Strange Monster, or: how I learned to stop placating and defend "Cloverfield"

I am both surprised and mildly outraged over the amount of critical dissing that has been leveled at "Cloverfield," especially by those who generally liked the film. Most of these kinds of reviews spend some time lauding the film's technical wizardry- the integration of low-budget camcorder footage with expensive, convincing special effects- and then proceed to fault the film for a variety of imperfections in the rest of their column space, finally concluding that it is, overall, a mixed bag at best.

The grievances range from petty condemnations of the acting on behalf of a no-name cast to pointed but seemingly obvious comparisons between the movie and a "theme park-ride," (as if a movie about a giant monster attacking a major city was not supposed to have this element to it.) Rest assured, "Cloverfield," is certainly a hell-of-a-ride, nobody can deny that, with new terrors around ever corner and a predictably high bodycount, but it is also so much more.

It is not simply a vacuous, escapist adventure- nothing, mercifully, like the "Pirates of the Carribean," franchise or another obnoxious movie from a few years back, both of which are much more suited to the negative connotations of "theme-park ride." I can see where this idea comes from, though- as many of the scene transitions in "Cloverfield," seem too timed and rehearsed to gel with the idea of the film being a spontaneous first-person documentary- the most prominent example occurring when the protagonists emerge from a subway station underground and are commanded by the military to enter a makeshift hospital area. The camera pans around the room in a circle, catching close ups of battlefield surgeries and even a captive mini-monster struggling to escape, as if the world within the movie was just an elaborately choreographed pretense, a kind of "Truman-Show" reality of sets and cues...which of course, it is.

But I can't agree with all those who find these aspects of the movie too distracting to enjoy its' larger, overall theme and execution. Nor can I support the notion that the main characters are all unlikeable, selfish, spoiled brats. They sure have a yuppie element to them, and their concerns are mostly limited to each other's sexual relationships or lack thereof, but that's precisely the intent. "Cloverfield," begins like an episode of the "The Hills," (or it's more popular older sibling, "Laguna Beach,") and just when it approaches that point of cheap, shameless, interpersonal drama it veers off and becomes something else entirely.

What it becomes is actually quite breathtaking to consider... a film that, like "Easy Rider," or "The Graduate," defiantly represents the concerns, the preoccupations, of an entire generation. Maybe that's why some critics are so intent on finding fault with it, because they aren't in the right age-group. As a soon-to-be 21 year old attending college for Journalism, I personally loved everything about "Cloverfield." It isn't a movie- it's a cultural time-capsule, touching on so many current elements of our lives- from terrorism, to user generated media, to the value of love in a society that revels in emotionless hookups. Not only that, it combines all these elements with those of a traditional (otherwise overdone) supernatural yarn- the giant monster B-movie, simultaneously subverting it.

Fuck, in particular, those critics that bemoan "Cloverfield"'s destruction of New York City and the obvious parallels to the 9/11 terror attacks. Of course that's what the film is evoking, and to great effect, I might add. Why is "Cloverfield," blamed for depicting crumbling buildings in the same spectacular, morbidly fascinating fashion as the mainstream media covered 9/11? The cameraman is, like all those unsuspecting camera wielding people on the fateful day in September, just recording the shit going down in front of him. It's we the viewers that pay to see it. And indeed, for a while now, it will be difficult for ANY American who witnesses a building collapse, even a controlled demolition, to not associate the sight with the fall of the World Trade Center.

The allusions to terrorism don't end there- the monster itself, as lots have pointed out, isn't fully revealed until the final moments of the film. Like my favorite M. Night Shyamalan film, "Signs," this approach definitely works really well on a narrative level, heightening the tension and fear by forcing the audience to imagine for themselves how the adversary really looks. But I think there's more going on than that: The monster has many parts- or "cells," including "smaller" monsters, bugs the size of dogs, that hide in dark places and sound like sprinklers when they attack. The protagonists must navigate a ruined urban environment, fearful of unseen danger at every turn. The images of soldiers and high-powered weaponry combing through city streets are the most obvious, an inverted reflection of the American campaigns in Iraq and Afghanistan. But none of this is approached the wrong way- it's all a magnificent symphony of violence and destruction, never marred by cheap, unrealistic stunts or overdone special effects.

And that's precisely because our heroes aren't directly involved in what would be the main narrative thread in every other monster movie- i.e. finding a way to stop the creature. They don't receive any special information or powers, they never contact anyone else important (no scientists, no government agents) and spend the film either fleeing from the monster or trying to find away around it to get to their trapped friend. They are supposed to be us- the average, self-interested movie-going American public, consumed by an otherworldly situation that cannot be fully understood, let alone controlled. And yet we come to respect these characters and their struggle all the more for it. Sure, some of their motives and actions might seem like the common mistakes of B-movie prey to us sophisticates in the audience, but it is impossible not to connect with these characters on at least a raw physical level, as the audience was forced to connect with the soldiers in Ridley Scott's excellent "Black Hawk Down." Both movies work so well by relentlessly trapping the viewers in the same situation as the leads, and so, like it or not, you experience their micro-reality and nothing else.

I have no doubts that "Cloverfield" will eventually get its due as an important early 21st century work, criticism be damned, although this might take a few years of bad Januaries and copy-cat films. I would strongly encourage all those who have seen the film to go back and watch it again with some of my longwinded rant in mind, as I plan to do soon. Even if it is nothing more to you than a big monster B-movie, it still works really well on at least this level.

In Sum: Monstrously good fun. A Must-see.

The Truth About Cats and Dogs

I saw "No Country For Old Men," for the second time last night. I will be honest, I did enjoy it more the first time I saw it, on a larger screen. The incredible desert vistas in particular need to be viewed on as large a medium as possible. Fuck "Beowulf," this is really the movie that deserves the IMAX treatment. To my delight, it is almost as much a cinematographers movie as it is a directors', or screenwriters'. (Hot love for the WGA!)

But I do say "almost," instead of absolutely, because "No Country," is in the end, a literary masterpiece. It is the story, the literary devices of symbolism and the believable characterization that make this production so effective. Upon leaving the theater after this repeat viewing I found that my natural temptation to slip into the kind of bleak, existential introspection that this kind of film cultivates was actually offset by a much stronger sense of sheer admiration for Cormac McCarthy, the author of the original novel from which this movie was adapted. The man is a fucking genius, a literary Einstein, and I have yet to actually read a book of his. So well drawn are the characters, so simple and yet so profound is the plot, so distinctly American is his writing, yet so Global are his themes that it is truly almost a religious experience to behold.

I'm consciously refraining from an extensive discussion of the much-heralded performance of Javier Bardem as the film's villain, because I agree with virtually every other major review that I've read. The man deserves every award he will receive for it, and more. His character is the dark heart that beats at the center of "No Country," reliably, methodically circulating violence and brutality to all the locations and other characters. Tommy Lee, Woody Harrelson and Josh Brolin are also perfectly cast in their roles, and the latter actor certainly has a promising future ahead of him after his incredible work in this one. It's definitely tempting to overlook their performances in the wake of Bardem's, but Brolin particularly holds his own, and the interplay between the two is grippingly authentic. Kelly MacDonald plays Brolin's wife to similarly realistic effect, and it is her above anyone else that the audience can identify and sympathize with.

What I'd like to write about though, is a cool series of moments in the film when various characters wander at different times into the same bloody aftermath of a drug deal gone fatally wrong. Don't worry, I'm not spoiling too much here- this dismal scene is the one that truly begins the film's narrative arc, and we are never shown the initiating circumstances, not in flashbacks, or conversations or otherwise. The ground is predictably littered with fallen bodies, guns and shells, but it is the sight of a dead dog which catches the characters' or the camera's attention every time. Everyone, from the unscrupulous drug-affiliated businessman to the honorable Sherrif's deputy, is shocked and moved by the site of this murdered canine, whereas no similarly conspicuous emotional output arises from the sight of the murdered humans. "Aw hell," The deputy says upon viewing the wreckage, "They even shot the dog." This alone should promote some interesting discussion about the relative worth that we place on our animal companions compared to other people, but it is not the only case where dogs, and later, cats, serve as motifs for much larger themes.

On at least two other occasions, we see dogs wounded or killed. In contrast, all the cats that appear in the movie are alive and well- even in abundance in one scene. What are we supposed to take away from this...that the longstanding, loyal companion of human beings, our most common animal friend, is regularly, mercilessly slaughtered while the notoriously independent, fickle, unsociable, halfway feral, feline is permitted to thrive? Personally, I find that this dichotomy is best read as an Aesop like allegory for the film's largest theme: that the honorable have no place in this country. The dogs, like the titular "old men," simply cannot survive by virtue of their noble characteristics. It is precisely their commitments to guardianship, to aid, to love that end up pitting them in life and death struggles against immoral, unfeeling killers like Anton Chigurh. And unfortunately, it is the unsympathetic who always seem to come out on top. Like the cat licking up the milk spilled after his owner's untimely execution, oblivious to the man's grisly fate, some people are content to simply pass through life looking out only for themselves, seizing opportunities to take advantage of the misfortune of others and use it to their gain.

Mind you, I don't believe that cats are evil in reality or that this movie is trying to say that. But what the film is definitely trying to say is that some people are evil, not in some biblical storybook sense, but in the fact that they lack and avoid any emotional attachment to others- and it can therefore operate most effectively as agents of destruction. When the old, ineffective, mournful Sheriff goes to visit one of his mentors, he finds him in a state of utter decay- his house dark, depressing and filthy- and overrun by cats. This is symbolic of what happens even to the most brave and committed of do-gooders- those that do survive to be old cannot help but be overcome and beaten down by the miserable wretchedness of the evil around them. The old mentor is helpless, a prisoner of these unconscionable creatures. Unable to repel or reject them, he simply allows them to have free reign over his place, his person, his soul.

This is, as one might expect, not a pleasant movie. It is a bleak, dismal one, rife with moments of ironic black humor and sour wit. And much like the dogs and the moral characters in the film, we have no choice but to give into it. A hauntingly powerful and accurate look at what kind of a country America can be- a land of opportunity, to be sure, but only for those brutal enough to seize it from others.


In Sum: Like Nietzsche- depressing but awesome. A must-see. Extremely meditative though, so if you don't want to think- stay at home and watch "A Shot at Love with Tila Tequila," a much more fun and palatable evil.

Slevin: Vampire Hunter

I generally don't trust famous film critics when it comes to two genres; comedy and horror. What's funny and scary and therefore good to me often doesn't seem to resonate very well with guys like Travers and Wilmington. I actually doubt the pro's take on a lot of modern films, but entries in these two genres in particular seem to inspire a good deal of scrutiny and distaste from the establishment, and I'm not exactly sure why. I've often thought it has something to do with the age difference; I'll be 21 in a few months, while most of them are at least as old as my parents (50+). Old people don't seem to like brutal violence unless it is in some sort of a war or historical setting, and are never very amused by the inappropriate sexual and drug-related humor that accompanies my favorite comedies.

I can't help but think, though, that when studios put out massive, serious, boring looking dramas like "Gone Baby Gone," (which has a tomatometer freshness of 92% at the time of this posting) they grease the pro's palms a little bit because they know that nobody would be interested in such fare otherwise. And when they put out something like "30 Days of Night," a survivor-horror-thriller involving Arctic vampires and former Alias cutie Melissa George, they count on bloodthirsty, horny college guys like myself to come out in droves no matter what the reviewers say. I think I am living proof of at least the second part of that theory, but who knows? I bet "Gone Baby Gone" is pretty dece, and I'll probably end up seeing it and enjoying it at least as much as "30 Days of Night," which reminds me that that latter title is supposed to be the subject of this post and I'd better get onto it.

Adapted from a graphic novel of the same title, and produced by horror-comedy phenomenon Sam Raimi, "30 Days of Night," is about a bunch of rural Alaskan villagers in the present day or thereabouts trying to survive a vampire attack on their fictional home of Barrow during an annual, month-long period where the sun fails to rise, presumably due to the extreme northern geography. Don't let Raimi's involvement fool you, however, this film is never funny and nothing like the Evil Dead series.

"30 Days of Night" begins with an incredible but brief shot that I wish would have been expanded upon in more detail; a lone man trudging through snowdrifts away from a cove where an enormous, ominous, jet-black, Russian-looking icebreaker ship lies still on the water, cloaked in fog. We are supposed to infer, of course, that this the means by which the vampires have come to Alaska.

Barrow itself is a quaint, frontier-like town filled with lots of wooden buildings, large vehicles, fur-hooded jackets, and of course, a nice fatty oil pipeline, clearly the foundation of the local economy. With a docile population of just over a hundred, Sheriff Josh Hartnett aka Eben Oleson (who's name I thought was "Evan" until I looked it up on IMDB, what the fuck kind of a name is Eben, anyway?) doesn't seem to have much to do when the film opens except be glum about a recent separation with his Fire-marshal wife Stella (Melissa George), who is trying to finish up inspecting some fire-fighting supplies and get the hell out of the town and away from Eben/Evan as fast as possible.

However, as the 30 day period of darkness descends, and Barrow is effectively "cut-off" from the rest of civilization (all flights in and out cease during this time), Stella misses the last plane out of Barrow, and Eben/Evan finds himself called upon to investigate a series of petty but strange crimes, including a kennel full of butchered dogs and a pile of burned cell phones. His investigation, however, involves little more than brooding while he drives around the town and talks with various residents.

One thing I didn't like was that although there were some brief, establishing shots of the town that showed local Inuits, the cast itself was highly Americanized, with everyone speaking perfect English. How fucking ethnocentric do the creators think we audience members are? The vampires, once revealed as characters in their own rights, as opposed to just fast, murderous silhouettes, (an event which occurs about 20 minutes into the film) do have their own made-up language, so I guess that counts as some diversity.

This language also sounds cool when the vampires speak out loud, but their scary voices are undermined by subtitles revealing they have the thought-processes of grade school children.
Then again, the whole idea of "30 Days" is kind of a revisionist take on the vampire legend, and the vampires are supposed to be more feral and unsophisticated than your traditional Bram Stroker, Anne Rice types, so I guess it goes with that whole theme. Still I would have preferred NOT being able to understand what they were saying and just leaving it up to everyone's imaginations. This would have created a much greater aura of mystery and wildness around them. Aside from this, the vamps make pretty frightening villains, and it was awesome to watch them run around on the rooftops of Barrow's wooden buildings and pounce like tigers on unsuspecting victims.

Unfortunately, this R-rated film lacks any even slight depictions of sex, which I definitely think would have improved things overall. But alas, nobody- not Melissa, not a hot young pipeline worker (yes...thats correct), not even Joshy boy gets their mack on, even though I'm sure it's one of the best ways to pass 30 days of relentless, cold, darkness.

I don't want to spoil the whole film for anyone that is interested in checking it out of course, so I'll refrain from going to much further into the plot. Sufficed to say, it is paper thin, and character development and acting are of typical B-movie quality, i.e. say quite minimal. These, and the aforementioned defects, are countered, however, by noble attempts at intensity and suspense, a fair amount of gore, and a brilliantly unpredictable ending that manages to be compelling but not gimmicky or Shyamalanesque.

Overall I'd say that as a pre-Halloween movie, this definitely got my in the spirit of the season, and was worth the price of admission (Although we did go during the afternoon, so it was only $4.75.)

"30 Days of Night" won't go down in history as a horror-classic. But it won't be remembered as a massive, unwatchable, failure either. In fact, I enjoyed it despite its numerous flaws. It delivers nearly exactly what the trailers and the concept promise.

I've also read somewhere that the studio has already announced the intentions to make a sequel, which could easily use this first film as a springboard to be much better, but will likely, (blood)suck big some big balls (nice imagery eh?). Oh well.

In Sum: Check it out if you dig seeing people being bitten and axed (and don't mind that there is basically nothing else worthwhile going on).