I am not sure why I had such high hopes for Panos Cosmatos stylish husk of a horror film. The word-of-mouth buzz around it was perhaps one contributor, as was the promise of that rather gorgeous promotional poster. The fact that the late Johann Johansson had worked on the soundtrack, which sounded like a free interpretation of the great electro themes of early 1980s cinema also had grabbed my attention. While the presence of Andrea Riseborough in the titular role balanced off the frustrations of any film where Nicolas Cage is encouraged to implode. Yet all of these possible sparks of excitement count for nought having now surveyed what I can only describe as the first Netflix aggregated film.
Cosmatos is clearly a film nerd in the Tarantino tradition, having gorged himself on the kind of high-wattage 80s trash of the TEXAS CHAINSAW MASSACRE 2 and MOTEL HELL, he has chugged up for the audience a film that feels custom calibrated to appeal to a nostalgia for the idea of the 'midnight movie' and 'the video nasty'.
It is a film that is consciously riding the retro-zeitgeist for all things neon, electro 80s. In casting Nicolas Cage as the avenging husband Cosmatos seems inspired less by what to do with Cage in this role and more by the Youtube infamy that Cage's school of overacting has achieved. One scene in particular, involving a pair of Y-fronts and a bottle of vodka, is nothing more than the cynical addition to Cage's YouTube 'wig-out' reel. The inclusion of King Crimson over the title credits gives the film the further gloss of artful pretension. While the bum-achingly slow pace of the film rings of Cosmatos ridiculing the indulgent stylings of 'arthouse' slow cinema.
What makes the film even more unfathomable is the restraint that the whole thing actually evidences, certainly when placed in the context of the type of horror movie it is liberally riffing from. The violence here is brutal, but completely undercut by the dual attack of daft humour and a aversion to lingering upon the gorier aspects of what the film offers. Eyes pop, heads roll, women are cremated alive, but none of this violence is really felt, nor is it particularly repellent. Compare what Cosmatos is doing to the more audacious Giallo-infused self-reflexiveness of Helene Cattet and Bruno Forzani's work. THE STRANGE COLOUR OF YOUR BODY'S TEARS (2013) has a similarly trippy aesthetic, in which the violence is more shocking and brutally rendered.
There is clearly craft at work in the visual aesthetic and the score. Cage will always have his fans and defenders. And there really is nothing quite like a good revenge tale. Yet that is the limit of my positive feelings toward this film. Its real crime is in parodying the unparodyable, making it impossible to appreciate some of the great work from Linus Roache as the drugged-out Mansonesque figure, who has the flavour of Todd Rundgren about him. Rather than doing something as groundbreaking as certain critics have suggested, I find the whole affair a kind of conservative regression, a film that attempts to bring the outre into the mainstream by coyly viewing its violence through a glass darkly. Disappointing - and what on earth did Andrea Riseborough sign up for?
Cosmatos is clearly a film nerd in the Tarantino tradition, having gorged himself on the kind of high-wattage 80s trash of the TEXAS CHAINSAW MASSACRE 2 and MOTEL HELL, he has chugged up for the audience a film that feels custom calibrated to appeal to a nostalgia for the idea of the 'midnight movie' and 'the video nasty'.
It is a film that is consciously riding the retro-zeitgeist for all things neon, electro 80s. In casting Nicolas Cage as the avenging husband Cosmatos seems inspired less by what to do with Cage in this role and more by the Youtube infamy that Cage's school of overacting has achieved. One scene in particular, involving a pair of Y-fronts and a bottle of vodka, is nothing more than the cynical addition to Cage's YouTube 'wig-out' reel. The inclusion of King Crimson over the title credits gives the film the further gloss of artful pretension. While the bum-achingly slow pace of the film rings of Cosmatos ridiculing the indulgent stylings of 'arthouse' slow cinema.
What makes the film even more unfathomable is the restraint that the whole thing actually evidences, certainly when placed in the context of the type of horror movie it is liberally riffing from. The violence here is brutal, but completely undercut by the dual attack of daft humour and a aversion to lingering upon the gorier aspects of what the film offers. Eyes pop, heads roll, women are cremated alive, but none of this violence is really felt, nor is it particularly repellent. Compare what Cosmatos is doing to the more audacious Giallo-infused self-reflexiveness of Helene Cattet and Bruno Forzani's work. THE STRANGE COLOUR OF YOUR BODY'S TEARS (2013) has a similarly trippy aesthetic, in which the violence is more shocking and brutally rendered.
There is clearly craft at work in the visual aesthetic and the score. Cage will always have his fans and defenders. And there really is nothing quite like a good revenge tale. Yet that is the limit of my positive feelings toward this film. Its real crime is in parodying the unparodyable, making it impossible to appreciate some of the great work from Linus Roache as the drugged-out Mansonesque figure, who has the flavour of Todd Rundgren about him. Rather than doing something as groundbreaking as certain critics have suggested, I find the whole affair a kind of conservative regression, a film that attempts to bring the outre into the mainstream by coyly viewing its violence through a glass darkly. Disappointing - and what on earth did Andrea Riseborough sign up for?
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