review – Page 3 – Podcasting Them Softly

I love Gravity. Love, love, love it. L-O-V-E IT!

I mean, the unseen force that keeps us pinned to the ground so we don’t tumble about and float away into the depths of space. That Gravity. So thankful for it. As for the film, I love it too. You don’t even know.

Now let’s be perfectly honest with ourselves and admit, Gravity is kind of a difficult film to write a review about because there isn’t much of a story or plot for me to pick apart meticulously.

Russians blow up one of their own satellites and the fallout causes debris to collide with the several other satellites including American ones, as well as the Explorer space shuttle and its crew who are working on the Hubble Space Telescope. Two crew members, biomedical engineer Dr. Ryan Stone (Sandra Bullock), a newbie to space, and veteran astronaut Lt. Matt Kowalski (George Clooney), are the only survivors, and must make their way back to Earth without the assistance of Mission Control in Houston, who has gone offline thanks to those satellites getting trashed. That’s it. I’m not kidding, that’s all there really is to it. That’s so simple a caveman could write a review about it. No offence to cavemen.

I’m actually pretty glad there’s not much plot to the film. There was a time when a lack of plot could get a film places, when people didn’t care if a film had the most intricately layered plot, as long as it entertained the hell out of them, and they’d put it upon a pedestal high above other films, giving it some kind of a legendary status in cinema history. Like Blade Runner. Today, a film without much plot often gets ripped to shreds by critics before the audience has even seen the film, automatically creating a negative aura that engulfs the flick and rapidly builds an unwarranted bias and stigma toward the film. Just look what’s happened to Disney’s Tomorrowland. Original ideas aren’t enough for some people, blah, blah, blah, the film looks amazing if you ask me.

Wait…Gravity was one of the best reviewed films of the 2013 season? And it won Best Director, Best Cinematography, Best Film Editing, Best Original Score, Best Sound Editing, Best Sound Mixing, and Best Visual Effects at the 86th Annual Academy Awards? Oops. Guess I’m late to the party.

Gravity might not have much plot, but that isn’t even the slightest of a hinderance for this full throttle space thriller. In fact, the lack of plot actually works in its favour, allowing ourselves the opportunity to take in all the wondrous sights and sounds, rather than shovelling mountains of unnecessary exposition and plot-stuffings down our throats. Right from the first frames of the film, it’s evident moviegoers are in for a visual treat, thanks in large part to Emmanuel Lubezki’s uber-detailed cinematography, and the all-to-real CGI effects that make up I’d say about 98% of the film’s visual content – only the actors and their suits are real, to my knowledge. Again, this isn’t at all a hinderance, although at varying moments through the course of the film the two leads had a CGI sheen to them. I can only assume this was entirely intentional, given that this obscure look found its way into the final cut. The film is rich with detail, from the finest stubble on Kowalski’s chin that can be made out perfectly despite the camera being several feet away from the character, to the awe inspiring other-wordly view of our home planet; the detail is pronounced, immaculate, and gorgeous. Seriously, Gravity couldn’t look anymore beautiful than it already does. Can you believe me that their visors are CGI? Neither could I, they look so damn real.

In space, no one can hear you scream. In Gravity, sound is everything. From the thunderous score enhancing the urgency of the thrill-a-minute perilous sequences, to the subtleties of the character’s breathing as their oxygen levels dip. Between the stunning cinematography melded with the extremely lifelike visuals effects wizardry, and the moody music and pitch-perfect sounds effects, Gravity becomes an elevated immersive cinematic experience you have to see to believe. Simply hearing about the film or watching it’s then-popular trailer is not enough, you genuinely have to sit back and allow the ride to envelop you completely. If you’re into that sorta thing.

In terms of acting, in several elongated sequences strung throughout the film, we don’t get to see the actors faces as much as we get to hear them. Bullock’s Stone leans toward the panic-stricken side of things, being that she’s a space newbie and all, and she’s distressed enough from early in the film until the final frames to have next to no oxygen for an albeit short duration of the film, which is a bad thing in case you were wondering. Anytime something goes wrong, and believe me, the shit hits the fan (Murphy’s Law is in full, vibrant effect here), she goes into panic mode and can’t seem to keep her cool or maintain some semblance of self control, which again, is expected because she’s a…newb!On the other hand, Clooney’s Kowalski is the calm, cool professional. He maintains as much control as is feasible within the confines of their situation, but never overreacts or panics. He’s always cool, calm, collected, and does his absolute best to assist Stone and help calm her down at various points so she doesn’t use up all her oxygen. I couldn’t help but notice at a later point in the film, when Kowalski gives a motivational push to Stone, that George Clooney has possibly the most soothing male voice I’ve ever heard from a mainstream Hollywood actor. After the rigorous endurance test that is the early portion of Gravity, he actually calmed me down with his inspirational words of wisdom, I shit you not. In three noteworthy moments I don’t want to spoil for anyone who might not have sen Gravity, both actors, with little dialogue and very little of their faces available for our viewing pleasure, convey melancholic aspects of themselves without diving headfirst into sentimentality. These moments feel genuine and organically constructed, never once ringing falsely, and thus constructing raw moments of compassion we feel for their respective characters.

A hot topic surrounding the film has been the scientific accuracy of the picture, with everything from zero gravity to deceleration being scrutinized by the general public (why are people who know nothing about space given the time of day?), along with astronauts and Astrophysicist Neil DeGrasse Tyson. Tyson, after his viewing of the film, took to twitter to debunk some of the film’s key aspects, some of which were scientifically accurate, and some of which were simply movie mumbo-jumbo. The film’s director, Alfonso Cuarón, as stated that he is aware the film is not always scientifically accurate, but that these inaccuracies were necessary for the sake of the story. That’s something I can abide by.

As a whole, sure, Gravity has zip for a story. Nada, nothing, right?. But sometimes, watching a film isn’t about whether you’re sucked in by the story or not, but how the film affects you on a visceral, deeply psychological and emotional level. Sometimes, the best films don’t require the brains to navigate through overlong dialogues and meticulously crafted story lines, but rather, the sight to bear witness to the greatness being displayed before your very eyes. But a great film can’t be measured by such things, even though I’ve taken the time to acknowledge them. That’s what I love about cinema, it’s not about how great the story was, or how terrifically riveting the performances were, or how the special effects looked or the way the music rings through your ears. No, a great film is measured by how it makes you feel deep down in those places you don’t talk about at parties. A great film is measured by how deep it reaches you. How deeply it hits you square in the gut like a shotgun blast at point blank range, or how it sinks into the furthest recesses of your heart and makes you long for its company. Or how intimately it affects your mind, and resurrects your love for fine filmmaking. A great film can push the world and all its complications to the side, put you at ease, and take the time to entertain the living shit out of you, if only for a short time.

In Gravity’s case, it took just one incredible moment in a tremendous motion picture to make my jaw hit the floor with its beautifully rendered view of the Earth and the astronauts working near it.

And I’ve gotta admit one thing: can’t beat the view.

One look at David E. Durston and one might guess that he would be the least likely person to have directed one of the most genuinely shocking horror films of the 1970’s, and one brief glance at the truly ridiculous synopsis for his crowning cinematic achievement, I DRINK YOUR BLOOD, might cause one to anticipate that the sum will not indeed be greater than its parts. Billed during its time alongside I EAT YOUR SKIN, a voodoo cheapie straight out of the 60’s, this is the sort of film that we only think we know going in, although most viewers will soon discover that this is not the case. This is a curio and a half, an invigorating subversion of genre filmmaking that is as delightfully demented as it is thoroughly engaging. It wears its sleaze on its sleeves, devoid of any real pretentions; all thrills and chills with little time for filler.

We open on a naked fireside ritual being held somewhere in the woods amongst a group of hippies with a penchant for the dark arts, led by the exotic Horace Bones (Bhaskar, an Indian performance artist). They kill a chicken and drain its blood into a goblet before spotting a local girl (Iris Brooks) sneaking a peek at the action from between some trees, who is then chased down and raped by a couple of their men. Devastated, she drags herself back into the sleepy town of Sally Hills the next morning, where she’s taken into the care of her kid brother Pete (Riley Mills) and the owner of the town bakery, Mildred (Elizabeth Marner-Brooks). Her grandfather comes over to check on the poor girl and decides that these rowdy characters must be dealt with immediately.

Meanwhile, the Manson-esque cult makes themselves at home in one of the town’s many abandoned hotels, where they run rampant hunting rats and destroying what’s left of the furniture. The grandfather grabs his shotgun and heads out the door in search of the group, but when he finds them, they take him down and he is force-fed LSD before returning home. Unable to stand by whilst his grandpa is in the throes of a bad trip, Pete takes the gun and goes out into the woods to do some snooping of his own. While exploring the woodland, Pete spots a rabid dog that charges at him, but he’s quick to shoot and after killing the wild animal, he takes some of its blood in a syringe. And what, do you imagine, he does with it? Why, what any other reasonable young fellow would – meaning that he injects the blood into some meat pies back at the bakery, which are then sold to the hippies.

Everyone but Andy (Tyde Kierney), the suspicious and insecure local kid who somehow got mixed up in the group’s nasty business, digs in to the pies and you can probably – emphasis on PROBABLY – imagine where it’s going from there. What ensues is nothing short of sheer lunacy. Psychopathic – not to mention hydrophobic – hippies running rabid around a US ghost town, foaming at the mouth and spreading their disease far and wide. Durston goes all the way, trying his damned hardest to offend as many parties as he possibly can – religious folks, animal lovers, anyone with the tiniest glimmer of hope in the Good Old American Way – and he gets the job done with a more genuine style and class than one might expect.

Jacques Demarecaux’s work here (as cinematographer) should be commended, certainly more than it has been in the past, with his ethereal and startlingly naturalistic compositions complementing the film’s shamelessly nasty contents. Sometimes, filthy movies are shot beautifully, and this is one of them. However, it’s Durston’s willingness to manipulate tone and audience expectations that makes this a significant cut above the rest and it’s interesting to note that it doesn’t immediately register as a dark comedy for most viewers. This nevertheless appears to be the intention, or so the unforgettably over-the-top dialogue (“Let it be known, sons and daughters, that Satan was an acid head!”) and performances, totally psyched-out self-aware soundtrack (credited to Clay Pitts, who has yet to be found), blatant disregard for scientific fact and frequently amusing editing would suggest.

Sure, it all seems quite mean-spirited, but deep down it is the work of a man whose roots and interests were not necessarily in the macabre, and whose sole desire is to entertain. The tonal shifts may prove to be a bit much for some, alternating between hysterical hippie hangout and sad, disturbing body horror once the pies have been consumed, but they are undoubtedly what make up the film’s distinctive identity. For all their inherent crassness, one feels something akin to sympathy for the deadly deadbeats by the end of their separate ordeals, although it’s understood that they’ve made their own problems up to this point. As hard as it is to watch them destroy one-another, it does make for some spectacular set pieces, such as a sequence which has a mute Lynn Lowry wielding an electric meat carver, and another where Horace squares off against a fellow rabid Satanist, Rollo (George Patterson) in an axe-sword fight. There are many others, but one should embrace all the secrets and ask questions later.

The residents of Sally Hills are like lost souls occupying a space where time does not apply. Mildred looks as if she’s just walked off the set of a porno film, Pete’s an overly moralistic little shit who is most likely based on Durston himself, and the construction workers are an ugly bunch who show their true colors once the epidemic is well underway. A kind of hazy ambience hangs over the film, infusing it with a surreal sense of danger which in turn ensures that it never feels too relaxed. There is authentic tension here, and the pacing could not be more perfect; as mentioned before, there’s little time left for wandering around aimlessly. This is a spectacular entertainment as well as a surprisingly transcendent one and there even seems to be a running commentary about the deconstruction of the American Dream, but perhaps that’s all just as a result of context. It’s nothing that is explored in great detail, but these are the kinds of themes that can make or break a movie like this just by showing up (or not).

We feel as if we’re seeing something we shouldn’t, and the emotions that such an experience arouses from deep within are conflicting to say the least, but healthy nevertheless. The grime oozes consistently from this one – reach out and touch it and you might just learn something. I DRINK YOUR BLOOD revels in its absurdism and artifice, playing more like a perverted piece of performance art than a silver screen serenade, and also works well as an invaluable time capsule. Some films skate by on that alone, but luckily Durston’s opus has plenty more going for it. This is quintessential viewing for the insane, the unstable, and the amoral; it may be the closest some come to sheer filth without actually involving themselves directly. The title may be misleading, as there is no drinking of the liquid red at any point and this is certainly no vampire tale, but make no mistake – this is a groovy good time, an important entry in the unofficial “psych” horror sub-genre that is less about mind-melting visuals and more about the essence of psychedelia. Exploitation cinema doesn’t get much better. “Drink from his cup, pledge yourselves. And together we’ll all freak out!”