By Ben Bussey
Hard to believe it’s almost eight years since Rodriguez and Tarantino released their ambitious double-feature Grindhouse in US cinemas to a staggering lack of success. Stranger still to think that a cinematic venture that was deemed a colossal failure on release has in fact proved so influential that we’re still feeling its echo the best part of a decade later. Whether this influence is so keenly felt by the mainstream is debatable, though, for while it may have spawned the two Machete movies, and the whole faux-vintage aesthetic may have caught on in advertising and music videos, Grindhouse surely made the biggest impact on the indie filmmaking scene. That combination of eye-catching titles, lo-fi stylistics and willfully outlandish (not to mention deliberately offensive) content has resulted in a slew of neo-grindhouse flicks, and – unlike QT & RR’s $50 million+ efforts – the vast majority of these have been made by fledgling filmmakers for the studio equivalent of pocket change. I don’t know about anyone else, but whenever I read a Hollywood trade report on Blumhouse which describes their output as ‘microbudget,’ I tend to spray coffee out of my nose and think, “good god, there are a few films I could show you…”
And a new film to add to that list is Holy Hell, debut of writer, director, editor and lead actor Ryan LaPlante, which looks to have been made for less than Kurt Russell’s Brylcreem budget on Death Proof. If the likes of Hobo With A Shotgun, Dear God No! and Nude Nuns With Big Guns left you cold, then it’s unlikely this one will do much for you either; but if you do have a taste for neo-grindhouse schtick, as well as a healthy appreciation for casual blasphemy, Troma-esque theatrics and droll psuedo-Dirty Harry one-liners, it may be right up your alley.
LaPlante is Father Augustus Bane, and he’s the sort of priest that once upon a time we imagined all priests to be: i.e., when he talks about God’s love, forgiveness, turning the other cheek and so forth, he actually means it. He’s Ned Flanders-esque in his perpetual optimism, even in the face of widespread crime on the streets, graffiti all over his church, and apathy from his miniscule congregation. It leaves one wondering just what it would take to dent his faith and send him over the edge – and, of course, we soon enough find out, as whether it’s God’s will or not, Bane is about to face a big test of faith, Job-style (heheh, ‘Big Job’). Visiting the home of the Bonners, a suburban family who fear for the soul of their rebellious daughter Amy (Alysa King), Bane suddenly finds himself in a hellish situation when the house is invaded by the MacFarlanes, a family of gun-toting, incestuous psychos motivated by nothing but their own homicidal mania. Soon enough all the Bonners have been shot, beaten and/or mutilated to death, with only Bane and a crippled, anally-raped Amy left barely alive. After a near-miraculous recovery, Bane sees the light, procures a gun, and sets off to go Old Testament on the MacFarlanes, and any other sinners who cross his path.
Again – if you’ve seen any of the aforementioned neo-grindhouse/rewindhouse flicks then you pretty much know the drill: insanely over-the-top villains who are as depraved as possible, whose absurdly gory acts of cruelty inspire an equally absurd and gory revenge. The thing is, the bar for such absurdity and cruelty has been set pretty high of late, meaning Holy Hell had to do at least one of two things to really stand apart – go even nastier, or even more ridiculous. I think it’s safe to say LaPlante and co attempted the latter option. While Holy Hell certainly isn’t low on content sure to upset the sensitive or prudish, there’s also a curious restraint on show; for example, while the initial home invasion sequence doesn’t shy away from showing some fairly extreme nastiness (I’ll avoid specifics to keep this spoiler-light), the rape of Amy occurs entirely off-camera. Indeed, sex in general is largely off the table, the few love scenes (if we can call them that) played in a comic manner by fully clothed actors, and the only brief nudity impaired by gaffer tape pasties. It’s curious how, while I wasn’t exactly won over by Dear God No! on release, I’ve since come to appreciate that it really is the finest example of modern grindhouse, because of how unabashedly it embraces the no-holds-barred, excess-all-areas ethic that defines grindhouse; if you’re going to go there plot-wise, you must also have the nerve to show everything in all its ugliness. Holy Hell aspires to such an approach, but ultimately doesn’t go all the way with it, meaning it can’t help but feel a little lightweight by comparison (though it is by no means the only neo-grindhouse flick guilty of this).
Having said all that, dependent on your sense of humour, Holy Hell still offers plenty to enjoy. As mentioned earlier it does feel very akin to a Troma movie, particularly with its garish costumes and make-up and grotesque caricatures; indeed, substitute Melvin the mop boy for Bane the wet behind the ears priest who is transformed into a bargain basement Charles Bronson rather than a massive super-powered mutant, and Holy Hell could more or less pass for a Toxic Avenger movie. If you enjoy that particular brand of excessively cartoonish, self-consciously stupid B-movie, then there’s no reason you won’t have fun here. And it certainly doesn’t hurt that LaPlante came up with so many endearingly old-school action hero one-liners for Bane to dryly intone before blowing away the sinners. Indeed, I can’t help suspecting the script may have begun with a list of one-liners which LaPlante proceeded to build scenes around… but whether that’s the case or not, he did a good job.
As grindhouse goes it may leave a little to be desired, but as a shoestring indie debut feature film goes, Holy Hell is a commendable effort, and we can but hope it’s the first of many from LaPlante and company.
No release details are set just yet for Holy Hell – learn more on the film’s Twitter and Facebook pages. Holy Hell (2015) – Red Band Trailer #1 from Holy Hell Production on Vimeo.