Archive: Author: Keri O'Shea

Hereditary (2018)

Posted on by Keri O'Shea

As we’ve seen countless times, the weight of expectation can be an ambiguous gift to a film, but it’s fair to say that few recent horrors have enjoyed such a steadily-building sense of anticipation as Hereditary (2018), which has been running tantalising trailers for the past few months. For one thing, the return of Toni Collette to the horror genre has been a boon – she really is a superb actress for this kind of thing – and for another, we seem to be enjoying a run of supernatural horror; it’s a welcome development for fans, some of whom may have felt somewhat starved of it in recent years. That said, the now-obligatory discussions about whether or not Hereditary is a horror film at all have proved to be a rather tedious add-on, unnecessary and bewildering for fans of the genre, who already know that it can do all of the sophisticated, multi-layered things which seem to come as such a surprise to others that they need to feel around for a new title for it every single time. I tried, as ever, to put all of this to the back of my mind ahead of seeing the film – which lo and behold, is as much of a horror film as I’ve ever seen in my life.

The resulting piece of work is undoubtedly very good, and would certainly merit a re-watch; the more I think about it, the more I’m certain I missed a few visual tics and cues which would benefit my appreciation of the film overall. I was also impressed by the fact that, despite using a number of very familiar elements, Hereditary managed to pull a few surprise shifts in direction out of the bag, referencing a range of ideas which are oddly underused in a genre forever looking for new, or at least relatively new terrain. But there are a few issues too, and a few elements and decisions which left me rather lukewarm.

The essence of the plot concerns family, and the rot which can set in within families. In effect, Hereditary is the horror film version of Philip Larkin’s ‘This Be The Verse’. We start with a eulogy: Annie Graham’s (Collette) mother has recently passed away after a long illness. Her death leaves a sense of absence, but – as made abundantly clear during Annie’s reading at the funeral – their relationship had long been troubled to the point of total breakdown, although mother Ellen had spent some time living with the Graham family before moving to a hospice. You quickly imagine how difficult that must have been. Painting a picture of her mother as a difficult, private woman, Collette captures that mangled sense of grief whereby you don’t feel as sad as you feel like you should.

For the Graham family then, husband Steve (Gabriel Byrne) and children, teenage son Peter (Alex Wolff) and daughter Charlie (Milly Shapiro) life goes on, but with an uneasy sense of unfinished business. For Charlie in particular, the shift in family dynamics seems to have hit hard, and the child takes to sleeping away from her bed, producing ever-more disturbing illustrations and fashioning her own, shall we say unorthodox toys. Increasingly though, what would be a completely ordinary sense of a domineering person being not-quite-gone seems to cede to something more sinister. Members of the family start to see things, hear things – and everything Annie attempts to do in order to restore peace to the family seems to unearth more and more trauma, steadily shifting our perspective away from straightforward grief to an altogether more malignant set of supernatural forces at play, threatening the family from within and without.

I’m deliberately keeping my plot synopsis brief and a little vague here, as the way in which Hereditary unfolds deserves to be appreciated with as open a mind as possible. It’s unlikely that I’m spoilering by relating to the supernatural elements, though, I hope; so, this is a supernatural horror through and through, where the afterlife is more of a parallel world than a one-way destination, and where its inmates can harbour very, very sinister designs on the living. I was pleasantly surprised to find myself surprised, I think. I’ve seen the film proudly described as ‘this generation’s Exorcist’, or words to that effect, but that seems an odd comparison to make, unless we’re painting in very broad strokes. It’s far closer to the malignity of The Witch, or indeed the assault-by-wicked-forces seen in Drag Me To Hell, though with less of the humour. Although, even Hereditary has its lighter moments. It lobs in a few bong jokes, and some of the family meltdowns grow so hysterical that they verge on black comedy, as do a few of the film’s shockingly graphic moments.

What Hereditary also has, to its detriment, is a rather large lull during its middle act which I really feel dissolved some of the initial impact of the earliest scenes. It’s a frequent complaint from me, but then it’s a frequent issue: Hereditary runs for over two hours. A good twenty or so minutes of that feels borderline redundant, even given the excellent performances on offer throughout the film, in particular from the eerie Milly Shapiro and Wolff as the contested, desperate Peter. This also means that, as the film moves into its raucous final act, it feels like a lurch, and also hurries through some of the film’s much-needed (and very creepy) exposition, when I would have liked to allow some of these tantalising scenes to rest on my eye for longer. The gear shift into more and more grisly fare will also rest uneasily with some viewers, though it would be rather fun to make a list of the goriest scenes from the film and ask certain people to defend why these constitute ‘elevated horror’ in Hereditary, but would be somehow beneath contempt in a mere ordeal horror…

Hereditary is not a film without fault, then, though on the whole I found it a well-wrought and engaging supernatural story, showcasing an incredible amount of confidence on the part of writer/director Ari Aster – who to date has only directed short films of a rather different stripe. He’s certainly reached for new ways to besiege the family here, blending supernatural and occult lore with loathsomely graphic set pieces, all culminating in an impressive meld of horror tropes. Incidentally, it’s also a pleasure to see a trailer which piques your interest without giving away the whole bloody story. See this in the cinema if you can.

Hereditary is on general release in the UK now.

Mountain of the Cannibal God (1978)

Posted on by Keri O'Shea

The cannibal movie cycle of the late Seventies and early Eighties will forever seem like a strange beast. Splicing stock footage of animals doing their thing with often garish animal cruelty, then layering in gore effects, nudity and any number of practices which would very likely fail to get past an ethics committee today, the resultant films are nonetheless compelling – in their own way. All of that said, I’m a product of my own social climate, and as such I’m very pleased that Shameless Films have openly made the decision to ‘soften’ (their term) the animal cruelty originally present in their brand new version of Mountain of the Cannibal God (1978), making the point that this footage benefits the film’s narrative none. Instead, they’ve worked to restore other missing scenes, offering the usual proviso that this means some of the splicing is bound to be noticeable. And it is, a little, but it’s all in the pursuit of a worthwhile cut of this film, and the end results are very good.

As for the film itself, see above: it opens with a lot of stock footage of animals, many of whom don’t actually live in Papua New Guinea where the film is set, such as orangutans (!) The film was actually shot in Sri Lanka; orangutans don’t live there either, but it’s all part of the spell these films seek to weave; shots upon shots of exotic or potentially dangerous creatures are used to establish that the story will unfold in a remote, hostile part of the world, even if the animals shown have never set foot in the film’s location. Another cannibal horror trope is to claim quasi-factual status, probably owing influences from the ‘Mondo’ cinema which emerged a decade or more before, and Mountain of the Cannibal God establishes its ‘based on real events’ shtick early on, too, with a screenful of text making such a boast. The plot of the story is itself quite straightforward, at least at first. Susan Stevenson (Ursula Andress) arrives in Guinea with her brother Arthur. Her husband has been carrying out some ethnographic research in the region, but he’s disappeared. As the officials who greet her are keen to point out, he lost contact some three months before; he’s bound to be a goner. But when she insists, they suggest she speaks to a local expert, Dr. Edward Foster (Stacy Keach), who might be able to help her find him.

Foster is fairly amenable to helping Susan, and it turns out he might even know where her husband has gone. It transpires that Mr Stevenson was last heard of travelling to a ‘cursed mountain’, because of course he bloody was. Foster even knows the place personally, and it’s a shame he admits that out loud, because Susan immediately asks him to organise a rescue mission with her as part of the party. Foster warns her that this prospective trek would be dangerous enough for a man, let alone a woman, but hold the hashtags folks; it turns out he’s completely right, and Susan is completely hopeless from the first second of the trip, doing nothing except allowing the men to bludgeon various animals to death when she gets too close to them. Still, the group of men, and one inert female mass, head into the interior…

A haze of ulterior motives, animal scenes and great music ensue. It’s my contention that the best-known cannibal movies have such superb music for this very reason, to offset everything less palatable in a kind of cinematic karma. And as the team approach the mountain, the locals (of course) show this disapproval in all of the ways you might imagine, as well as a few which are, to be fair, very creative and ambitious. On a restricted budget, Martino achieves impressive things here; a lot of the entertainment value of these films comes from smirking at the flaws, and that’s fine, but don’t let that make you overlook the many things which Martino does rather well. The ‘mountain god’ himself looks genuinely gruesome and repellent, and some of those restored gore scenes could still make you flinch.

In fact, for all the elements of this film and others of its ilk which will always stick in my craw, there’s a lot to love in Mountain of the Cannibal God: it’s lots better than I remember it, and much credit for this must go to Shameless for its judicious editing. It does have that sense of a remote locale, it keeps the action flowing reasonably well with few lulls and although Ms. Andress is rather an odd fit (though curious minds demand to know where she bought that jungle-proof mascara) she really ‘comes into her own’ in the film’s denouement, and not just because they get her to Undress. Mountain of the Cannibal God also boasts the most staggering scene of nonchalant cracker-eating that I’ve ever seen, and I don’t mean ‘cracker’ as in ‘stupid white people getting eaten by cannibals’, either. Although granted, there’s some of that too.

It’s less tit-piercingly nasty than its successors, but Mountain of the Cannibal God is still graphic and baffling (pig at an orgy?) in the ways that all bona fide cannibal horrors are. There are also a few unexpected twists along the way. I saw a different print of this many years ago and didn’t find the film all that diverting, honestly, but Shameless have done an excellent job here making the film as cohesive as possible whilst also making it look superb.

Mountain of the Cannibal God is available on Blu-ray now from Shameless Films. 

 

Bloodthirsty Trilogy

Posted on by Keri O'Shea

Inspired by the success of Hammer’s lurid horror cinema in the 1960s, the ever-versatile Toho Studios made a sound business decision to make some vampire films of their own. Whilst there is a modest array of films based specifically on Far Eastern vampire lore, the productions overseen by director Michio Yamamoto are rather different, blending Western tropes with a decidedly more Japanese spin on the folklore. The resulting projects, on offer here as part of one package released by Arrow Films, are an aesthetically-pleasing blend of whimsy and clever ideas, and would certainly be of interest to anyone with a fancy for seeing how world cinema does it.

Happily, Japan can do Gothic; it has its own windswept, desolate roads and even remote mansions built in the once-stylish Western mode. In The Vampire Doll (1970), a young man, Sagawa, is on his way to visit his girlfriend Yuko in one of said mansions – a curious place, where kimonos and gilded frames somehow share the same shots. However, upon his arrival he’s told by Yuko’s kimono-wearing mother that, since Sagawa’s last communication with his beloved, she has passed away. Sad and shocked, Sagawa is invited to spend the night: it’s hopefully not too much of a spoiler to say here that the house is not all it seems…and shortly afterwards, Sagawa’s worried sister and her boyfriend are on his trail, so they make their own way to the mansion, where they must try to work out what’s going on.

In Lake of Dracula, made a little later (1971), there’s an additional sense of confidence on display, as showcased by the musical score as well as more and more appreciation for Japan’s landscapes, which seem more prominent here. There are also some stupendous settings: the deserted house, although it predates the latter, reminded me strongly of John Badham’s Dracula (which is high praise from me) and shows us that the Gothic horror staple of the creepy (Western) manor house is an integral part of this horror. This film follows the fate of Akiko, who had a very creepy dream as a child that she followed her dog into – you’ve guessed it – a dilapidated stately home, where she encountered a vampire. However, as an adult, she is made to doubt that it was a dream after all when a coffin is delivered to a friend of hers. At first the coffin contains…something, but after her friend returns from lodging a complaint with the delivery company, it’s empty, and the friend, Kusaku, is in trouble. Vampirism has arrived, aided and abetted before long by Kusaku (now operating as a kind of Renfield character) and it gradually closes in on Akiko – though the links to the most famous Dracula mentioned in the film’s title are spurious to say the least.

Finally, the third to be filmed (though second to be released) is Evil of Dracula: it’s not the most thought-provoking title, and this is perhaps the weakest of the films on the whole – though, if you enjoyed Shin Kishida as the vampire in Lake of Dracula, then you might enjoy seeing him doing a little more than playing a monster here. On the contrary, he’s gone and got himself a job by this point, working as a Principal in a girls’ school. When new teacher Shiraki arrives to take his post, he’s nonplussed by his oddball colleagues – and the small cohort of students who seem to be particularly unfortunate with mortality figures. After seeing more than he can feasibly declare ‘a bad dream’, Shiraki joins forces with the local doctor/folklore expert who tells him that there’s been something odd going on in these parts for some time…

The plot formulas are pretty standard, all told, and don’t look all that much written down, so perhaps it’s best to focus on the quirks and many positives on offer here. Aesthetically, The Vampire Doll probably boasts some of the most effective scenes, with Yoko in particular doing a star turn as both frail and frightening, although The Lake of Dracula is no slouch, with some beautifully-framed scenes and innovative music of its own. There’s a bit of proto-splatter in these films too, which doubtlessly had an influence on Japanese filmmakers growing up at this time (I’d hazard a guess that Hisayasu Satô might have seen these) and where the films meld 70s-era clothes and technology with the more ‘timeless’ aspects of vampires, I’d say they do a better job than Hammer did when it tried to go contemporary in some of its later films. You might take issue with the gratuitous use of roll-necks, but I did not. The films are overall well-paced too – not abrupt and not languid, allowing a pleasing atmosphere to develop, even if what you’re seeing unfold feels somehow familiar to you.

In terms of the cultural melding of East and West, there are some aspects of this to ponder, as well as interesting rationales for the emergence of vampires which are interesting, looking quite different to those in European films (but with similarities too: vampire women love a nice white gown). I rather like the golden eyes which the vampire characters have, too, even if you can’t help but wonder if they ran with that idea once they’d thought of it. However, I don’t think there are massively poignant cultural messages here, not really; there is an explanation in Evil of Dracula for how said count’s influence made its way to Japan, but the Japanese always seem rather relaxed about this kind of detail, and whilst you could ponder the presence of Western houses etc. as having more to say, equally you could just enjoy the spectacle on offer. If there’s one thing I found particularly interesting, it’s the use of hypnotism in the films’ plots; the development of this theme has a lot more in common with Poe than Mesmer himself, and it makes for some interesting denouements.

This being Arrow, they have as ever lined up an array of decent extras on The Bloodthirsty Trilogy, which by the way looks phenomenal on Blu-ray; I looked at some of the trailers on Youtube ahead of time, and the difference between the old prints and this new one is vast. Kim Newman offers his take on the films in a new appraisal, there’s an array of stills and trailers, reversible sleeve art, and if you get the first pressing you get some new writing by Japanese film expert Jasper Sharp in a special collector’s booklet. Essentially, I say this every time I review an Arrow package, but as this is their way of keeping physical releasing alive, then they deserve this kind of regular appreciation.

The Bloodthirsty Trilogy is available now from Arrow Films. For more information, click here.

I Spit on Your Grave by David Maguire

Posted on by Keri O'Shea

More and more these days, we’re seeing academic studies of what is often regarded as genre cinema; this ties in with the rise and rise of film studies more generally, with horror finally being regularly recognised and brought into the fold. In the past few months alone, for instance, I’ve reviewed books on The Shining, Don’t Look Now, A Company of Wolves and The Grudge. Given the origins of some of the films now receiving this treatment, you can only imagine just how far this new scholarly interest must be from anything the filmmakers ever imagined at the time, and where I Spit on Your Grave director Meir Zarchi is concerned, his film’s journey from execrable to esteemed has taken a very steep arc. Still, at their best these kinds of focused cinematic studies can successfully contextualise and hopefully interrogate notorious movies – which was my hope for David Maguire’s monograph on Zarchi’s 1978 film (hereafter known as ISOYG). As an additional tester, and one of the reasons I requested a review copy of the book, I’m by no means a fan of ISOYG; I was interested to see if the book would address any of the issues I have with the film overall and/or bring me around to its merits. Happily, this is the case.

A slim volume of 140 pages altogether (including notes, filmography and bibliography), the book starts very promisingly. Making a firm case for the film’s uniqueness and the ‘pared down’ qualities which have been embellished (read: spoiled) in most of the subsequent entrants into the rape/revenge canon, Maguire then gets into the relevant history of 1970s and 80s America. The US at the time was immersed in significant changes to legislature and social movements impacting upon women’s rights, which can be seen to have led to male anxieties in response to their own shifting, jeopardised roles, which culminated in backlash. In this section, Maguire suggests that this spirit of backlash found expression in contemporary cinema; I’d agree with some of the examples he offers, but not with others (the human ‘meat’ in Texas Chainsaw Massacre does not for me represent anything significant about women, and conflating it with the infamous Hustler Magazine ‘meat’ cover doesn’t follow for me). Still, a rundown of the films which were released very close in time to ISOYG does indeed demonstrate that there was a cinematic seam of subjugated and abused women, which is interesting context.

Maguire then documents the history of the making of and release of ISOYG; happily, he pulls no punches here, noting the large disconnect between Zarchi’s professed noble intentions and the marketing of the film itself (though noting that bad publicity is still publicity, with the likes of Roger Ebert and the BBFC cementing the film’s reputation in ways which neither Zarchi nor Jerry Gross could have ever done. Oh, and whilst detailing the film’s retitling and releases in other countries, Maguire gives us the fun fact that in Ecuador ISOYG was renamed Suspiria 2: Killer Sharks, in a bold attempt to trade off both Argento’s original and the success of Jaws, and no doubt leading to many confused and disappointed viewers.

The debate set up in the chapter entitled ‘Filth or Feminism?’ covers engaging analysis of the film, balancing description of its defiantly non-salacious scenes against, again refreshingly, questions about Zarchi’s professed motivations and decision-making. For example, why did he say that Camille Keaton’s “slim delicate figure and […] soft ethereal beauty” made her so suitable for the character of Jennifer Hills? Maguire notes that rape/revenge films still opt for young, beautiful female characters, so it’s a valid concern here. Maguire also interrogates Zarchi’s claims of naivety over how the film would be received, given that he had courted controversy before.

In looking at the wealth of critical response between 1978 and the present, I was actually pleased to read about how Stephen R. Monroe (director of the first ISOYG remake) took issues with a key plot element in the original; that is, how a gang-raped woman uses consensual sex as part of her vengeance. That, far more than the notorious 25 minute attack scene, is the one which has always given me conniptions; having announced my bias, I’ll say that this section of the book is probably the most frank and revealing for me. Where Maguire reaches further, citing influences from mythology on the characters, setting and themes of ISOYG, I confess to being curious rather than wholly convinced – but then again, some of the women in rape/revenge films seem to acquire quasi-supernatural powers before they seek their revenge, which is itself every bit as unrealistic as Keaton’s Jennifer Hills going on her seduction drive in the original film.

The book follows with exhaustive research into the legacy of ISOYG. There are some genuine surprises here as Maguire identifies a number of very thematically similar films which have emerged since the ‘Ground Zero’ of the genre got its release (including a spoof?!) and then there’s a good long look at the merits and demerits of the remake/subsequent-to-the-remake films, which can be seen as a franchise. He’s very fair, offers a number of well-argued points in defence of ISOYG (2010) and goes some way to dispel what has turned into a dichotomy between original and remake: first film good, remake bad. He is, though, far less kind to the 2013 sequel, a film I cannot comment on as I avoided it like the plague…

As a worst-case scenario, this book could have been a very dry, very pompous meta-analysis of ISOYG which used lots of words to say little. Instead, I’ve been very pleasantly surprised. Maguire comes across as bright and personable, clever and focused without ever wallowing in jargon, and perhaps most importantly of all, aware that ISOYG is not a perfect film whilst still eminently worth of a closer look. A well-written piece of work, the book could easily reward fans as much as students and it’s well worth a place on the shelf. Now, we wait to see if Zarchi’s long-awaited official sequel to ISOYG actually does land this year…

I Spit on Your Grave by David Maguire is available now as part of the ‘Cultographies’ series from Wallflower Press.

“Most contemporary films leave me cold”: Interview with director Alex Bakshaev

Posted on by Keri O'Shea

A few years ago, the site (in its old incarnation) was approached with an indie film which looked decidedly different to most films we receive; this turned out to be abundantly and delightfully the case. Whilst we do get a fair range of styles and genres, The Devil of Kreuzberg was a revelation: it’s rather unusual for directors to reference the Gothic so heavily in their publicity these days, but Alex Bakshaev did just that, and the film delivered – with a Europhile approach which really could have been a lost reel from the 1970s. After reviewing Alex’s second film (S&M: Les Sadiques) recently, I decided I had to ask this filmmaker about his very distinctive style and approach.

Warped Perspective: Hi, Alex – thank you for talking to us! The first thing I want to ask you relates to probably the most self-evident feature of your work: your filmmaking style is very unusual when compared with most of the indie cinema we receive. Is this a deliberate decision on your part – to sidestep the zeitgeist?

Alex Bakshaev: I try to make the kind of films that I myself would enjoy watching. Unfortunately, most contemporary films leave me cold. That’s why I hardly ever go to the cinema anymore (unless it’s a midnight screening of some classic). So yeah, perhaps I’m influenced by older films to a greater extent than other contemporary indie filmmakers. 

WP:You are openly influenced by directors such as Jean Rollin (The Devil of Kreuzberg seems very Rollin to me) and of course Jess Franco, who is clearly an inspiration for Les Sadiques. Tell me a little about your influences, and how you got into these directors’ work. Do you have favourite films in mind, which impact upon your own films? 

AB: Oh, Jean Rollin was a revelation! I’d read a review of Grapes of Death on some website, around 2002. The screenshots looked promising, so I got me a bootleg copy on VHS and loved it. Grapes of Death and Night of the Hunted are my favourite Rollin films. The Iron Rose is another important film. It doesn’t really work as a narrative, but you can learn so much about cinematography from that unique work.

While I embraced Rollin instantly, getting into Franco took a while longer. I can’t quite remember which my very first Jess Franco experience was. It was around the same time as Jean Rollin, again on pirate VHS. It may have been Mari-Cookie and the Killer Tarantula (1998), or Cannibals(1980) with Al Cliver. Neither one is an easy film for a newcomer! It took me some three-four years of frustration to ‘get’ Franco’s cinema. I really started appreciating and obsessing over his work after having seen Exorcism (1974) and Eugenie De Sade (1971) with Soledad Miranda. These films have resonated with me, and have also prompted me to try my hand at more erotic themes. I’ve had the idea of making a film along the lines of Eugenie de Sade for a number of years.  I got the opportunity to make that happen in 2016 with S&M: Les Sadiques. My original screenplay was even more closely modelled on Franco’s film, but got altered down the road due to budget restrictions. So yes, my films are very influenced by Rollin and Franco.

WP: How do you create your distinctive atmosphere on screen? I know that you work on a tight budget, your second film even more than your first, but you achieve a great deal with the resources available to you. How tricky is it to do this?

AB: These days I’m more and more drawn to music as a means of storytelling. If you cut the excessively talky scenes and make sure the score and the images bounce off each other, it’s hard to mess up the rest too badly. These are the lessons I’ve learned from Don Coscarelli, Jean Rollin, Jess Franco, Lucio Fulci and my other idols.

WP: You have so far used very strong female characters in your films, in particular Sandra Bourdonnec, who works brilliantly well in both of your films. Was this a deliberate decision? How difficult or easy has it been to recruit the right actors for the roles? 

AB: Yes, it’s been a deliberate tactic on my part. Many potentially amazing films have been ruined due to female characters being represented as not having a will of their own, subordinate to males. No amount of beautiful editing or plot twists can atone for that. So in my own work I’m going in the opposite direction, with often un-heroic males and bold, superior females. As for recruiting the actors, this has been down to blind luck. I don’t have the money or clout to pick and choose, to organize proper castings. So I take chances. In some cases, I’ve had amazing luck with actors; in others, less so.

WP: What have you learned so far about getting your films made, which you wish you had known at the start?

AB: The main thing I’ve learned is that I have no clue how to make films! No matter how well-prepared I ever thought I was, it was not nearly enough. Neither did I realise just how saturated the market is! There are more no-budget films out there than there are viewers. So, in a way, ignorance is bliss. Had I been aware of this beforehand, I would have been too intimidated to ever venture into filmmaking. I enjoy every aspect of the filmmaking process. I tend to either carry out the writing, camera and editing duties myself or supervise them very closely. So I do learn a lot of technical stuff on every film, but it’s not nearly enough. I’m still learning!

 WP: And finally, what are your aspirations for the future? Do you have any plans for future films at present?

I don’t have any new films planned right now [Keri starts trying to subliminally influence Alex to make a new version of Venus in Furs…]

WP: That’s a shame, but I very much hope that changes in future. Thank you so much for your time, Alex!

AB: Thanks a lot for giving me the chance to talk about my work, Keri!

 

“Men sometimes have strange motives”: Witchfinder General at 50

Posted on by Keri O'Shea

Times of great uncertainty and bloodshed have always seemed to bolster paranoia and irrational thought. Change offers to dispose of the unconscionable practices of the past, but even as old beliefs and practices are on the verge of being swept away, people still to seek them out, retreating into watchful suggestibility any time the pace of change progresses too quickly. You might like to name any number of examples from history, but in terms of the English Civil War – which provides our context here – a countrywide dispute over governance, supported by new warfare and weaponry, continued to cast a long shadow, and people did not simply forget what had gone before; far from it. Suspicions over one’s neighbours were still framed by supernatural suspicions, or at least framed in compelling supernatural language; in a similar way to today, where people gloss over the complex, uncomfortable truths to look instead for clues about conspiracies, the people of the mid-17th Century accused one another of witchcraft. Discerning opportunists, like the ‘Witchfinder General’, Matthew Hopkins, were all too willing to exploit this.

Hopkins, a notorious figure in his own lifetime, successfully combined the contemporary spirit of enterprise with the old beliefs in pacts with the devil, turning a lucrative trade with a regimented programme which extracted confessions of witchcraft. Little is known of his origins, save where he was born and to whom, but as the son of a Puritan minister he may well have been a believer in the power of Satan to mislead and menace (albeit it’s always seemed odd that Old Scratch did so in such typically low-key ways). But, if Hopkins was pious enough to believe in witchcraft, then he was not such a Christian when it came to poverty and charity, and detecting witches – often with sadistic methods – was a real money-spinner for him. Hopkins was not idle, and he was not cheap. He executed more witches during his brief career than England had dispatched in the previous 160 years, and demanded so much money for doing so that he cost a single town over £3000 in modern money in ‘costs’. Whilst his rapidly-generated wealth couldn’t insulate him from illness and premature death (it’s believed he was dead of tuberculosis by 30), it’s clear to see why his short, hectic career has proved a source of inspiration for literature – and film. In 1968, based on a novel by Ronald Bassett, director Michael Reeves and the head of Tigon Films, Tony Tenser, worked together on a screenplay and script. After a protracted battle with the BBFC over the film’s ‘sadism’, shooting began in England in the autumn. This was itself the start of a turbulent and uneasy process, but the end result has given us one of the seminal horror films of the twentieth century.

“You took him from me!”

The plot sticks with the turmoil of civil war for its context, and presents us the implications of witch-hunting in microcosm, focusing largely on how the arrival of the now-named Witchfinder General impacts upon one family. Hopkins (Vincent Price) and his assistant Stearne (Robert Russell) are moving from place to place in the English countryside, fuelling intolerance and aggression as they go; meanwhile, a roundhead soldier named Richard Marshall (Ian Ogilvy) is all too aware of the potential risk of Hopkins’ presence, and struggles to balance his duties as a soldier against his desire to keep his fiancée Sarah (Hilary Dwyer) safe from harm. He is utterly unable to do this, ultimately, and finds himself mired in a bitter power struggle against Stearne and Hopkins, vowing vengeance against Hopkins for the torments he goes on to inflict against Sarah and her father.

This, as a plot synopsis, looks oddly thin on the page – but the film’s all-encompassing atmosphere, together with its sense of dread purpose and inescapability, fleshes out its storyline to an unbearable point. Those drab, indifferent landscapes and the marching lines of men all seem to crowd inwards as the plot progresses, whilst the systematic dismantling of the happy future Marshall once anticipated has the power to engender great anger. Ogilvy’s rage that he cannot fully sate his desire for bloody revenge upon Hopkins calls oddly to our sympathy as an audience; he is frozen forever in his moment of supreme frustration, and whilst we do not see what happens to him next, the way in which he is overwhelmed by bigger social and political forces confronts us with the distasteful impression that all rebellion is ineffectual. The young man’s life is effectively over at that moment; we leave the story to the soundtrack of one of the great cinematic screams.

The troubled making of the film is as notorious as the events of the film itself, and much has been made of Michael Reeves’ fury at the studio pressure which forced him to cast Vincent Price in his lead role. It’s well-documented that he was rude and dismissive of Price, whilst Price remembered the experience of making Witchfinder General as the only time he ever really clashed with a director. I can see why Reeves was wary of casting Price, as he was hardly known for the type of film which the younger man was setting out to make, though some of the heated exchanges between them are hardly defensible – but Price’s acknowledged disillusionment with the film lends him a miserable gravitas in-role which is note-perfect. Many of the film’s sinister attributes come directly from Vincent Price’s performance, although the supporting cast are superb. I also feel that the casting of a much older man than the real Hopkins would have been works to the film’s advantage. Price is able to bring a rather jaded, menacing presence to the film, and he acts as a perfect foil for Ogilvy, the young career soldier. The two men are the embodiment of the old and the new, and on screen, the effect is mesmerising. Price himself, once safely back in the California sunshine, was able to acknowledge that Witchfinder General’s troubled birth had in fact led to one of his best-ever performances, and, ever the gentleman, he wrote to Reeves to say so.

“Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips” – the influence and legacy of the film

Perhaps predictably, the film was decried for its gruesome “sadism” upon release, even though many of the bloodier elements had been rinsed from the screenplay at the BBFC’s behest before filming even took place. It’s always strange to consider those people who are outraged by the inclusion of grisly scenes which perfectly match the subject matter (and have usually been cleaned up considerably; I’d imagine the real battle of Naseby was worse than anything Reeves could have got on screen). As with the recent, predictable flounce-outs from the new Lars von Trier film in Cannes, you wonder what on earth people expect, or why they go to see anything which they must guess won’t be at all to their tastes.

Longer term, however, audiences began to re-assess, identifying the strengths and the bold decisions, eventually seeing Witchfinder General for the striking, innovative addition to the horror canon which it is. This has taken time, but its reputation is now cemented, and it’s often included on lists of the best horror films of all time. Funnily though, one of its earliest successes was to reinvigorate Edgar Allan Poe as a source of cinematic inspiration, despite Reeves’ original screenplay having nothing to do with Poe whatsoever. AIP, who had part-budgeted the film (and insisted on their most bankable star getting the lead role) re-released it in the US under a different title, ‘The Conqueror Worm’, which is a line from a Poe verse which the author embedded into one of his short stories, Ligeia. To justify the rebrand, the new version of the film was bookended by verses from the poem, though there were no other additions. This new title hardly set the world ablaze on its release, but overall, Reeves’ film led to a minor resurgence in Poe adaptations, including The Oblong Box: it’s not as gaudy or glorious as The Masque of the Red Death, but it’s certainly worthwhile.

In terms of an English cinematic legacy, Witchfinder General has come to be widely-credited for its influence on what’s now broadly referred to as ‘folk horror’: this is a very broad church overall, but one which often derives its terrors from landscape, seclusion and the pesky resurgence of old gods. Whilst Witchfinder General’s relationship with the supernatural is rather minimal, positioning its witchcraft as a bludgeoning tool of exploitation and repression used by the powerful, its trials and burnings take place in a rural 17th century setting which seems primed for sinister events, offering contrast and incongruity whilst exploring a period in time when fervent Christian belief was meant to be at its apex. If the society of Witchfinder General needlessly burned its witches, then Blood on Satan’s Claw, with its slightly later setting, goes a step further by ploughing up a real devil for people to worship. The thread of sinister communities and historical unreason started in 1968, travelled to Europe in films such as Mark of the Devil, and in the years since, a resurgent interest in these folk horrors has led to modern-day films like A Field in England (2013), also set during the English Civil War. Its characters could almost be contemporary with the characters in Michael Reeves’ film.

Hopkins has even made his way into pop culture, from Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman’s Good Omens to TV comedy (via an affectionate pastiche called Scream Satan Scream! in Doctor Terrible’s House of Horrible) and even music: the genre of doom metal has an especial soft spot for the ol’ Witchfinder, naming bands, EPs and songs for him. Many metal fans first heard Vincent Price speak as Hopkins in a certain Cathedral song, years before they actually saw the film…

It’s a shame, or at least I personally think it is, that we never got to see Udo Kier playing Hopkins in his redacted scenes from Rob Zombie’s Lords of Salem – but, now that director Nicolas Winding Refn has purchased the rights to Witchfinder General, we may in future see a new incarnation of Hopkins which is a long way from what Reeves ever envisioned (and no doubt a long way from anything Zombie/Kier had in mind, either). We can be cautiously optimistic about any future developments from Refn, I think, as he’s a talented, distinctive filmmaker who would respect the film’s legacy. But until then, fifty years after its inception, Witchfinder General remains a singularly English chapter in horror. It’s brutal, it’s influential, and in overarching meanness of spirit, it’s a horror film which is still quite unparalleled today.

Devil’s Advocates: The Shining by Laura Mee

Posted on by Keri O'Shea

Whatever the situation was immediately following its release, no single horror film in history seems to have attracted such a proliferating amount of critical commentary as The Shining. And, few films have lent themselves to so much of what many lay viewers would see as frankly barmy analysis; okay, if you’ve ever watched a certain documentary called Room 237, then you’ll know exactly what I mean, and afterwards you might have felt less that you’ve been asked to consider various ‘explanations’ of the film and more that you’ve been up close and personal with delusion. Still, The Shining is a film which can withstand a certain amount of this kind of thing, and if it can sustain being reinterpreted as a metaphor about the Greek myth of the labyrinth with Jack as the Minotaur, then it can handle being critically reinterpreted in a broader sense, as part of the ongoing Devil’s Advocates series. I’ve reviewed several of these titles before: overall, these books strike a good, readable balance between academia and general interest, albeit that academic studies often tread some familiar paths in their analyses. Here, author Laura Mee is up for the task of assessing and discussing this landmark horror film, though one which has often been seen as a cold imposter to the genre, and remains a contested piece of work.

A neat synopsis of the film is straight away linked to the film’s peculiar qualities, in particular the deep sense of unease it often generates. This unease is one of the film’s most striking features, and it is created in a range of diverse ways, though the book starts with the most obvious building-blocks: the colour palette, the interiors and the distinctive camerawork, for example. Adding further detail about the project’s background, Mee elaborates on the interesting process behind Kubrick choosing to adapt the original novel, and the ways that, almost from the first moments, this led to issues for the director.

By electing to make a horror film, Kubrick began to labour under a dual weight of expectations – the heavy burden of auteur theory on one hand, and presuppositions about what constitutes a horror film on the other. As a director whose diverse work had already attracted critical interest and a reputation for lofty symbolism, amongst other things, there was a certain discouraging babble around his decision to make The Shining, a project which didn’t at first seem to reward viewers in a straightforward way. (Earlier on in the book, Mee also mentions a number of academic film writers who have had difficulties with the content of The Shining, though bearing in mind that this difficulty is not typically shared by fans.) If this book has one key strength, then it’s how the author successfully defends Kubrick’s vision – not as something frustrated by outside forces or in any ways a misfire, but as a very deliberately constructed story, sustaining its elements of the Uncanny, black humour, garish aesthetics and overblown characterisation to artful effect.

In order to do this, Mee also spends time rebuffing a few of the main rumours that continue to swirl around with regards to Stephen King, author of The Shining (novel), and vocal, documented critic of Kubrick’s adaptation. Now, given the way that today’s Stephen King devotes so much time online to criticising everything and anything he dislikes, it seems less of a big deal; however, his complaints about Kubrick’s film are notorious, and have long been potentially damaging: can there be anything worse than having the originator of the story disown your version?

Not only does Mee debunk a lot of King’s strident criticisms of the film by offering recorded evidence which suggests that he, at least initially, really liked the film, but she goes deeper than this and makes an excellent case for judging an adaptation as far as possible on its own merits, rather than seeing it as ‘too different’ from the source material. There’s a fascinating section on what was left out between novel and screenplay and why, with supporting material from Kubrick’s own notebooks. It also seems relevant to note that Kubrick was not the first nor the last to omit or limit King’s more insalubrious sexual content from his screenplay, and for good reason: IT (2017) also springs to mind here. Ultimately, the films are not the books, and it is successfully argued here that transformative decisions are made for good reasons.

Other sections of the book opt for a more tried-and-tested approach and analyse the themes and plot of the film along the lines of viewing the film, variously, as an assault on family, a study of misogyny, and a comment on white racism. It’s usually here that I find myself feeling more and more detached from academic analysis of this kind, and I feel that aspects of this will always alienate non-academic readers to an extent; sure, film studies is always going to be refracted through the social mores of its time, and I do think there are interesting discussions to be had (and are had here) about, say, the family dynamic in the film, but positioning Jack as a “white supremacist” (p.73) because he kills Halloran seems achingly moot. Particularly in a horror film where the embodiment of white, cis-hetero male privilege loses all of his own volition and freezes to death in a maze; it’d be fairly easy to invert a lot of this kind of critique, but no one ever seems to want to…

Still, my gripes with the Devil’s Advocates series so far have been minor, and this is also a minor gripe – the above critical commentary makes up only a small share in what is otherwise a neat, well-researched and accessible text, as well as an enjoyable defence of Kubrick’s skills in adaptation and horror storytelling.

She Came From the Woods (2017): Interview with Director Erik Bloomquist

Posted on by Keri O'Shea

We receive quite a lot of short films overall at the site, and it’s always fun seeing what kind of a calling-card filmmakers have on offer: better still is when films channel formative horror and nostalgia along the way, which is the case with She Came From The Woods (2017).

We took a look at the film, and chatted to director Erik Bloomquist.

The film goes like this: it’s a warm summer’s night, and a group of summer camp counsellors are doing what countless young people do in these kinds of situations, aside from flirting and carbonising marshmallow: they’re sitting around a campfire, scaring the bejeezus out of one another with scary stories about alleged nefarious goings-on. For the little gathering in She Came From the Woods (2017), the urban myth of choice is about a nurse, Esther, who was – ahem – ‘relieved of her duties’ because of her oddball behaviour, but is now apparently holed up in THESE VERY WOODS, albeit on the astral plane – until such time as some foolhardy teenagers decide to summon her. Her post-mortem interest in ritual and mutilation gives her a keen interest in getting this kind of invite, and calling up Esther is apparently all too easy…

Uh-oh. That sounds like a horror film waiting to happen.

‘Summer camp’ has never really taken off in the UK, probably because the weather rarely obliges for that long and summer in a tent in Britain is a horror all of its own, but nonetheless we do have our own versions of urban myths and legends, and people always enjoy sharing these ‘friend of a friend’ creepy stories. In my day, it was ‘Bloody Mary’, and I remember as a child daring one another to call her name in front of a mirror – though it turns out she was actually quite shy, and never put in an appearance. Although the build-up to the denouement in She Came From The Woods is surprisingly leisurely for a twelve-minute film, I’m sure it’s not a spoiler to say that the camp counsellors here get more out of Esther than we ever got out of Bloody Mary – although I do feel that what we see is tantalising, rather than a full pay-off, so if this film could in any way be seen as a calling-card for the introduction of this character, then I’d certainly be happy to find out more.

There’s a lot to explore here. With its mix of gore and ritual, splicing a few horror staples together, She Came From the Woods is a fun meld of a whole host of ideas, from witchcraft to bad science to straight-up splatter. If it resembles anything, then for me it would be the Tales From the Crypt comics, with their rising tension balanced against a light-touch script and plenty of gross-out Americana. It’s fun, and it points to a love of the kinds of teen-orientated horror which have been with us for decades now.

So, having seen the film itself, we thought we’d ask a few things…

WP: Firstly, tell us how the idea for the film came about. How long did it take you to get a screenplay together and what was that process like? 

Erik Bloomquist: We were very fortunate to have access to this incredible summer camp location that really feels like it transports you back in time. We were really inspired by that location, both logistically and creatively, in terms of plot and tone.

WP: The film seems to be playing with ideas from childhood/teen horrors and pastimes. Would that be correct? What drew you to these ideas?

EB: Carson and I grew up watching Are You Afraid of the Dark? on Nickelodeon, so we like to think of this as almost a grown-up episode of that show. There’s something very exciting about the boundlessness of a legend and a good old fashioned campfire story.

WP: Is the film and its mythos intended to stay a short, or is the story-line one you’d like to revisit at any point in future? I have to say, it feels like it could be expanded into a longer story…

EB: We’re definitely exploring a feature adaptation! The response to the short (throughout the US and internationally) has been really heartening, and we’re pumped about the possibility of exploring the legend with more depth and scope. Our goal, like with the short, is to make something that is both a slow-burn creepy urban legend and a relentless action horror movie.

WP: How enjoyable – or challenging – did you find the experience of getting this film completed? 

EB: There’s nothing better than hanging out in the middle of the woods and making a movie with your creative friends. It was an aggressive shooting schedule (the whole film was produced with two overnights), but we all went into the trenches together and made it happen.

WP: Finally, horror goes through various waves and trends like any other genre – but in your opinion, how do you rate the quality of the horror cinema we have been getting over the past five years or so? And what impact, if any, has this had on you as a filmmaker? 

EB: I think we’ve gotten some real gems in the last few years. One of my favorites is It Follows. It so elegantly captures a very specific and effective tone that feels more like a nightmare than anything I’ve ever seen. The purposeful anachronisms, dreamy cinematography, and amazing score all contribute to this awesome experience.

WP: Thank you very much for your time, and good luck!

Look out for She Came From the Woods on the festival circuit over the coming year. For more information on the film, keep up with Erik on Twitter: @ErikCBloomquist.

S&M: Les Sadiques (2016)

Posted on by Keri O'Shea

It’s a very rare thing indeed to see a filmmaker working in the styles so far chosen by director Alex Bakshaev in his career to date. His last film, The Devil of Kreuzberg, was to my mind a languid and stylish love letter to Jean Rollin; in S&M, Les Sadiques, we have a film not only openly dedicated to Jess Franco, but one clearly taking its visual cues from Uncle Jess – and on a budget of a mere 250 Euros, working within the confines of a budget which would startle even Franco. However, in common with The Devil of Kreuzberg, there’s so much evident love for source material which doesn’t tend to hold much sway over modern filmmakers, that it’s impossible not to be impressed and to an extent, entranced by the results.

Marie (Nadine Pape) is a young girl looking for a place to stay in Berlin, having fled from a troubled home life with her father. But try as she might, her attempts to find somewhere to crash end in disaster, and she’s about to bed down on a stairwell when she encounters Sandra (the fabulous Sandra Bourdonnec). Sandra offers her a place to stay, but her interest in Marie is clearly far from platonic; fascinated by the older woman’s repertoire and career as an erotic photographer, as well as beholden to her for a comfortable place to live, she decides to stick around. Gradually, Sandra begins to extol her philosophy on sex and power, revealing that she does her job so well because she understands the importance of controlling her environment, and her subjects. Soon working alongside Sandra as a kind of honey trap to get otherwise unwitting subjects back to Sandra’s studio, Marie soon begins to explore her own sadistic impulses. However, the course of true love never did run smooth, and the outside world begins to impinge on the two women’s pursuits in a series of intrusive ways.

I mentioned Jess Franco earlier, and in terms of the influences of particular films I feel that there are several similarities between Les Sadiques and Eugenie De Sade, right down to some of the visuals (the clothing worn by the two women looks very similar to that worn by Soledad Miranda in some of her scenes – as do some of Nadine Pape’s poses – and who in their right mind could ever have a problem with that?) Of course, Franco took his cues from De Sade himself, although he took the Marquis’s ideas in rather different directions, and aside from the fact that Marie can be seen actually reading de Sade, this film is also about transforming some of de Sade’s ideas and placing them in a contemporary setting. In some respects Sandra’s character is like Madame de Saint-Ange, a homeowner whose erotic pursuits influence the education of a rather naive young girl, for instance.

But as much as Jess Franco – and de Sade – are acknowledged influences on S&M: Les Sadiques, the overall style of the film is less uproarious than many a Jess Franco film, generally preferring atmosphere over action, and developing said atmosphere in meticulous ways. Whilst a sexual film in terms of its themes, the director is very selective about what is shown, though without shying away from nudity and encompassing one quite startling and brutal scene, too. The topics of control and consent are de facto explored here, though is a subtle array of ways. There is, again, a touch of magic in how Bakshaev manages to shoot Berlin, making the city look by turns very modern and recognisable, but then timeless, expressed through a series of interesting shots. The atmosphere also owes a great deal to the film’s minimal dialogue – sometimes we do not hear what characters are saying at all as they are not miked – and exposition. We simply accept Sandra and Marie’s relationship grows seemingly out of nowhere, for instance, because it just works that way, and it’s plausible within the confines of the film’s universe. The camera lingers on facial expressions and gestures in a very effective way too, adding to the pleasingly disorientating effect of the filming style overall. This is altogether quieter than the films which have inspired Les Sadiques, but genuinely works well and showcases a confident, ambitious set of attitudes to making cinema. A special mention has to go to Sandra Bourdonnec here, too, who is joined by a great cast but whose magnetism is quite unlike anything else on the screen: the star of The Devil of Kreuzberg exudes the kind of smouldering appeal which would not look amiss in any of the classic Euro horror or arthouse cinema we know and love.

Whilst S&M: Les Sadiques will have some problems finding its audience, perhaps being too arty for some and too challenging for others, I feel that fans of the kinds of Euro cinema mentioned above will be beguiled by Bakshaev’s zeal for homage and atmospherics, and impressed by his ability to make something which is just so deliberately different. 250 Euros is a ridiculously small budget, but yet he’s managed to do a great deal with it; I can only hope that more funding comes his way, and soon, as I’m genuinely gratified that someone out there is making films like this, so completely unconcerned with the more tedious aspects of the current cinematic zeitgeist.

 

 

 

 

So long then, Ash Williams…

Posted on by Keri O'Shea

“Big props to fans for the effort, but I’m retired as Ash.” [Bruce Campbell on Twitter, 23th April 2018].

This message on the social networking site came in the wake of a wave of fan activity as people tried – and, it seems, failed – to convince the TV channel Starz not to cancel the Ash vs. Evil Dead series. Starz have decided to call it a day, citing poor viewing figures as the reason the show has to go. ‘Poor viewing figures’ is of course a relative term; then again, maybe I’m in a bubble here, because everyone I’ve ever heard from loved the show and watched it religiously. Regardless, Series Three is where we’re going to be leaving it, and off the back of Starz’s decision, the star of the show has confirmed that he’s now done with his most famous role for good.

Yes, this is disappointing, and yes, I feel that there are still more ideas that the Raimi brothers could have added in subsequent series, but perhaps we’re looking at it the wrong way. We might do best to see the show as an unexpected bonus. Fans of Ash vs. Evil Dead are justifiably sad that we won’t be seeing more from this extension of the ED universe, but a few short years ago, we didn’t have any idea we’d really ever see Ash taking on the Deadites in his own inimitable way again anyway.

Rumours of an Evil Dead IV have been turning up reliably every few years, but nothing concrete has ever really come along to substantiate these. Personally, I feel like it was an either/or thing with the Evil Dead remake in 2013 – and we ended up with the remake, which aside from that (rather head-scratching) Bruce Campbell cameo after the end credits, moved things in a different direction, even though it ostensibly used the same mythology. Gone was the splatstick and the one-liners which we’d left off with after Evil Dead III; we were back with an altogether grislier spin which dispensed with the comedy altogether. If this was to be our last encounter with the Necronomicon, then we’d be ending on a very different note to what we’d come to expect from Raimi and Campbell – which sat a little awkwardly with many people, myself included.

And then, seemingly out of the blue, years after the remake had come and gone, Ash was back – and back as a character, not a cameo. It was a boon. The TV show, as you might expect given the names behind it, picks up very much in the vein of Army of Darkness, and feels like an organic extension of the Evil Dead universe which is clearly at ease with itself, knowing just where to joke and where to (literally) douse the camera in blood. In effect, it’s the perfect cocktail of elements for long-term fans of the films, who have long appreciated the progression from gory, cartoonish violence in the original film to black comedy in the third. You can also see a clear line of descent from the underappreciated 2007 film My Name is Bruce, perhaps even more clearly given the ways some fans demand Campbell plays Williams and how, when it comes down to it, he has fun obliging – well, up until a point, that is. But the apparent ease and enjoyment Campbell communicates on screen, when playing a role which relates to Evil Dead, has definitely translated successfully to the small screen.

All of this helps the show to be so much damn fun to watch, but the writing itself has added a wealth of zany, but (within a world where a whole host of demonic entities shred their way into smalltown USA) plausible extensions to the 1981 screenplay. The Necronomicon is back – read from at the start of Series One in the ultimate in bad drunk decision-making – but there’s far more. Raimi adds plot elements which relate to the nature of whatever-there-is outside the limits of our world, with new demonic characters to rock the boat. Yes, there are a thousand nods to the films (hello, Linda!) but there’s more than enough new material here. Lucy Lawless as Ruby deserves a special mention for bringing the camp kick-ass she perfected in her Xena days into a world drenched with black magic and flailing innards, and she works as a great foil to Ash and his friends throughout the series. As for his friends, I think Pablo (Ray Santiago) and Kelly (Dana DeLorenzo) are anything but mere sidekicks, with each of them following their own path and, as things go on, getting their own plotlines too – all of which flesh out the characterisation of the show to just the right degree, never too emotional, nor two-dimensional. You feel you know these people, and you are rooting for them as they open portals and hack off Deadite heads. There isn’t a pointless character or scene written, the plot itself knows just when and how often to throw in the batshit crazy, and the jokes all land effortlessly. In truth, I don’t think I’ve ever enjoyed a horror spin-off more than this one. I definitely haven’t ever laughed more: the episode where Ash gets himself wedged into a man’s torso in the local morgue had me on the floor, hurt my ribs and made me chuckle for days afterwards. I’m not exaggerating. It really hurt.

So with all of that said, how come I’m not howling with indignation at the show’s cancellation? Well, part of me is, absolutely, as the tyranny of ‘viewing figures’ is only a limited measure of how a show is doing, really, if you could only wait and see. Movies which sink at the Box Office often rejuvenate on DVD and merchandise sales. But it seems pretty impossible that my indignation here would achieve anything, and now that Bruce himself has closed the door, we would be better off accepting that we’re done here. And, whilst I have confidence in Sam and Ivan Raimi – alongside the rest of the talented writers they’ve worked with on the show – you never know what market forces and other factors can throw at you; a potential universe where we’re on Series Ten and the well is running dry sounds pretty unappealing, even if not quite ‘Dark Ones walking the earth’ unappealing. The worst case scenario is a horror version of The Big Bang Theory, which at least we’re definitely being spared.

I can say, hand on heart, that in the three seasons of Ash vs. Evil Dead I have never been bored, nor felt that it was all getting too tried-and-tested. Each of the series I could happily watch over, which I will be doing, as I’m sure I will have missed one brilliant little detail or a rejoinder here and there. This may be of small consolation to the actors and writers who are now out of a job, sure, but I really hope that the show’s reputation propels them on to something else, and very soon.

Plus, you know, Ash Williams isn’t really going anywhere. Three classic films over nearly four decades, three great TV series, and a wealth of fan lit and spin-offs later, he’s going to remain one of horror’s favourite everyday guys forever. We love him because he’s normal, he’s fallible, he makes stupid decisions, but he’s also brave-to-the-point-of-stupider, fearless and funny. He has honour, he has integrity, and he’s aware of his own flaws, as well as in the next moment being dementedly self-confident. Ash is so well-loved because he’s the kind of guy you’d want to be around if the world ended. And, as Ash vs. Evil Dead has boosted that appeal in all sorts of expected and unexpected ways, we owe it a lot of credit and a big thanks too, even if it’s not sticking around as long as we’d like.

 

An Interview with Ryan Hendrick, director of Sundown (2017)

Posted on by Keri O'Shea

We receive a lot of films for consideration at Warped Perspective, and on occasion, we receive material which seems to be quite a way outside of the usual styles and genres we typically feature. This is, of course, no bad thing, and a film we received recently marked itself out as something altogether quieter and subtler than a lot of our usual fare. A thought-provoking, picturesque little film, Sundown (2017) is currently under consideration for a range of upcoming film festivals, and I spoke to director and writer Ryan Hendrick about his project.

Firstly tell us about the story behind the film, and why you wanted to tell it. 

I want to tell a story about the conventions of life, death and mortality. My first short film, Choices, had been a more introspective look set at the point of death and was very philosophical; here I wanted to tell a more realistic human connection story. It had occurred to me that in today’s society it is assumed the old and elderly know about death, as if they somehow have learnt how to accept death. I wanted to address that, and I decided to tackle that by having an older character seek insight from someone younger.

The location of the film is very picturesque and clearly important to the story. Tell us how you found it. 

The initial concept for Sundown came to me whilst I was visiting the Isle of Iona in the Scottish Hebrides some years ago. I witnessed the most spectacular sunsets night after night. It really added perspective on life and how complicated our lives and society have become, yet there is a simplistic beauty about the natural world that operates on a grand scale. “In that moment I feel timeless,” says Abi in the film, and that was true of my own experience. Every Scottish island is unique and Iona is no exception. It is quiet, tranquil and feels as if it exists outside of the modern world, and that was the atmosphere and setting that this story required.

Can you tell us any more about the character of Abi?

Although we follow William through his own journey, to me, Abi is the central character of Sundown. She exists in various forms and everything driving William on this journey connects directly back to Abi’s own journey. It’s very hard to say in specifics without giving the entire film away. She is part mystery, part emotional truth – to the audience and to William.

What do you hope audiences will take away from your film?

I hope audiences are taken on this journey with these characters, allowing them to experience a slower pace of life that is very deliberately built into the fabric of the film and come out emotionally connected to the characters, their story, the environment and more importantly, I hope it resonates with their own hopes and fears. We all fear our own mortality and all must learn to accept and incorporate it into our existence.

In terms of you as a filmmaker, what are your influences – and where do you hope to go next?

My influences come straight from my emotions. I always start creatively with an emotion or tone I want to convey before exploring a narrative. I am drawn to all sorts of storylines and themes, but they key for me is to tell them with a sense of romantic optimism. Sundown could easily have been a depressing and stark social realistic arthouse film, but I want to inspire audiences, make them feel a range of emotions.

Next up for me is my first feature Journey Bound, a romantic comedy road movie set in the Scottish Highlands. My love letter to Scotland and to it’s golden era of cinema (Whisky Galore, Local Hero, The Maggie). It’s taken us years to get this film off the ground and I can’t wait to start shooting later this year.

How challenging is making a film in the current climate, and how can filmmakers and fans alike best support this climate?

Independent Cinema especially in the current climate is tough. We exist in a time of mega-large blockbusters and more online content than ever before. Filmmakers needs to knuckle down and understand filmmaking as a business a lot more. I meet more and more emerging filmmakers that don’t have the first idea of tackling this as a business. Fans just need to keep watching films. Go to the cinema and see others films that aren’t the latest super hero blockbuster, take a chance on something you maybe haven’t heard of, especially when scrolling platforms at home like Netflix or Amazon. At the end of the day, as filmmakers we tell our stories for you as much as we do for ourselves.

Thanks to Ryan Hendrick and Magic Monkey films. You can find out more here.