that as a mistake.

This is a surprisingly effective horror. I’m not sure why I am surprised by this, but I found the attention to detail and expertly handled, often subtle chills employed by director/writer Matthew Arnold immersive. The casting is very good, with a range of idiosyncratic, convincing performances. And the story does its best to convince us that events actually took place (not that I have reason to doubt it) by some actual footage from news items at the time, and features some actual radio callers to Crowe’s show.

The idea of ‘shadow people’ is an intriguing one, and makes great horror. Since film production began all those many decades ago, shadows have played a huge part in sinister visuals – so the notion they may have a life-force of their own is very attractive. ‘Shadow People’ is certainly not faultless however – sometimes the interspersed real-life footage slows things down too much, and this is a slow-burning story anyway. Also, it should be mentioned that ultimately, this is quite an intimate tale, focussing on what Crowe would do – or wouldn’t do – to make his life more satisfactory, rather than any major wider-spread scares, which never dominate proceedings for very long.

This is an extraordinary tale, featuring the return, after a 40-year incarceration, of the notorious Coffin Joe, long believed dead. With nothing more than some huge, curling fingernails, José Mojica Marins (a bearded Brazilian Bela Lugosi, who also directs and writes) cuts an imposing figure, and it isn’t long before he is up to his metaphorical horns in evil. It doesn’t go all his way by any means, however, as he appears to be haunted by the ghosts of those he has wronged in the past – a past illustrated by many flashbacks.

This is very much a sequel rather than a standalone film and as such, I found myself enjoying the Faust-ian imagery and the demonic nature of Marins’ heightened performance rather than trying to figure out precisely what was going on (the previous two instalments were produced in the late 1960s). As it makes no great effort to embrace a viewer unfamiliar with any earlier chapters, things can dissolve into a dark soup of shouting and wailing (and torture), a soup not thinned by any sympathetic characters or anyone an audience can relate to. Everyone we meet is a grotesque of sorts, and what they may lack in empathy, they succeed in collectively conjuring up a relentless environment of horror.

His mission is to ensure the ‘continuation of his blood’. That is, he very much likes the idea of procreation. We are not spared this, either. It is a grisly, saturating scene, carried out without ever removing his Mephistophelean top hat and cape.

It wouldn’t be entering into the spirit of things to question why the authorities wait until Coffin Joe has committed many bloody atrocities since they reluctantly released him from jail, before investigating his activities. This is a world within a world, and if you are in the right frame of mind, is hellish and immersive. If not, it comes across as being somewhat one-note.

Four ‘young friends’ travel to the snowy Utah mountains so they can be alone to argue, make up and argue a little more. As things go, this low-budget horror is something of a roller-coaster. Normal conversations are punctuated with sudden moments of sullen anger, which immediately disappear, allowing the conversations to continue as normal. The outbursts, and reactions to them, come and go and then vanish. Such disjointedness is either an inconsistent script, or director/writer Brandon Scullion trying to persuade us that, out in these freezing wastes, evil lurks.

So these kids: Mallory (Arielle Brachfeld, probably the best performance here) self-harms, Eric (Chris Dorman) is an alcoholic, Becca (Sarah Greyson) might be pregnant and the other? Seth (David Lautman) has secretly come all this way to bury to dismembered body-parts of his mother. That he returns to the cabin to find his mother (Maria Olsen) alive and well and waiting for him is a good scare.

This eerie tale is cursed by some typical low-budget trappings – often stilted acting and sound issues resulting in dialogue being drowned out. The locations are excellent however, the snow adding an extra degree of isolation so important in conveying the levels of danger the characters find themselves trapped in.

Dario Argento’s daring interpretation of Gaston Leroux’s famous horror/tragedy/romance foregoes the traditional disfigured character of Erik (the absence of mask makes a nonsense of the DVD cover and promotional blurb), the Phantom. Instead, Julian Sands plays him as a handsome, tortured, long-haired whisperer unexplainably raised … by rats. It is a curious development. Instead of being ugly to look at, he is ugly in the way he deals with anyone who gets in his way, or in the way of his relationship with Christine Daaé (Asia Argento). Also, of course, the film is robbed of one of its previously defining moments: the unmasking scene and reveal of the cruelly misshapen mass beneath.

So is it political correctness that informs the lack of scarring? Good grief no, for we have much nudity, horrible things done to rats and the overweight, not to mention the rat catcher himself and comedy dwarf side-kick. We have a telepathic Phantom who instantly falls in love with Christine, and she falls instantly in love with him too. With all the eccentrics around him, Erik is saved from becoming the least interesting character by the great and violent rages he displays, at one point raping Christine, for which she appears to forgive him.

Production-wise, this is an impressive gala of colour and spectacle. Certain scenes in which the camera flies around the spacious theatre remind me of James Whale’s joyful exploration of Frankenstein’s laboratory during the creation of the monster’s Bride in the 1935 classic. The murky catacombs where bad things happen to ne'er-do-wells, the expanse of the theatre and the Phantom’s lair, all look wonderful and are effectively lit.

‘Tonally’, as the phrase goes, ‘this is all over the place.’ Despite some very exuberant singing miming, Argento’s Christine is a naturally played beauty, yet most of those around her are grotesques. The awkward sex-scenes don’t do much to convince us of the central love and romance. And yet, this is bizarrely enjoyable. Lots of silliness, some moving moments and mixed interpretations of gore. A fine central performance from Sands, in a look that occasionally invites unfavourable comparisons with 80’s wailer Michael Bolton; an array of special effects, sometimes convincing, sometimes not so much, and a strangely distressing ending involving a cavern full of heartbroken rats.

Originally known as ‘Adaline’, this was repackaged and retitled ‘The Conjured’. This blatant similarity to the popular ‘The Conjuring’ films gives you some idea of the originality on display here.

I wouldn’t wish to do Bidisha Chowdhury’s project a disservice; this is modestly budgeted and appears to be a labour of love, but despite the goodwill, and the cast doing their best, there isn’t anything remotely new attempted.

The film opens in a gory way, which is out of place with the more sedate nature of what is to come. When Daniela (Jill Evyn) inherits a mansion from an Aunt in the middle of nowhere and her friend exclaims, “I didn’t even know you had an Aunt,” you are sure what the next line will be (“I didn’t know I had an Aunt either,” in case you’re wondering). Nice bloke John (Lane Townsend) turns up and proves inordinately helpful one way or another. He’ll be the main villain then, will he? Well, will he? No-one smiles like that all the time.

There’s an abusive ex-boyfriend and a mentally handicapped character as further possibilities, but really, things are extremely predictable here. It won’t keep you guessing. Undemanding chills, with occasional scenes of sex and gore to keep you from picking up the crossword.

The nasty blood-red delights of Hammer films a few years before had instantly rendered horror adaptions like this somewhat genteel (which is one alleged reason why Hammer themselves slid out of favour about a decade later). Indeed, one of the joys of this 20th Century Fox production is the glimpse it shares of another, softer world - a world of crisp manners, phrases like 'stuff and nonsense', elegant houses and rolling summer gardens. Not a tracksuit or a gold chain in sight.

Away from this fond reminiscing, 'The Innocents' is a terrific and beautifully acted horror story about two demonic children. And yet the youngsters, so well-played by Martin Stephens (as Miles) and Pamela Franklin (as Flora), may be somewhat mannered, but never brattish as young performances can be (relentlessly chirpy, if anything). Deborah Kerr (as naïve Miss Giddens) and Megs Jenkins (Mrs Grose) are wonderful as the two extremely well-meaning women placed in charge of the juveniles, who gradually, are revealed to possess extraordinary perceptive powers. Peter Wyngarde, the unofficial face of the late 1960s, is unnerving as the sombre Peter Quint.

Director Jack Clayton and cinematographer Freddie Francis extol the virtues of the black-and-white world and pack each scene with detail of comfort and splendour, only to offshoot them with moments of increasing unease.

This is a rich, fruity, beautifully made British horror film directed, written by and starring Andy Nyman as Philip Goodman (co-director Jeremy Dyson has an uncredited cameo as a DJ). Goodman is a solitary investigator committed to debunking the ‘myth’ of the paranormal. After meeting his hero, former paranormal investigator Charles Cameron (a deeply unpleasant individual reduced and ill, living in squalor) he is offered three cases and challenged to investigate them. Thus we are supplied with the trilogy of tales in this anthology.

Paul Whitehouse plays Tony Matthews, night watchman, haunted by something nasty in an empty warehouse. Alex Lawthur is Simon Rifkind, a teenager who stumbles across a rattled demon whilst driving through woodland. Mike Priddle, played by Martin Freeman, brings the trilogy to a close troubled by a poltergeist whilst waiting for his son to be born.

Of course, things are rarely as they seem, and it is only after these stories are told that things become really weird, and there’s a pleasing smattering of MR James-inspired moments. It is possible that the dénouement might be seen by some as disappointing, but the slow-burning lead-up to that moment is very effective.

This latest offering from North Bank Entertainment takes place in Dunwich – or Jonesworld - a Neverland that occasionally features in Andrew Jones’ films, where some people speak with American accents, and some people don’t. The very British décor indicates we’re on UK soil, but I get the impression the film is supposed to be set Stateside. The most American American is Beckham-browed policeman Brodie Sangster (Jamie Knox). He is seeing potty-mouthed Jennifer (Sarah John), daughter of Frank, Sangster’s boss.

This isn’t one of North Banks’ best. It’s inevitable that with such a prolific turnover, not every release will be a zinger. There’s a bigger cast here than usual, and none of the characters are particularly interesting. Also, sound problems that plagued certain scenes in earlier films is still an issue which, after all this time, is irritating. I enjoy the way clips from black and white horror films are sprinkled throughout the action (I recognised ‘White Zombie’, ‘Carnival of Souls’ and ‘Nosferatu’ amongst others), but ultimately the story of resurrected wrong-doer Jack Cain misses the mark more often than not.

One of the great things about going into horror films without knowing anything about them is the realisation, at a certain point somewhere down the line, that it’s going to be ‘a certain kind of film.’ That point came pretty quickly with this Ari Kirschenbaum directed/written oddity. And I was still wrong. Initially, I quite liked it, but I imagine that such an abstract approach might come across as a series of set-pieces and effective imagery – because that’s exactly what it is, at least in the first half. Sadly, the second half degenerates into a kind of wacky comedy.

Charlene Amoia plays Deputy Hancock who, alongside Sherrif Pete (Vladimir Kulich), come to realise that some demonic force has infiltrated their small-town jail and its inmates. Apart from the slow but often effective story-line and insistent electronic score, there is a lot of reliance on CGI. Whilst none of it breaks the spell Kirschenbaum is striving to weave, some leaves a lot to be desired, while much of it is more effective than you might expect. Events are divided into Tarantino-like chapters.

A switch to colour from the greyed-out imagery some way into the running time threatens to rob events of their sinister intimacy but actually, this is not the case. The colours used are bleached-out and sickly in hue and create their own sense of unease. And yet there is a growing through-line of sardonic humour here that suggests not everything should be taken seriously – and many of the possessed zombie-types invite hilarity rather than terror (in black and white, they look frightening – reminiscent of ‘Salem’s Lot (1979)’ in some scenes; when in colour, they degenerate into the kind of cartoon menace you see on the cover of Iron Maiden albums). Sadly, this threatens to render everything we’ve seen thus far inconsequential.

So, tonally, I am not sure what this is aiming for. Again, it seems a deliberate nod to the Tarantino style of occasionally ‘heightened’ film-making. In this case, I am honest enough to say that whilst it must have been great fun to make, I do not know what kind of film this strives to be, and as such, the result are baffling.

By 1988, giallos had been around for a long time and had understandably passed their peak. Here we have a good concoction of the usual ingredients - a whispering voice on the phone, a shambling police agent and some gory set-pieces set amidst elegant backdrops.

Directed by Ruggero 'Cannibal Holocaust' Deodato, this production is a showcase for the lesser appeals of the 1980s. An occasional backdrop of soulless, Linn-drum 'pop' music that typified the latter half of that decade and outsized shoulder pads and garish colourful fashion, and an expansive gloss that reminds me of the increasingly preposterous America soap giants like 'Dallas' and 'Dynasty' - luckily the three leads are not too blighted by such elements.

Dependable Michael York plays lady-magnet and pianist Robert Dominisci as well as he plays all his roles; Edwige Fenech has nothing much to do as Hélène Martell, his stunning girlfriend and a disinterested Donald Pleasence shuffles around as Inspector Datti, forever on the trail of the mysterious killer. His performance falls because he has no character, and his rant in the street ("You murdering b******! I kill you! I kill you!") amidst shoppers who don't bat and eyelid, is very odd in particular.

Pino Donaggio's score is good, but doesn't possess the stirring majesty of Ennio Morricone and Bruno Nicolai, and the smooth veneer of the production takes away many elements that personified giallo films at their peak. As such, this leans towards police procedural featuring a sympathetic, deformed killer, albeit with some beautiful locations. Dominisci's Jekyll/Hyde-like degeneration has a tragic permanence to it. Sadly for Datti, here is a criminal who did everything he could to get caught - and still the inspector failed to catch him.

Having read some reviews of this film, it seems either to bring out extreme reactions (lots of 10s out of 10, lots of 1s also) or there is some political work at play. I quite enjoyed it: it’s a very slow burner, and what scares there are, are subtle and involve a minimum amount of special effects.

Caity Lotz is Annie, a formerly wayward single mother who is also a bikie (when she can prize her motorbike helmet over her constant pout). Casper Van Dien is Bill Creek, an officer even prettier than she is. He takes her seriously when she reports a series of hauntings at her mother’s house, and also that her sister Nicole, appears to have gone missing (along with her cousin Liz).

‘The Pact’ is a modestly budgeted ghost story written and directed by Nicholas McCarthy. It was successful enough to spawn a sequel. The scares won’t be ‘jumpy’ enough for some, and fiercely independent Annie is initially difficult to like. The story is thinly stretched, but it is worth sticking with: there are moments that are genuinely frightening, and the lack of spectacular effects doesn’t detract from an overall feeling of unease.

Twits will insist on breeding, won’t they? Back in the 1980s, the adults represented here would have been known as Yuppies, young and upwardly mobile characters who do terribly well in business. This allegedly successful bent is balanced by possessing personalities smug and self-serving coupled with an inability to cope with the challenges of raising their young. I don’t wish to enter into the debate of child discipline too strongly, but “We don’t smack children here,” is the mantra extolled by the adults and possibly this stretches to “we don’t discipline children at all.” The reason I say this is that most of the youngsters are brattish, and whenever they misbehave, their behaviour is met with an ‘understanding’ gaze and a “What’s the matter, sweetheart?” line of soothing questions. When the children’s behaviour deteriorates further and they actually start killing people, the remaining parents are still trying to empathise with them, which leaves this viewer wondering who is more deserving of a slap?

Anyway, with that out of the way, what we have here is a New Year’s Eve smug-off celebration where two attractive young families can outwardly hug and adore each other, while privately slate each other for lack of business acumen. The idyllic surroundings are spoiled when the children seem to become possessed and start killing the hapless adults. It is never explained why this happens.

Most brattish of all is sexy teen strop artist Casey (Hannah Tointon), who emerges as the true hero of the piece, having been wrongly accused of all sorts by the idiotic adults. The mix of their stupidity and her precocious, inappropriately flirtatious manner doesn’t help anyone, but she displays sense and a stoical attitude whilst all about her are whimpering and floundering.

In many slasher-type films, we find ourselves willing for the death of the alleged ‘good guys’, but such a (surely) deliberate decision to make the parents this stupid is an interesting expansion of reasons for dislike. And whilst the children never quite become the threat we are supposed to think they are, their looks of angelic distraction works well in a creepy kind of way – as does the revelation of yet more juveniles scattered throughout the unforgiving snow and frosty woodlands.

Where things don’t work quite as well is in the kids’ physical power. Possibly more time and money would have been needed to successfully make them more formidable and whilst the effects here are good, they rarely quite convince, often making the adults suffering at their hands even more inept. With a heightening of the actual brutality, this would have been more successful. What he have is a well-made thriller with good performances and as such, is worth seeing.

David Arquette plays Robert Mars, who provides a welcome antidote to the rather saccharine family unit who make the mistake of allowing him to rent the cottage behind their house. Before long, this quirky, dashing newcomer is displaying qualities that are not quite what you would look for in a neighbour. Arquette plays this very well, accompanying many a questionable statement with a winning smile and charming demeanour; before long, however, these traits become simply unnerving accompaniment to increasingly threatening, weird behaviour.

The most disturbing thing about this is Mars’ predilection for apparently under-rage girls. They are easily manipulated by his ways, but even his smooth line in smarm doesn’t adequately explain the lengths they are prepared to go for him. Although the gore is very lightweight, there is much that is nasty here. He is a Charles Manson prototype, but in a production that never quite jumps into top gear.

There are occasional moments of tension, but overall this comes across as weird, rather than frightening, and all in suburban surroundings, which sanitises things a little. The scenes with Mars and his very young concubines remain effective, though, but having toyed with the older man/younger girl syndrome, ‘The Tenant’ doesn’t do a huge amount that is interesting with it.

I was initially attracted to this French film because of the highly-billed inclusion of Brigitte Lahaie. Sadly, however, she’s barely in it, and plays an entirely peripheral character. With that disappointment out of the way, there is a huge amount to enjoy here – however, I think ‘The Ordeal’ is something of an acquired taste.

Travelling cabaret singer Marc Stevens (Laurent Lucas) becomes stranded in the formidable, rolling forests of the Ardennes, but Mr Bartel (Jackie Berroyer), a kindly inn-keeper offers not only to put him up for the night but to fix his van the following morning. Also along the way, Stevens comes into contact with the distracted Boris (Jean-Luc Couchard ), who is dejectedly looking for his dog, lost in the snow. That Boris then turns up at the inn, and is clearly a good friend of Bartel, doesn’t bode well: one would hope Boris’s broken mind is a lone malady that separates him from the nearby villagers – in fact, the whole community is similarly unstable.

Quite why this should be is never explained: it just is. Why the village is allowed to operate in the way it does without interference from the law is equally unfathomable. But if you don’t mind the lack of explanations, this is an enjoyably hellish ride. Poor Stevens makes every attempt to reason with and placate those who wish him harm, and also carries out valiant escape attempts – but things continue not to look good for him.

This reminds me of a ‘straight’ version of quirky UK dark comedy ‘The League of Gentlemen’, and shares with it a nightmarish environment – but there are no laughs here. The endless surrounding area could not be more isolated, with the punishing weather only compounding that. Bartel’s compulsion to turn his guest into his dead wife Gloria is carried out in a surprisingly nasty way, and that fact that the villagers share his wishes give the viewer the overwhelming idea that things are going to turn very nasty for Stevens. And they do.