Archive: Author: Keri O'Shea

Peripheral (2018)

Posted on by Keri O'Shea

I’ve enjoyed following director Paul Hyett’s work to date: The Seasoning House and Howl both made great use of confined locations and escalating ordeals, whilst I had some misgivings with the latter film; we have something different altogether with Peripheral, however, as we delve into ‘tech terror’, combining age-old anxieties with the shock of the new.

Bobbi Johnson (Hannah Arterton) is an author whose first novel has become the voice of the disaffected in a UK now rife with protests, invoking her words and her ideas as gospel. How to live up to that? Writer’s block has taken hold, represented by a blank page staring back at her (from what looks an awful lot like a nod to the typewriters of Naked Lunch). Ironic, given she’s trying to write something about the perils of success, at a point when she can no longer pay her own bills. Her publisher, Jordan, argues that she ought to ditch the analogue and start using editing software: it’s not an idea Bobbi is much taken with, but needs must and a deadline looms, so she agrees.

The set-up she receives is pretty extraordinary – a kind of virtual reality Lament Configuration; not only is it there to facilitate her writing, it’s there to demand it, even to live-edit it. This in itself is a ghastly prospect – and the continued presence of junkie ex Dylan (Habit’s Elliot James Langridge) and someone persistently delivering numbered video cassettes to her home address isn’t making the process any easier.

The new hardware keeps on coming and coming; Bobbi becomes less and less certain of how much of this writing is even hers, given the machine takes it upon itself to alter key aspects of her narrative. As she slips into occasional drug relapses (no thanks to Dylan) the divide between author and machine becomes increasingly blurred.

Peripheral is a visually smart, colourful film with an equally smart script: it uses humour (Bobbi’s attempts to change the looming computer to UK English; the cardboard blinkers she creates for herself) but despite this, it links fairly effortlessly to bigger, more fundamental questions about writing itself. It examines the idea of writing – or any creative process – as pure product, with agent Jordan (Belinda Stewart-Wilson) as the calm, clinical voice of the moneymakers, bulldozing Bobbi’s concerns about her ‘craft’ as pure nonsense. Just get it done. The machine will sort it out.

The imagined tech itself, which supersedes current capabilities but not by much, calls on some extensive CGI sequences, the likes of which are never for everybody, but these are as pacy as the rest of the film, and don’t detract from the story; likewise, some of the visual metaphors are pretty blunt, but in a quick, savvy film which deviates into fantasy as often as it does, it still feels in keeping with the whole. It knows its stuff. There’s a level of knowledge and exasperation here which propels the film onwards, exploring the ideas of fame, celebrity, creativity and inspiration in a world increasingly hostile to creators. And, whilst this film doesn’t delve to the grisly levels of The Seasoning House, it still explores aspects of body horror – the use of a body as palimpsest adds a note of graphic, unsettling unease.

Hyett has struck a good balance here, then, between the flashy futuristic and good, old-fashioned claustrophobia. As tech horror continues to develop and reflect contemporary concerns, this love letter to Cronenberg is grim but stylish, and well worth a watch.

Peripheral will be released on August 3rd, 2020.

1BR (2019)

Posted on by Keri O'Shea

A criticism often levelled at modern Western society is that our sense of community is gone. We’re all out for ourselves, unable to see the wider picture – and we would be so much happier, if only we could take the time to get to know our neighbours, or we could throw ourselves into a different ethos. On the other side of that, the idea of belonging to any sort of a closed community which compels people to say goodbye to their old selves is a source of deep anxiety; any surveillance culture, or a community of enforced values, gives us pause for thought. Support comes, sure, but at what price? It’s a question which has underpinned some superbly-realised horrors in the past few years, and it’s absolutely the case in 1BR, a film which, yes, uses some familiar horror elements, but handles them with such sensitivity, economy and awareness that it’s a genuinely effective, unbearably tense ride.

Sarah (Nicole Brydon Bloom) is a young woman striking out on her own. An at-first unspecified schism with her father has made her feel that it’s finally time: time to stand on her own two feet in a new city, which happens to be LA. Sure, her car is a rust bucket and her new job is pretty monotonous, but as she begins looking for a new apartment, she finds an open house at a very attractive complex called Asilo Del Mar. It’s competitive, but she registers her interest and – as luck would have it – she gets accepted. Sarah is warmly welcomed by the folks already living at Asilo Del Mar. Perhaps this is the family vibe she’s been looking for: complex manager Jerry (Taylor Nichols) seems to believe she has potential. Feeling like her life is on the up, Sarah happily moves in.

Too good to be true? It starts out just fine, but odd sounds at night disturb her sleep and begin to impact upon her wellbeing. However, the tone alters when a note gets pushed under her door: the ‘no pets’ policy (which she’s flouting) has drawn a vicious personal complaint. Sarah begins to doubt those smiling faces, and she’s correct to do so – this picture-perfect neighbourhood is not all it seems and her predicament escalates shockingly, and quickly. All of that may sound, on the surface, fairly tried-and-tested; if I can do one thing with this review, I hope that it’s to communicate something of what makes this film work so well despite – at least superficially – sounding familiar to existing horror films.

To begin with, 1BR can boast very high production values, with a sense of the power and artistry inherent in well-composed shots, a sharp script and an understanding of what scares an audience, blending old fears (the assault on the self) with the new (how easy it is to make someone disappear when our lives are lived online). Straightforward know-how is used to superb effect; for example, director David Marmor frequently keeps the shots very closely on Sarah. This reduces the sense of anything existing outside, as well as maintaining a sense of the overbearing behaviour of the other residents. The steady early focus on Sarah’s sleep deprivation, too, is a subtle but pervasive feature; you empathise with this young woman trying desperately to make sense of her situation through the fugue of exhaustion. The atmosphere in 1BR is uncomfortable almost immediately; this is no mean feat either, given the sunny positivity on display at first (and elsewhere throughout the narrative). It all points to a very sharp understanding of genre. Yes, there is some signposting, and yes, there is some use of trope, but so carefully done that it is still highly effective to watch.

This notion of a wonderful, nurturing community which operates under ghastly and unfamiliar norms, right down to one scene in particular, put me in mind of Midsommar (2019); however, there’s no occult here, no sense of old beliefs creeping into the modern world. The horror of Asilo Del Mar is probably closer to Get Out (2017) and namechecks theories and ideologies which are rather closer to home, in terms of contemporary society at least. The idea of self-help and psychology forms the bedrock of the ordeal here, toying with bigger ideas about what constitutes happiness, what values we’re willing to drop or adopt, and what we will tolerate. ‘Conditioning’, and what people will do out of fear of some unspecified punishment calls to mind the Stanford Prison Experiment; the meticulous drilling-down through a person’s psyche corresponds to (rumoured, please don’t sue me) Scientology practices. This is all rather closer to home than a quaint commune in remote Sweden. This horror speaks our language.

1BR is a finely-honed appreciation of cruelty: what it can do, and how gratitude for its cessation can motivate a person to do incredible things. Its well-pruned version of mob rule offers an at-times excruciating, note-perfect attack on modern selfhood and through superb performances, it achieves everything it sets out to do. I’m reluctant to dip too far into plot details – see this one, and it’ll restore your faith in genre film.

Neraterræ – Scenes From The Sublime

Posted on by Keri O'Shea

Whilst it’s quite usual to hear of albums which are based on, or influenced by cinema or literature, it’s still a rarity to find albums which hinge entirely upon art. Neraterræ – the musical project of Alessio Antoni – has recently released an album which does just that, taking for its inspiration a range of classic paintings. He has used an eclectic choice of pieces ranging across four centuries, though there is some overlap between all of these in terms of their symbolism and theme. The artists explored altogether are: Beksinsky, Bosch, Repin, Goya, Friedrichs, Fuseli, Dali, Böcklin and Turner.

This is a concept album, then, but not in the ways ‘concept album’ is typically understood. Each of its tracks is based in its entirety on a different painting, and the overall effect is very interesting and immersive. Ten tracks in length, this is an almost entirely instrumental release, taking a dark/ambient approach with some elements of drone. Although not classically instrumental, the album reaches for something of the ‘Sturm and Drang’ experience via its focus on the Sublime. You can also expect some collaboration on some of the tracks: Cober Ord, Shrine, Alphaxone, Martyria, Xerxes the Dark and Leila Abdul-Rauf all contribute.

One of the first highlights is Fate Unveiled, based on the Hieronymous Bosch painting Visions of the Hereafter; the track’s thrum and sound coming close to static in places give way very briefly to something lighter, before closing in again. Similarly, In Deafening Silence (based on Ilya Repin’s standalone painting Ivan the Terrible and His Son) conveys and explores the terrible stillness of the painting, a moment of horror and regret. The introduction of vocals on Thou, Daemon is quite a jarring moment, adding menace to accompany a very menacing painting; Goya’s later work attempted to capture the deep irrationality and fear of simple people. The layering here of almost choral elements mirrors very well the warped religious ideals within the artwork.

The art of Zdzisław Beksiński is a perfect basis for music; his astonishing painting AE78 is the inspiration behind Doorway to the I, which is a good, ominous accompaniment to an image with incredible depth. More sinister or fearful vibes are picked out of the Salvador Dali painting The Disintegration of the Persistence of Memory in the track Collapse of Matter and Time. It’s an interesting interpretation – its colourfulness and boldness has always made it seem less like a tragic or alarming painting to me, but of course its symbolism works well with the ticking, rather dour exploration it gets here. At the end of the album, Virtues of the Dawn (via William Turner) is a somewhat uplifting close to a very weighty, but expansive album.

Scenes from the Sublime is a worthwhile creative project and a welcome means of re-appreciating some phenomenal, varied art. Having the images themselves in front of you is absolutely the way to listen.

To find out more about this release, please click here.

All Hail the Popcorn King (2020)

Posted on by Keri O'Shea

Writer Joe R. Lansdale has played an important part in both horror literature and later, film: without a doubt, his career to date is of interest to a wide range of fans. For my part, my first encounter with his fiction didn’t fill me with the instant enthusiasm shared by many of the contributors to All Hail the Popcorn King; however, after seeing Bubba Ho-Tep, this changed. The story of two forgotten men who find a sense of renewed purpose when pitched against lunatic supernatural odds is a phenomenal story, and it’s such a shame that we never got to tangle with Bubba Nosferatu…but in any case, it’s clear why the interest in Lansdale would be there, and why there should be a ready-made audience for this documentary film.

As you would expect, the biggest share of All Hail the Popcorn King is interview footage of Lansdale himself. He offers some childhood reminiscences, and a brief tour of some old childhood haunts: this is fun, and helps to underline what he establishes very early on: Texas, and living in Texas, is fundamental to his writing; he has never been one who would relocate at the first signs of success. His background wasn’t all plain sailing – his family was poor, his father illiterate – but an early love for comic books acted as a gateway drug, getting him into reading short stories and then novels. He did, though, bring a successful lawsuit against the junior college which wouldn’t let him enrol because he had the wrong kind of hair cut; Texas wasn’t always a tolerant, liberal place and perhaps isn’t still, but the overriding impression which Lansdale gives here is of a live-and-let-live approach. He still considers people of all walks of life and political persuasions as his friends; this is tangentially linked to some of his best-known characters, such as Hap and Leonard, whose common ground is given great importance; this, we’re told, is what you can expect from complex characters.

The other contributors used here go from well-known to less well-known: it all depends on how much American horror fiction you read, I guess, as of course lots of Lansdale’s contemporaries speak about him, most of whom are writers themselves. Amongst the more famous speakers are Bruce Campbell, Joe Hill, Rick Claw, directors Don Coscarelli and Mick Garris: unfortunately, and I do think it’s unfortunate, most of the higher-profile contributions here are audio only (with the exception of Garris, who gets some camera time). The publicity for the film describes it as a ‘B’ movie style project, and in common with ‘B’ movies, there doesn’t seem to be a generous budget here, though effort is made to add colour and interest with short clips from mid-20th century adverts, TV spots, original art and insider photos. There are a couple of sound issues when shooting outside, and I think it possibly would have been better to have the director/cameraperson actually appearing in the film, rather than gasping or adding odd words off-camera, as it’s neither an interview nor a one-person feature as it stands.

I think the main sticking point for me, though, is simply that the film doesn’t dig very much beneath the most superficial information – information already readily available. Yes, this film has to be a somewhat modest offering given its budget and, possibly, its timescale too; however, a little more oversight in terms of structure and direction could potentially have got more out of this opportunity. It’s very scattergun, not particularly driving at anything: for example, after moving from the success of Bubba Ho-Tep, the film turns its attention to Lonsdale’s martial arts background and then, having spent a good amount of the 55-minute running time touching upon his significant works and his career, ends on a number of new talking heads, all now back to the subject of what initially got them into his writing. His popularity as a writer was something for the opening scenes; I would have loved a few more in-depth questions about his work, his ambitions and legacy. This film drifts from place to place, amicably enough, but without real detail.

All of that said, if you like light-touch documentaries, something quite diverting to stick on for an hour, then you could find something to enjoy here. Whatever else its issues, you can’t argue with the affability and good humour of Joe R. Lansdale himself, and he is front and centre for most of the film’s running time.

All Hail the Popcorn King will be available later this year.

Two Ways to Go West (2020)

Posted on by Keri O'Shea

The second feature-length film by noted graphic designer Ryan Brookhart, Two Ways to Go West moves outside of the horror genre and endeavours to explore the big topics: personal demons, unspoken truths, repercussions. However, the style and approach it takes doesn’t really serve its themes; whilst visually sharp, it can feel tonally erratic, and badly needs a punchline or crescendo of some sort.

Film star Gavin (also the film’s writer, James Liddell) is heading to Vegas for a bachelor party with two old friends, Marty (Paul Gennaro) and Shane (Drew Kenney). It’s established in the first couple of lines of dialogue that Gavin is a recovering addict, and his two friends are understandably a little nervous about the flashpoint which Vegas potentially represents. Slightly incongruously, though, we never see the guys actually out on the town – we just see them going out, then returning to the apartment where they while away the hours, playing cards and games. Soon, however, it becomes apparent that Gavin’s drug issues aren’t the only issue lurking on the periphery of these early conversations. It’s also apparent that repairing friendships – or not – will be the central thread in the rest of the film.

Gradually, or rather slowly, the relationship between them is explored as they talk. The film elects to use the ‘mumblecore’ style of dialogue where inanity is balanced against developing plot points, and this is something you either like or you don’t, but it does lead to issues in Two Ways to Go West. The tension escalates and de-escalates very rapidly: these three men go from emotional purges, talking fairly meaningfully about problems in their collective past, but then move back into – as happens fairly frequently – talking about food, or other minor topics which clash with the drama which has just preceded it. There is some ambition elsewhere; whilst some of these are fairly well-established in indie cinema by now (text messages appearing on screen, text which I imagine has been spoken by Gavin’s girlfriend, flashbacks) it does show some attempts to enliven the storytelling. However, the go-nowhere dialogue makes the other developments harder to follow or accept. There’s also a rather clumsy ‘reveal’ quite early on in the film when it turns out that a stripper hired to dance in the apartment is …already known to one of the men, and his reaction to this is quite something to behold. This is one of the ways in which the drama suddenly explodes, then fades away again: uncomfortable truths are replaced with conversations about pickles.

Drug addiction would never be foregrounded here the way that it is without going on to figure in the night’s festivities. Seeing as the bulk of the film takes place in an apartment, it’s actually quite welcome to move the action outside of this environment for a short period of time. Similarly, some of the long shots at the start of the film are great, providing a sense of distance and scale. Gavin does have a sense of vulnerability to him which plausibly sets him aside from his friends, and some of the drug binge footage looks good in later scenes; less plausible, even given we can accept that addicts are unpredictable narcissists who will restructure every narrative to position themselves as victims, is how Gavin responds to the surprise moments which befall him. One of the key sources of tension in this particular narrative is women; rather than genuinely figuring in proceedings, though, the film makes them into bystanders, either entirely absent and without agency off-screen, or momentarily the focus of shock and horror – for not doing anything much, really. Resolutions to the ‘women problems’ are rather thinly developed, sorry to say, even whilst allowing for the fact that this is a film about male friendship. Women are oblivious, dupes, or liars. It’s not much of a scorecard.

Two Ways To Go West has lofty aims, and deciding to move so clearly away from horror can’t have been an easy decision for someone whose career has been so wrapped up in the genre, in one way or another. Developing and sustaining interpersonal drama, especially with such a small cast and limited location, is a feat which eludes even long-established directors, so perhaps some of these issues are only to be expected. However, more consistency and far more of a sense of direction was badly needed here.

Two Ways to Go West is out now on VOD.

Lamia Vox: Alles ist Ufer. Ewig ruft das Meer (2020)

Posted on by Keri O'Shea

Based in Russia, one-woman ambient project Lamia Vox has been recording for some years now, with first album Sigillum Diaboli emerging in 2013. Magical belief and practice have always underpinned Alina Antonova’s work; with the new release Alles ist Ufer, however, the literary and occult influences are broader in nature, tending towards the idea of Hermeticism and one ageless kind of spiritual journey. Music seems to be offering itself more and more as an overt spiritual entity and as a counterbalance to the rational and materialistic – a sign of the times, perhaps. But music has to engage on its own terms too, else its other ambitions can’t get anywhere: happily, Alles ist Ufer is a dreamlike, atmospheric piece of work which comes together very well.

From the opening bars of Three Dreams, Lamia Vox establishes the style and sound for the rest of the album: a blend of softly-spoken English words and some sung elements, with strings and even a sometimes martial style of rhythm overlaying the use of keyboard. It’s difficult to comfortably place this release or this sound into one genre and ‘ambient’ covers a great deal of ground, but there’s some overlap here with darkwave and some more symphonic sounds too. Classical music clearly has an influence here, even if it’s not invoked in a straightforward way. Actually, if the album reminds me of anything at all then it’s Dead Can Dance, ‘Anastasis’: the overall atmosphere and some of the musicianship is reminiscent of it. Alles ist Ufer has a good balance of instrumentation and vocals overall, though from a personal point of view, I found the vocals quite low in the mix at times, meaning it wasn’t easy to hear what was being spoken.

In terms of individual tracks, Song of Destiny is a particularly strong moment on this album, with the use of strings adding depth to this mid-point of the album – and The Return is a strong point on which to end things, deviating from the rest of the album via its use of male vocals as well as female. Overall, though, I don’t feel like this is something really intended to be appreciated for individual songs, but more as a whole: as one piece of music with one overriding set of influences, it makes perfect sense. The overall experience of Alles ist Ufer is a reflective one. This album maintains a rich, if doleful atmosphere and contemplative tone throughout. It’s good to allow it to wash over you and it succeeds in its aim of offering escapism from the world outside.

Alles ist Ufer. Ewig ruft das Meer releases on 1st August, 2020. For more details and to pre-order, click here.

Amulet (2020)

Posted on by Keri O'Shea

Amulet is the feature-length directorial debut of actor Romola Garai – having cut her teeth on a short feature in 2012, here she has created a very sombre, often very gritty horror story, a world away from the period dramas in which she has so often appeared. In touch with her short feature, however, there’s a fascination with the sylvan – of what could be waiting in the woods, and why. The resulting film is an enterprising, often creative horror which splices its visual artistry with a pervasive atmosphere. There are a handful of issues, but nothing which derails what is otherwise an immersive and unsettling film.

Showcasing its aesthetic sensibilities very early, we fade from a beautiful woodland into a sparse, but still cosy interior – and a young man whose existence in this middle-of-nowhere, manning a checkpoint in an unspecified warzone, seems to find him very content. But, just as the woodland landscape ceded into this young man’s everyday, so that quickly disappears into another. Moving forward by a period of years, this same young man – Tomaz (Alec Secareanu) is now an impoverished temporary worker in England, making ends meet with building work. The close-up shots on his face – claustrophobic, unnerving – showcase his misery, and form a clear contrast to the life he once had. Something disastrous much have compelled him here. Barely surviving a fire in his lodgings one night, he finds himself hospitalised and realises he must make changes. He contemplates going home at first, but the intervention of a well-intentioned local, Sister Claire (Imelda Staunton) convinces him that there could be a different way forward. Introducing him to a socially-isolated young woman called Magda (Carla Juri), Sister Claire suggests that he could help her as she nurses her terminally-ill mother; in return, he receives food and shelter. Short of feasible other options, and drawn to the frail, introspective Magda, Tomaz agrees to stay for a while.

It soon becomes clear that this is a quite extraordinary situation. Magda is adamant that her mother will not allow their new lodger anywhere near her; she remains an unknown quantity, a ‘madwoman in the attic’ in pretty literal terms. Tomaz determines to do what he can to make the house more comfortable nonetheless and – against the backdrop of life in the house – Tomaz and Magda become friends. However, as always with an atmosphere of concealment, that which each character has to hide will come out. In the case of Tomaz, we come to slowly understand what brought his tranquil loneliness in the woods to an end.

The film feeds viewers its plot in a very languid way overall, albeit with a few shocks and abundant foreshadowing; this gives way to a much sharper set of narrative developments towards the end of the film, with a number of plot points walked through very quickly in a way which I felt the film could do without; its key strengths are in its gradual reveals. It has something of the look and feel of a small number of other British genre films of recent years – films like Possum, Saint Maud and Tony, with their own stories following people who live on the fringes of society, concealing grave histories within themselves. Amulet, like these, presents a new, but recognisable kind of poverty on-screen: poverty as it often looks now, I suppose, with dilapidation stemming back to the 70s and 80s, houses gradually crumbling since then. Amulet also calls to something far older, though; there are aspects of the ‘old dark house’ genre, forbidden spaces and old terrors. The film makes space for the monstrous, too. There is plenty of appetite here on Garai’s behalf to experiment with form and genre.

It’s also interesting that Amulet also brings us a male character who is not ‘in the know’, someone who is shown to us as lacking power almost from the very start. His lack of knowledge and awareness are at first fundamental to making him endearing; the more he is shown to know, or the more he comes to terms with, the less of an endearing character he is. However, his eventual narrative arc – again, linking to the sudden deluge of plot points towards the end of the film – is not without issue. Though we could argue perhaps that a sense of disorientation is no bad thing to feel for a horror audience, leaving some things unsaid would have served the film better overall.

Still, for a first feature, Amulet is very accomplished and deserves credit for it: it draws on many elements of the familiar as well as the unfamiliar, weaving together a story of a shrinking, uncertain and monstrous world where agency breeds agony.

Amulet will be released onto VOD by Magnet Releasing on 24th July 2020.  

Parallax (2020)

Posted on by Keri O'Shea

Memory is something sinister and not to be trusted in Parallax (2020) – an unusual, character-centred story which admittedly takes a while to get going, but when it does, it goes somewhere very interesting indeed.

Selfhood is offered as a theme straight away: via a dispassionate voiceover, a young woman called Naomi (Naomi Prentice) begins explaining her anxieties over, seemingly, belonging to a world she no longer recognises. Her relationship with fiance Lucas (Nelson Ritthaler) is understandably suffering beneath the weight of this; he tries to play normal around her reported feelings of dissociation, but in truth, he’s pouring his heart out about her to his counsellor. Meanwhile, Naomi’s behaviour gets more erratic: she very nearly tests her thesis that she exists in a waking dream by drowning in the bathtub, only just being saved in time.

So, is this just a traumatised young woman, having a glorified breakdown? Lucas begins doing what he can to piece Naomi’s history together, realising that he knows comparatively little about her previous life. And, had the film stuck with this narrative, I think it would have suffered overall. Parallax’s genre is not immediately apparent from what you see in the first act, and it seems therefore to be operating as an allegory for mental illness – or, dementia, something else which is raised as a possibility, as Naomi and Lucas seek medical help for her condition. These early sequences, which use a combination of stilted conversations, voiceover and often oppressive interior spaces, soon come to feel quite oppressive. The metaphor of the sea, or of drowning, adds to this sense of weight. However, the sea is soon being used as a source of liberation, too. Through her paintings, Naomi begins to hallucinate that she is at the beach, and these moments of escapism lend the film a much-welcomed respite too, adding natural light and landscape. The emphasis and style of the film begin to shift.

At this point, the film also begins to break free of its seeming focus on mental illness. When Naomi begins to see, and interact with someone else on the ‘beach’ and in other apparently hallucinatory places, Parallax shifts up a gear, turning into a mystery to solve, one which gradually hands its key clues over to the audience. In some respects like Mulholland Drive – another film where the mystery is turned over to viewers – and in some respects Aronofsky-style experimentation with what different mental states mean and how they can be represented through various imagery, it would be very difficult to predict with confidence where the story will go, and that it very much to the credit of writer/director Michael Bachochin. Parallax’s grand ambitions do mean that a lot of the plot occurs in the last thirty minutes; even without this, though, the story can feel disorientating by its nature, dealing as it does in questions about self, memory, certainty and symbolism. And, as adventurous sci-fi elements begin to come into play, the narrative never loses sight of Naomi and the sympathy she deserves, as she struggles to make sense of her divided self.

Another allegory for ‘living a lie’ in some respect would have just been another allegorical film in a long line of them, but Parallax does far more than that. When it really begins to unfold and move in new directions, it rewards your attention. Above all, it has a clear sense of aspiration, and that really does mark it apart from a whole host of other indie movie projects.

Parallax (2020) receives a limited US theatrical run from 10th July.

Coven (2020)

Posted on by Keri O'Shea

Well, they say that you sell a film on its first few minutes, and if so, then it’s a piece of guidance which Coven director Margaret Malandruccolo has taken to heart in this, her first feature-length. The film begins with five lingerie-clad young witches turning up at an evocative ruined building, ready to begin a ritual of, apparently, some import. One of their number, Christy (Sara Stretton) seems a little out of sorts; we’re shown in flashback that she arrived earlier for some pre-drinks with the rest of the girls, and they were none too pleasant to her. This continues into the ritual itself – a ritual intended to raise the goddess Asherah (if I’ve got that right) and, well, it’s all a little more grisly than your standard-issue Wicca.

Soon, the coven is looking for another member to complete their circle. As luck, or fate would have it, there’s another girl at their college who is already a believer: we see her, in the company of a companion, trying to reach her deceased mother via a part seance, part vision. This girl, Sophie (also the writer of the film, Lizze Gordon) is none too impressed with the overt occult leanings of the coven; truth be told, this isn’t exactly a merry bunch, and with the exception of head witch Ronnie (Jennifer Cipola) and her girlfriend Jax (Miranda O’Hare), none of these girls would ordinarily be friends. It’s only the lure of using the coven’s magic to reach out to her mother which finally entices Sophie. Meanwhile, whilst talking to her history professor, Sophie spots a strange, some might say wyrd historical precedent in the Calvert coven, comprising natives of the same area who themselves performed a conjuration exactly two hundred years before…

In a way, the plot and how it plays out here is perhaps lesser in interest – at least to some extent – compared with how this film fits in to a long tradition of witchcraft cinema. Coven replicates a lot of the new wave of magical thinking which emerged in the late 60s and early 70s – its magic references things like the importance of direct descent through bloodlines, the elements, blood-letting, and of course, an obscure goddess I didn’t recognise. The witches themselves are very eroticised and often bloody – which calls to mind the sexualised occult magazines of the same era. However, Coven also has a lot in common with The Craft, and the kind of high school-adjusted magic which encompasses basic bitchery and female rivalry. There are several plot points which mirror The Craft – an influential film, after all, which is now nearly a quarter of a century old: the outsider with a friend who works in an occult store, a group of girls who need her despite themselves, a deranged gothy head-witch who wants all the power for herself…the list goes on. In a way, Coven acts as a bridge between one spin on witchcraft and another, later and very well-established one. Crystals and spells rub shoulders with catty competitiveness and it seems that the epithet ‘thot’ has made it into occult cinema in the year 2020.

As for the film itself, it’s actually really good fun. Yes, you can spot the influences, but Coven is none the less entertaining for that. There’s some amusing dialogue, some exploratory shooting styles, and some diverting OTT occult pay-offs which are never dull. Better still, there’s no proselytising here: Coven has no qualms about throwing a few trashy elements into the mix. It doesn’t waste any of its modest running time, either, and by going further than its influences in terms of blood, nudity and pure twentysomething feminine spite, it gets away with it all. If you have a place in your heart for cinema which doesn’t necessarily want to teach you anything major, but wants with all its might to divert you for eighty minutes or so, then have at it: this is enjoyable occult fare, and a great first feature.

Coven will be released onto DVD/VOD on 14th July 2020.

Jesus Shows You The Way to the Highway (2019)

Posted on by Keri O'Shea

There’s plenty of 80s nostalgia floating around in indie film these days, but it’s not often it comes in the form of something like Jesus Shows You The Way to the Highway (a title which, by the way, is only marginally relevant to what goes on here). Director and writer Miguel Llansó already has something of a name for the surreal, given his earlier ‘post-apocalyptic Ethiopian sci-fi’ film Crumbs (2015); here, he seems to be channelling the themes and issues behind Jacob’s Ladder, but refracting them through Jodorowsky. And is it enjoyable? Well, having reflected on the film for a couple of days, I still have no idea. It’s certainly different…

Such as it is, here’s the basic plot: the CIA, working against a kind of quasi-80s-Cold-War setting, are alarmed by the appearance of a Soviet virus and have to organise a pushback. They do this via the use of a rather rudimentary VR system, pitching its detectives into this gamer world to trace the virus source. Rather more conventionally, this is meant to be Agent Gagano’s last job; you can guess, then, that things are about to go badly wrong. Exploring an abandoned CPU to try and trace the virus before it takes over Psychobook (the VR) altogether, it turns out to be a trap and Gagano gets trapped in the game. In real life, this gives him a disastrous prognosis – a terminal coma. So he has to fight his way through the unsettlingly feverish virtual world, in order to get back to the real world.

A linear experience, this ain’t. The bizarre stylings of the VR world (right down to the characters’ avatars wearing paper masks and a high frame rate which makes all their movements jerky and unrealistic) are unsettling to watch, and the odd comic tics (the ‘Soviet’ avatar wearing a Stalin mask whilst speaking with a rich Irish brogue, for instance) are jokes unsure where to land. The film has a very ‘reality adjacent’ feel, and calls to mind that idea of the ‘hauntological’ which has so far been more associated with that peculiar seam of 70s nostalgia, bringing about odd reimaginings of the art, music and style of that decade. So here we are with 80s hauntology, a police drama set to blaring 8-bit soundtracks but permeated with analogue technological marvels, like Psychobook.

In essence, Jesus Shows You The Way To The Highway is a puzzle solver – a guy fighting to get to the bottom of a situation which threatens him, before he runs out of time. It’s just that this happens against a strange backdrop; there’s certainly no lack of imagination here, it’s just that the path taken by that imagination dispenses with norms – oh, and there’s a hallucinogenic substance which features in part of the plot, as if things needed that extra dimension. Your level of engagement with, and enjoyment of, this journey will depend completely on your tolerance for very strange solutions to the offered puzzle. It’s not a film for everyone, it absolutely isn’t, but it has a kind of determination to see the story out in its own inimitable way that you have to appreciate that level of bloody-mindedness.

Jesus Shows You The Way To The Highway (2019) is available now on the Arrow Video Channel.

The Droving (2020)

Posted on by Keri O'Shea

It’s always a delight to find yourself surprised by a film, and The Droving – despite its use of elements which immediately call certain other films and subgenres to mind – manages to surprise throughout. Intensely character-driven, it largely keeps its horror off-screen, or represents it solely through its lead. In so doing, it weaves a very subtle and engaging story.

Martin (Daniel Oldroyd) has just left the Army after five years’ service, but his decision to try civilian life again has been shaken by the disappearance of his beloved younger sister, Megan (Amy Tyger), who appears to us only in Martin’s memories of happier times. Returning to the Penrith area of Northern England to seek clues about what happened to her precisely a year earlier, he’s quickly on the trail of what, at least at first, seems like a bunch of likely candidates. Mutual friend Tess (Suzie Frances Garton) informs him that a group of outsiders referred to as a ‘clan’ make it their business to appear in town ahead of the yearly winter Droving Festival (a genuine British tradition linked to winter agricultural markets which has hung on in there as a local event). As Megan disappeared right before the previous Droving, it certainly seems suspicious. Rumours of strange beliefs on their behalf only fuel Martin’s determination to find them; he tracks them to their last-known whereabouts – a local ruin, naturally. Also, do these people have faintly unsettling animal masks? Check.

A lesser film would have thereby pitched Martin against a closed community whose knowledge and instrumental power far exceeds his own here; this, to its great credit, it does not do. For starters, Martin is no naive wanderer; he’s a veteran, and with form as a military interrogator he is used to getting the answers he wants, as well as being more than able to look after himself. In short, no one is putting him in a wicker man (a film comparison I have read a few times, actually, but one which from my perspective isn’t a good fit). As Martin follows his trail here and there, it’s mood that prevails over massive shifts in narrative, with Martin’s barely-repressed or sometimes openly-expressed monomania for tracking down his sister expressed almost exclusively through his own words and deeds. Oldroyd does incredibly well with what he’s given. Very naturalistic, very engaging, he does the tricky thing of enacting acting throughout the film – never showing his hand, but using his military skills and ability to create characters to make people talk. There is a lot of very British black humour in the script, too, which nonetheless doesn’t detract from his plight and doesn’t confuse the tone. Sure, he finds the beginning of his trail of answers quite easily, but you could never say that the film moves from there to wholly expected terrain.

Another impressive feature of The Droving is in its new folk horror dynamic: gone is the small community who are all ‘in on it’, to mutual benefit, or at least perceived mutual benefit. Here, people who might have arcane knowledge (and it’s never ever about showy big reveals or protracted ritual practices) seem sorrowful about it – they wish they didn’t know, wish they didn’t talk, didn’t keep the old beliefs going. These novel elements help to generate and sustain the tension, because they free the film of the kind of expectation which can work against what the film is aiming to do. A subtle sense of horror unfolds. If you are willing to keep with it, filling in the blanks, then there is more than enough to reward your attention (and this is a nicely economical story, too, at just eighty minutes long).

Beautifully shot against a rugged, austere landscape, matched just as beautifully by its soundscape, The Droving is an evocative and often ambiguous horror: here you will find unexpected flashes of originality and a willingness to tease out elements of its key ideas and motifs, developing them in fascinating ways.

The Droving was released on 21st April in the UK. It is available now via Amazon Prime.