Another horror film based on true events, but how much is really true and what has inevitably been created for our entertainment. With no monsters, no serial killer, no masked madman…could it really be death by sauna?
Opening with a car crash and a girl who we later realise is Jenna (Scout Taylor-Compton), screaming trapped in a car, we skip forward 3 years a group of the usual twenty something’s Jenna included are heading to a remote island for the weekend visiting Ian’s uncle Wade (Tyler Mane). Jenna still haunted by the events of her past is struggling with moving on with her life, could this be the relaxing break she needs to put her life in perspective.
Of course the group find the sauna, drink and relax, Michael (Michael Copon) who is suitably drunk leaves for the toilet and unknowingly locks his unsuspecting friends in as a ladder blocks the door. With temperatures rising tempers also fly as Jenna, Renee (Christina Ulloa) and Ian (Travis Van Winkle) fight to survive. Breaking the sauna window to let some cool air in they take turns by the door breathing in what little air they can. Jenna thinks if they break the temperature gage inside the sauna it might stop the heat rising, of course unwilling to listen to Ian she breaks the thermostat causing the heat to steadily rocket without it and with the window broken the heat will continue to rise and will not reach the temperature they originally set but surpass it causing heatstroke and almost certainly death if they are not found.
There is a moment when you think the three friends will be found as Beau barks and barks outside the sauna but Wade and a friend are letting off fireworks and thinking these are what spooked the dog they ignore it. the pair then bump into Michael who has been passed out from alcohol and drugs thinking his friends have gone to the party without him, he does not go looking for them.
Jenna is the character you empathise towards did she really want to be dragged away for the weekend with activities that involve inclosed spaces? Renee who’s sole purpose throughout the film is to shout Michael repeatedly to no avail is the least favourable character, why did Michael not ever go to check on his friends? Ian is the stand out hero of the story the real knight in shining armour willing to risk everything to be rescued. Will the friends be found in time and survive the ever increasing heat.
More a claustrophobic survival film than a horror, a simple concept turned into a terrifying reality likely to bring fear to us all.
Next time you use the sauna double check the door opens, I know I will.
“A woman’s voice on the radio can convince you you’re in love
A woman’s voice on the radio can convince you you’re alone”
Some Thoughts After Viewing Steven Hinde’s Love on the Airwaves
By Pablo D’Stair
To get it out the way in front, least my below riffing be wrongly colored with some kind of aggressive tint: I dug this little film, really enjoyed it. I liked the way it was photographed, paced, performed. Really nice little piece.
My thoughts, surrounding my viewing (or in fairness, my thoughts in a time close after viewing) got caught in a kind of roundabout loop, considerations on the short-form in the written-word and filmed medium. And also they snagged in some version of that age old and somewhat sophomoric rhetorical of wondering what the primary difference is between filmed-medium and written-word, some version of ‘Does film rob the imaginative, interactive aspect of art from audience?’
Of course, in principle, it does not—this is a subjective sort of question, a Socratic impetus for a conversation the conversation is the purpose of, the conclusions moot and dull.
Yet, in specific instances (to be truthful) I do feel film can be a pacifier, a delivery method only, a stimulus that is not enlivened one way or another by action back toward it from those regarding it.
See, as a short-story, were this a page, two page prose riff, I’d find more to it, more grounding, more of myself to bring. As a short-film, though, I feel I am listening to somebody else’s take on something, wholly (in this case, someone else’s quaint joke, their light remark on a quasi-subject) anything I might be called on as audience, as thinking-entity, to bring of myself kind of made ill-belonging.
Were these words on a page, this scenario played out quick and simple, I would feel called on to supply something—atmosphere, description of face, of tone, pacing of delivery, to think of it either in abstacto or (I lack the Latin for this) in specifico, at my discretion. Would I, for example, even were I told in a prose-piece it was an older cab driver, paint the driver as he is depicted in the excellent (really, I dug it very very much, would have watched it for hours straight, just his face in this dark cab) performance by Max Cullen? Would I envision the assaults to the driver form the electronics exaggeratedly (would I give them physicality at all)? Would I flesh the world or leave it bare stage? Would I give the gadgets ‘gadget voices’ (whether the written word told me so or no) or would I give them human voices, tonalities, personalities? Would I make them both at once? Etc etc.?
I find myself thinking all this because (I do honestly feel) that beyond the quick joke of the film (dark and/or poignant as it may be) there is something more to the idea of it, some germ in it that is causing this flare up of fever thinking—but having had all of above queries (and more) supplied by director and performer, I feel that bringing an “analysis” to the ideas on display (if the ideas I feel could be there, are) really ridiculous, like it would be belaboring something, going on too much about an idea that only may or may ‘belong to the film’.
The film, everything presented to me as complete, leaves my mind (personally) sure with some questions about technology, kind of, or about the intersection of intimacy with progress blah blah blah. None of which do I think the film, as a film, is concerned with. I am concerned with them—thus, were it short prose, I would supply them along with everything else (as discussed above) and the fusion, the commingling of it all would be my experience. It would be about me.
Taken as just shy of five minutes of cinema, I am timid to do anything other than say ‘That’s there. Cool. Good work.’ Because, really, I wonder what there is for me, as audience, and what, if anything, the folks who produced the thing intended me to bring.
Written word actively requires audience to bring—no matter the pedigree of it, from fluff to pulp to high-art to self-indulgent blather (to wit: imagine the difference between reading my—yes, highly self-indulgent—remarks here, you having to supply a voice for me, a face, an attitude, versus seeing me speak in to a web cam or something, a ‘more fully rendered me’ there for you to regard and to consider my motives and attitudes from) while cinema only sometimes requires anything of an audience.
Truly, cinema at its best equals literature at its best, but other gradations are harder (for me, anyway) to get a finger on. Is the shoddiest novel, in principle, more ‘solid’ than the shoddiest film and (most interestingly to me) are films and written pieces not particularly remarkable in-and-of-themselves equal to each other in that unremarkability, is it the same thing one is ‘unremarking’ just because it doesn’t stir particularly engaged response?
Obviously, I tend to think not. And from this, there is a peculiar emptiness to me as a ‘creative audience’ (to borrow a phrase)—if a film does not require me…what then? I watch Love on the Airwaves and I like it. And I can say ‘I like it’ (or click a button indicating that I do) but to go much further…seems to be going a lot further.
I enjoy every component piece of this film and enjoy the whole, as well—yet the component pieces, removed and held individually, I like much more: the words (script) the actor’s performance, the color palate etc.. I can extricate the one from the other, remark on them—but something in knowing the one doesn’t exist without the other makes this feel (to me) like whistling in the dark.
Because (and I’ll end with this) being given specifics to react to does not, in itself, diminish something. Some things, indeed, can only be filmed. Which might be where my whole unsettledness lies. I find myself wondering: Doesn’t a filmmaker, intrinsically, have the desire to present things that could only, only be presented as film—as doesn’t a painter, a sculptor, a writer—doesn’t an artist, principia, want to express in one way some thing, some specific thing, that can only be expressed that way?
The above film, which I very much like, runs about five minutes and seems to contain about five minutes, specifically, nothing for audience to add. Nothing wrong with that. But just to leave a juxtaposition for enduring my rambling, I include the below—a short film running forty-five seconds, about as simple as can be, which (to me) contains an eternity, and one that could not be expressed at all except as Cinema and its components made irrevocably one.
Back in the day, and we’re defining ‘the day’ as the pre-TV, Pre Nazi roaring 20’s, montage films were all the rage. Before the techs figured out how to synchronize sound to picture, it was very difficult to tell a conventional a satisfying point A to point B narrative without burying the audience in text cards, or keeping things SUPER simple. The Montage film allowed cinema to deal in complexity, in loftier subjects and ideas, filtered through a whirling series of images communicating in pure emotion what pre-historic technology did not allow to words to express. Naturally, once they figured out which button to press and when and sound came into the picture, montage films were redundant and have remained mostly as the module film students least look forward to ever since.
Cloud Atlas is essentially a montage movie. Its unveils several stories out simultaneously, stories set in different time-zones, different places, told in different tones and different genres, all the usual things that connect ensemble dramas such as this. No, what connects the various narratives in Cloud Atlas is the philosophical supposition of re-incarnation, given tangeability by having the same actors play multiple roles to visualize the concept. That is to say, you know which re-incarnated character carries the soul of Tom Hanks because he will also be played by Tom Hanks. Confusion sidestepped.
You have the tales of a slave trader (Jim Sturgess) befriending a stowaway slave (David Gyasi) on board a 17th century vessel; a young, penniless composer (Ben Whishaw) playing piano man to a decrepit and aged composer (Jim Broadbent) in the 1930’s, a journalist (Halle Berry) trying to get to the bottom of a corporate conspiracy in the 70’s, A ne’er-do-well Publisher’s (Jim Boradbent) plight after being placed in an old folks home under false pretenses in the modern day, an artificially created waitress flesh-robot (Doona Bae) learning how to be a real girl in the not to distant future and in the far depths of the post apocalypse, the story of a simple villager (Tom Hanks) falling in love with a visitor (Halle Berry) from a technologically advanced far away land, whilst trying not to get eaten by tribal cannibals (Including Hugh Grant). I think that’s everything, but if I’ve missed anything it would be an entirely forgivable mistake given how much is going on in this movie.
Now before you ask, I haven’t read the novel, so there’s undoubtedly some more complex meaning and art that I’m missing in the adaptation, but I’ve long been a believer that an adaptation needs to stand on its own, and if it requires knowledge of the source material to fill in the gaps and make it a more satisfying experience then the bad is with the movie, not with me. But I liked Cloud Atlas. I didn’t love it, and I think it has a lot of problems, many of the severe variety, but for me it’s a movie that becomes more than the sum of its parts through sheer rip-roaring ambition and commitment. This is an attempt to make the greatest film ever made, and while it falls way short of that goal, it contains enough flashes of brilliance, ingenuity and boldness that ultimately make it a stark and original experience, worth watching for the moments if not the bigger picture.
I do however think that no story-line in and of itself is a 100%, the closest probably being the Ben Whishaw lead Composer segment, the simplest and most emotionally resonant, perhaps because its purer character story, whilst too many others get caught up in their own plot machinations, wasting precious time and lessening impact. I thought the Doona Bae lead story of the artificially created waitress was very good in its beginning but tailed off into something more generic at its end, but Bae is terrific in it. The conspiracy thriller and the Old person’s home farce were fairly abysmal, whilst the 17th century and post-apocalyptic segments leaned towards the bland, though both had their moments. Everything felt a little too rushed, as if they were trying to cram everything in to an already epic 172 minute running time, and lost a lot of nuance along the way.
Perhaps the main joy of the movie is seeing it’s various actors forced to work their acting muscles unforgivingly in multiple roles. For some reason I love movies where actors play more than one part, so that makes me a bit of sucker for this, but I think it gives you a fantastic, condensed example of what actors are really capable of. Hugh Grant is largely wasted, playing a series of peripheral parts in the various story-lines without getting one to really take centre stage or even play second fiddle, though the image of him as a murderous cannibal is certainly striking. Ben Whishaw inhabits the most developed character and also is the soul of the movie, Halle Berry and Jim Sturgess do jobs, whilst Doona Bae excels in a her featured role but is weaker in others. The two stellar performances, the first, somewhat predictably, comes from Hugo Weaving, who only has minor roles but is in full on boss mode and in almost all of them, but particularly in the post-apocalyptic episode, where he plays a malicious voice in Tom Hanks head, and looks like an overgrown, decayed Jiminy Cricket. Glorious.
The second comes from Tom Hanks. Tom Hanks is just one of the best actors on the planet. He’s an easy guy to forget because of his enormous success as an every-man, but the man has never given a bad performance in a movie, and almost invariably the strongest aspect of everything he’s in. And maybe with the exception of a Weaving performance here and there, the five best turns in this film are all Hanks, whether in over the top supporting turns or in his more traditional performance as the every-man survivor Zachry, Hanks really shows the depth and range he has to offer here, and it was gratifying to see him stretch himself like this.
Ultimately though, I can’t help but feel that if Cloud Atlas has cut out a couple of its weaker segments it would have been the better for it, narratives fight each other for screen-time and inevitably the threads of some get lost in lieu of making space. But there are enough great scenes and performances that I feel fine in recommending this bloated, ambitious mess. It’s punching for the same kind of visual poetry of an Eisenstein or Bunuel, but to bring it into cinema at its most modern, yet its handicapped by exposition and cliche and occasionally a lack of inspiration. Still, you want see anything else like this at the cinema this year, I guarantee you of that.
“She’s the Cadillac of burlesque” is one of the priceless reviews Satan’s Angel receives from her many followers. But who is this illusive women and why are her nipple tassels on fire?
Angel Walker is the subject of recent documentary Satan’s Angel: Queen of the Fire Tassels, following the life and history of the animated and throaty woman who confesses to being one of the pioneers for the burlesque dance form.
Director, Joshua Dragotta, does a good job of mapping out Walker’s life, starting right from her young age as a Catholic school girl and gathering an in-depth interview with her religious and yet endearingly sweet mother. As we follow Walker while she goes on tour, we discover she is a funny, out-spoken and strong willed woman which is reflected in her performances (although these could have been more frequent) with her gutsy dances and bold outfits leaving little to the imagination. Her huge blond hair and exaggerated wardrobe certainly communicate the era and sub-culture she was a part of and yet, as the interviews and Walker’s history unfold, what is revealed, aside from the many shots of her breasts, is a truly gentle and captivating character. Especially her various relationships, including her long-term girlfriend, Vic, as we follow them on the road. This plot also opens up Walker’s struggle with being a bi-sexual in the late 60s, a time when it was just not accepted for a woman to be in a same sex relationship.
But it wasn’t always monogamy Walker had seeked as we also smoke out the bountiful marraiges and relationships of her past. Thanks to Walker’s business, with her being one of the top burlesque dancers and putting on multiple shows each night, she was one to rub nipple tassels with the greats, her list of past beaus including Clint Eastwood, Janis Joplin and Bobby Darin.
Her life at times resembles something out of a Quentin Tarontino movie and the rough camera shots and Southern soundtrack excentuate this. Over all the movie is well-made; Dragotta seems to have meticulously gone through a long-line of burlesque dancers and stars ranging from the original group Walker performed with, to new characters taking her as inspiration. Her life is nothing short of a novel, which conincidently is in currently in the pipe-line. Perhaps this is not all we shall see (of what we haven’t seen already) of Angel Walker or perhaps this is all that we shall be given. Either way, this documentary makes for an entertaining watch which will leave you wondering, “why aren’t I that cool?”
Savages is the best Oliver Stone film since Platoon!
No that’s a lie.
Most of what’s needed to be written about Savages has been written, so I thought I might make a vain attempt at giving “another perspective” but I can’t. I really can’t. It’s been thirteen years since his last truly good film; Any Given Sunday. Before it’s release in the UK I was excited at the prospect of Stone getting back to his hyper-crazy visual style and twisted sense of violence like he’d done so many times. His most recent films Wall Street: Money Never Sleeps, W. and World Trade Center gave the impression that with age the great director was getting settled in for the night with a blanket and a nice cup of Ovaltine. Compared to his former triumphs he’s been pretty dull of late.
Savages finds Stone trying to re-capture his youth and vigor. He returns to the world of narcotics for the first time since he wrote Scarface thirty years ago. Instead of cocaine this time it’s weed. Woooo. The most boring of all illegal highs. Grown and distributed by Ben (a wide-eyed/bug-eyed Aaron Taylor-Johnson) and Chon (I could have sworn they were saying Sean all the way through the film, anyway he’s played by John Carter of Mars). Ben is the liberal minded, friend of the Earth buddhist. Chon is the war scarred, slightly unhinged muscle of the operation. The two seem to have very little in common apart from O (Blake Lively) he lives with the pair as their girlfriend, friend, sister, daughter, poddle – it’s an odd relationship.
They are approached to join a large drug cartel ruled over by Elena (Salma Hayek) and enforced by Lado (Benicio Del Toro). When they respectfully decline the offer they go bat shit crazy, kill people and kidnap O so that Ben and Chon… no, no he’s Sean from now on… will do their bidding. Oh yeah and John Travolta’s in the film as a crooked DEA agent. His character does little else than to explain away why all these criminals haven’t been arrested yet. That’s literally all he’s there for.
Like a said before it came out I was genuinely excited for Savages. A trip to the motion picture house was a “meh” experience at best but having been given a copy to review I re-watched it quicker than I was expecting to. If anything my slight indifference and disappointment has turned to full blown dislike. Oliver Stone seems to have fallen in love with these young-uns’, that or he wishes to be like them once more. Perhaps his camera really does have soul stealing properties and next we see him on the interview trail he will have grown more youthful in some kind of Dorian Grey/Bubba Ho-Tep hybrid wearing puffy directing trousers. So we’re stuck with the three central young performers who really aren’t that interesting as characters. The plot in a nutshell: drug dealers live the best life ever, people try to stop them living the most awesome life ever, we cry “boo” at this people, applaud them in their journey to get their lovely drug-fueled Elysium back. I’m not trying to be up on my soap box about applauding drug dealers. I’ve cheered for many a scum bag in cinema. But the we’re supposed to cheer these “heroes” and sneer at the Mexican cartel just because they’re a bit less violent.
The lead three performances also don’t help much. Taylor-Johnson, who is usually very watchable, turns in a frankly annoying performance as “nice” drug dealer who after the 1000th time of complaining about not wanting any violence you fell like smacking round the head, pointing him towards a gun store and saying “get with the program”. O’s narration and tedious little asides like asking after John Travolta’s dying wife try to show you what a nice guy he is. But he ain’t Martin Sheen and this ain’t The Departed (as that is the standard by how nice people in movies are measured). John Carter of Mars doesn’t a decent job playing the robot like war veteran. He plays cold and steely very cold and steely but ultimately he is so cold and steely that you probably will not give a damn if he lives or dies. Then finally there’s Blake Lively. Who to be honest is just as bad as you may have heard. That’s not to say her performance is bad. It’s actually okay, she might win the award for my croaky, unnecessary, irritating voice over of the year though. The problem lies in the character. She’s neither victim or heroine. She spends the entire film asking for things and then kicking and screaming when she doesn’t get her own way – and this is when she’s been kidnapped. Fair enough you may be perturbed at being kidnapped but the way she deals with her captures I’m surprised they didn’t just decide to get rid of her and put one of their own people in a wig. She walks through the film in judgement of all around without having an sort of development where she might think “wow, what a fucked up life I’m living”. But why would she do that Oliver Stone thinks she’s perfect , right down to the perfume commercial shots of her on the beach.
Where the film really comes alive is anytime the three older actors are on screen. They know exactly what they’re here to do. John Travolta finally gets to work with Stone after dropping out of The Doors all those years ago. As I’ve said the character adds little but he seems to be enjoying himself, which is nice. One of the films highlights is the short scene between him and Benicio Del Toro. Savages belongs to Del Toro who seems to be channeling Dr. Gonzo as a drug crazy assassin. It’s the absolute antithesis to his performance in Traffic both characterewise and actingwise. The film really livens up whenever he’s on screen and sometimes really does seem to be winking at the camera. Salma Hayek too manages to give a performance that straddles both exploitation bombast and dramatic pathos. Despite being the only female cartel boss and ruling with an iron fist she longs for the affections of her daughter, turning in some of the films only genuinely touching scenes.
But that’s a whole lot of talk about character and acting. What of Stone’s trademark style. You know that style where he cuts to metaphorical horses galloping, thunder cracking, sudden b&w shots and clips seemingly taken from b-roll. Well it’s back and it’s glorious to see. Stone didn’t need to make a film about sexy 20-somethings to get his groove back he just needed to get it on with his editing suite. Stone’s editing style is a bit Marmite but for my mind it brings an intensity and heightened sense of menace or anguish whenever deployed. It’s good to see Stone back on form visually. It’s just a shame the script is so poor. It could be easily 20 minutes shorter and with out spoiling the ending, I seriously wanted some kind of financial recompense from the studio when I first saw it. It’s bullshit. Oh yes and another thing; the line “I had orgasms, Sean (Chon) has war-gasms” is one of the most unintentionally hilarious lines for a long time. This from the man who gave us “Greed is good” speech.
It’s great to see Stone back to trying edgier fare both visually and story wise but he needs to find some more lovable villains next time round.
The extended Blu-ray comes with more Benicio which is certainly not a bad thing.
