Film Review: It Follows

It Follows (David Robert Mitchell, 2014)

There's an unspoken rule in horror films (unspoken in any film except Scream) that if a character engages in any form of sexual behaviour, they will surely die. Puritanical as this may seem, I like to think that it's simply horror writers having a bit of fun and producers throwing some sex in to get the box office up. It Follows takes this concept and makes it literal: by sleeping with a 'carrier', protagonist Jay (Maika Monroe) becomes the target of an unstoppable 'Follower' (replacing the current target, who passes it on through sex), visible only to her and taking on various guises as it attempts to reach and mutilate her.

There are obvious parables here and several ways of reading the film. I'll get these out the way so we can all relax... The Follower could be read as an STI; a manifestation of HIV or AIDS, passed on from one carrier to the next and killing one after the other. This seems a little obvious to me for a film which is clearly very intelligent and respects its audience. It could also be read the the Follower represents the loss of innocence; engaging in sexual behaviour effectively ends your childhood, marking you out as mortal, and draws you inexorably towards death (or draws death inexorably towards you). There are several literary passages in the film on the subject of mortality, and it is interesting to note that adults and authority figures are largely absent or marginalised throughout. With this in mind, you can easily read the film as expressing anxieties about first sexual encounters, first loves and the pain that can come with them.

One one hand, it can be seen as a conservative viewpoint; that having sex, breaking some unspoken code of morality, will ultimately result in your death. However the film dashes this logic with the rule that the Follower can be passed on to another person by sleeping with them. In this sense, promiscuity is rewarded, turning the horror film rule mentioned earlier on its head.  Either way you read it, it's a great idea.

After all that interpretive nonsense, you'll be pleased to know that the film is really good. I would almost put it up there with The Babadook, In Fear and You're Next as a modern great horror, although suffering from the logical problems that affect almost all horrors.  Director Mitchell has crafted a unique look for a horror, his washed out palette closer in tone to indie drama than slasher movie. The cinematography is striking; shots mounted from cars and a chair to which Jay is tied are unusual and unsettling; mixtures of extremely deep and shallow focus are used to draw our eye around the frame where you don't necessarily want it to go; Mitchell also has a tendency to linger on details, showing patience in a genre where many directors would settle for music video-style staccato editing. He has an eye for a shot, too: some of the swimming pool scene in particular is hauntingly (pun intended) beautiful. There are some quite brilliant moments where he focuses on the background of a shot to draw your eye, sometimes at nothing, to creating a paranoid atmosphere and the sense that something is always there, even if it isn't.

There are some bold choices which give It Follows a distinctive look. It's set in an ambiguous time: while one character uses a Kindle-style tablet, another watches a crappy old television (perched on top of another crappy old television); a cinema date shows a man playing an organ before the film; none of the usual technology you would associate with teenagers in horror films is present. It has an odd 80s tone, echoed in the soundtrack, costumes and promotional poster. The film appears to be set in a post-recession Michigan, although this is not explained. There are constant images of urban decay. Boarded up houses and derelict buildings serve as backdrops, settings and refuges; everything of the 'grown up' world is failed and broken. This could be for a number of reasons: a warning against the perils of growing up and losing innocence, therefore warning against sex; or a declaration that the adults fucked it up and hope, life even, lies in youth. It may just be a cool, distinctive look, but in a film where everything else feels so deliberate, I doubt it. For example, conspicuous by their absence for most of the film are the characters' parents, and there is good reason for this.

It isn't perfect by a long stretch: given the established rules that only some characters can see the Follower, shots where the other characters interact with 'nothing' tend to look silly. These shots are over quickly and don't spoil much but are jarring a in a film where a natural tone has been prevalent. There are a few truly awful examples of visual effects as well (a storm, blood swirling in water). I also found the climactic swimming pool scene quite disappointing and something of a 'horror movie logical jump'; why they jumped to the conclusion that the Follower could be stopped by swimming pool electrocution is anyone's guess.

It's admirable to trust your audience, to let them make their own conclusions, but when this is done too much the result can be frustrating. So when a character drives past some prostitutes, are we to assume that he's slept with one to give her the Follower? He drives past them and doesn't stop, and it would seem out of character for him, but are we being led to this conclusion? There are also ill-defined physical rules for the Follower; for example where did it go from the swimming pool? Although I liked the ambiguity of the final shot (what was that in the background?), after too much ambiguity it felt like Mitchell had moved away from trust and into the realms of just fucking with you, which is ironic considering the content of the film... (sorry). These are quite minor quibbles and won't spoil a superficial watch but may leave you a little unsatisfied at the end (ok, enough with the sex jokes, Adam).

I was impressed by It Follows for the most part. Admirably, it doesn't rely on jump scares to be effective and will therefore stand up to repeat viewings. It's well thought out with a brilliant postmodern concept and distinctive production design. The director knows what he's doing and is daring enough to make this closer in tone to Noah Baumbach than James Wan. This is a unique indie-horror experience, although one that probably won't get you laid.

Gig Review: Every Time I Die

Every Time I Die, Newcastle Riverside, 14/11/15

“The world is too incredible to bring such ugliness into it.”

Lyrics taken (out of context) from Every Time I Die's 'No Son Of Mine'. Nights like tonight make me realise that this is true; whatever ETID singer Keith Buckley meant when he wrote that line, to me it means something entirely different in the sweaty wake of one of the best nights I've ever spent watching live music.

I get emotional about music. I'm not ashamed of it; music can hit me on an emotional, visceral level and when I love something, I really love it. Now I love ETID and have done for years. But this, my third experience of seeing them live, managed to transcend being just another night when a band hits the town (like their parachutes failed, as the song goes...), and managed to be an emotional, draining and cathartic experience.

Now tonight didn't have anything to do with what happened in Paris the night before. Other than my honeymoon and Yohan Cabaye's unfortunate transfer, there are no real connections, spiritual or otherwise, between Newcastle and Paris. But when Buckley announced only a few minutes into the show that “this is proof that there is good in the world” in response to the crowd's enthusiasm and energy, he and the crowd alike made the night about positivity, togetherness, and enjoying something you love alongside people who feel the same way.

An early curfew forced Icelandic opening band, Muck to waste no time in walking on, tuning up and blasting out a wall of black metal riffs. They look too young to get served at the bar and are perhaps the skinniest people I have ever seen. The BM riffs gave way to the kind of death n' roll that the likes of Kvelertak and Trap Them do so well. One tune has an almost Dinosaur Jr/early Soul Asylum slacker vibe to it and breaks the set up nicely. They were sloppy but earnest, enjoyable and really fucking loud. Best of luck to them.

Superheaven were up next and I'm sorry to say that they both look and sound like the last 25 years, musically speaking, didn't happen. I'm convinced that they played at least 2 covers of Nirvana's 'Rape Me' and one of Stiltskin's 'Inside', such was their commitment to the loud-quiet-loud grunge dynamic. In fairness, a good number of people seemed to enjoy them, judging by the nodding heads in front of me but it struck me as being very plodding and mid-tempo throughout. They played well, seem to have two good singers, but I'm afraid that when your bass player is enjoying your show more than anyone else in the room, you're doing something wrong.

It goes dark in the Riverside and four members of ETID walk on and go into a pretty impressive introductory riff. Keith Buckley bounds onstage full of energy and starts making the universally-recognised hand sign for 'circle pit'. He needn't have asked; within seconds of opener 'Bored Stiff', The Riverside is chaos, grown men throwing themselves into each other with gleeful abandon. As always, ETID and really tight and Buckley is a fine showman, his voice much improved from the last time he graced our fine city.

New songs 'The Great Secret', 'Thirst', 'Idiot' and 'Decayin' With The Boys' were showcased in 17-song a set which represented just about every album. Conventional wisdom dictates that when a band starts to get some attention and a bit of popularity, having released some shall we say 'softer' songs ('Wanderlust', 'Revival Mode'), that their records start to take that direction. Not so ETID. Latest album From Parts Unknown is a brutal blast of punk fury, the tracks fitting right in alongside older songs 'Ebolarama' and 'Floater'. ETID show their versatility with more straight up rock tunes like 'No Son of Mine', 'The New Black' and a stunning 'We'rewolf' (dedicated to a distinctly lycanthropic member of the audience) before hitting us with the one-two combo of 'The Marvellous Slut' and 'Underwater Bimbos from Outer Space'. Closing with 'Moor' and then 'Indian Giver' we're left with the refrain of “So I make a vow to forget you,” hanging in the air, oddly beautiful after all the carnage.

That they played so well was extra impressive, given that for 90% of the set the stage was so crowded they could barely see each other. People were grabbing the mic from Buckley and screaming along, giving it their all, and it was amazing. Complete strangers were throwing their arms around my shoulders to join in with some air guitar or sing the next chorus. I have never in my life seen a show with so little distance between band and audience, both physical and in terms of status. There was no 'us and them'; they encouraged us to be onstage, to take the mic over and to look after each other. We did.

There was an overwhelmingly positive atmosphere, as summed up by Buckley: “when people ask us what was the craziest show we ever played, they'll ask were there people fighting and blood everywhere? And we'll say, No: it was this show in Newcastle where they all turned out to be the most hopeful, optimistic, positive motherfuckers we've ever seen.” In the wake of something fucking awful happening in the world, which might make you think that something so trivial as a rock show might not matter anymore, this made everyone there feel like a rock show was the only thing that mattered. That togetherness and unity, the sheer positivity of it; all differences went out the window and for about 70 minutes nothing mattered but riffs and vocal chords. That is why I have an emotional connection to music, and if you don't then you won't understand, so please go read something else.

He's right: the world is too incredible to bring such ugliness into it.

Film Review - Mr. Brooks (2007)

Film Review: Mr Brooks (2007)

This Kevin Costner thriller slipped under the radar. Rightly so, some might argue, but for others the radar should have been paying more attention. For me, however, this was an opportunity wasted; a great idea let down by muddled direction and a so many sub-plots that you start to wonder if you can start deleting the 'sub' from the synopsis part of your review.

Costner is undoubtedly a great actor; Hollywood darling of the late 80s and early 90s, when he wasn't churning out great work as incorruptible G-Man figures like Elliot Ness or Jim Garrison (The Untouchables and JFK respectively), he was mining box office gold with trash like The Bodyguard and Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves. There was a time when he could do no wrong, but a combination of Hollywood's fickle fancies, some poor career choices (Waterworld, The Postman, 3000 Miles To Graceland) and maybe one too many films about baseball, has meant that he's no longer the go-to guy if you want an everyman leading man. However a quick look at his CV shows you that he's never really stopped turning in great performances (Thirteen Days, The Company Men); people just haven't really been watching. So it isn't really surprising that Mr Brooks (Bruce A Evans, 2007) features a great Costner performance; what is surprising is that he's playing a bit of a shit.

A serial killer whose 'urges' are personified by 'Marshall', a dead eyed William Hurt (also brilliant. Imagine Jiminy Cricket replaced by Fred West), Costner's titular Mr. Brooks has to balance a daytime life as a corporate success and family man, with hobby as a meticulous murderer. It's all going so well for him when he's apparently discovered by a kindred spirit (Dane Cook, decent but a bit meh) who blackmails Brooks into teaching him the deadly arts.

I was quite taken by the concept and the presentation, Consner's constant sparring with his conscience depicted as actual conversations with another person (who of course nobody else can see) and some of the scenes in which Marshall takes the back seat of a car, doling out murderous advice are darkly brilliant. However, the film's inability of focus on this strong thread is it's downfall and it often feels like episodes of various TV police, legal and family dramas have been crammed in for good measure. Demi Moore, bless her, tries her best with a beleaguered cop trying to balance a) catching Brooks, b) a messy divorce, c) an escaped convict that she put away!, and d) a different killer, and e) daddy issues. There are also sub plots involving Brooks' daughter and company, which don't really go anywhere.

It's a shame because with a cast featuring Costner, Hurt and Moore, one could be forgiven for expecting some good B-level thriller action but ultimately it's fumbled by an inexperienced director. Costner should play villain more often; he does some great work here, removing his glasses and adopting an icy resolve that's a million miles from JFK's idealist Jim Garrison. Known for playing whiter-than-white heroic types in his heyday, he has graduated from leading man to character actor and does well with what he's given here. Likewise Demi Moore, whose days of opening a film are surely behind her, does well with the underdeveloped plot threads and aside from one scene where she effectively turns into The Terminator, shows she can still turn in good work when she wants to.

So it's not an overly bad film, it's just disappointing that such a good idea has been lost in a really muddled film. A few years have passed since Mr Brooks' release and while Costner and Moore continue to appear in decent supporting roles, it's worth noting that Evans hasn't directed another film since.

Gig Review: Skindred, Newcastle Academy, 08/11/15

I wrote one of these things a while back (here and here), complaining (like I do) about the lack of suitable headliners for rock festivals. All of the 'big' bands, capable of drawing a big crowd are getting old and surely soon to retire (Sabbath are bowing out next year, Metallica are already complaining about their health). This is no good and rock, as a genre, needs new heroes. Six studio albums in and Skindred are staking their claim. They're already big, but that these guys aren't huge is a national travesty.

I'd seen them once before and so good were they that my personal heroes, Therapy?, weren't the best band to play that night. So much so that I made this the latest in a long line of weird gigs I've brought my wife along to. Given that she endured the likes of Every Time I Die and Vista Chino and still married me says something about her resolve, I think... Skindred, however, I had promised were nothing but fun. No screamed vocals, no complicated time signatures and breakdowns, and no stoner rock wig-outs. Just fun. And fun is exactly what they delivered.

We walk in following some cultured pub conversation in one of Newcastle's finest establishments, The Bodega, to find Crossfaith well into their set and the floor of the academy in a somewhat chaotic state. A Japanese crossover band, Crossfaith had eluded my attention until now. Probably because whenever I saw them I was convinced that they were more interested in cool haircuts than doing anything musially interesting, but it serves me right for judging a book by the haircut on the cover. While I still don't think I'd rush out and buy their records, they are an alarmingly intense live act. Fusing heavy guitars with dance and synths is hardly new (elements of Pitchshifter, The Prodigy, Die Krupps), but the sheer energy that goes into tonight's show is infectious. Ending their set with 'Wildfire', for which they are joined by Benji from Skindred, and a cover of The Prodigy's 'Omen', the crowd are eating out of their collective hand and the headliners suddenly have a job to do.

AC/DC's 'Thunderstruck' blasts over the PA and the lightshow starts. This then segues into 'Imperial March' for the band to walk on. Singer Benji Webbe is a natural showman; sporting a red sequinned jacket and sunglasses he epitomises the band's energy, positivity and confidence. He has a hell of a voice, too. Equal parts Freddie Mercury's flamboyance and Bruce Dickinson's boundless enthusiasm, there are few frontmen about these days that can match him.

The don't get off to the best of starts and I'm immediately worried that I've invited my wife to witness a damp squib. Opening with recent single 'Under Attack', it's apparent that the Academy's legendary sound system is up to its usual tricks and they sound kind of tinny and light on bass. The song itself also fails to ignite somewhat, perhaps a little bit too new to get the crowd on side. This is all rectified within the next two numbers, 'Roots Rock Riot' and 'Stand For Something', punctuated by some hilarious banter from Webbe (including the priceless line “Stop fucking smiling, you cunt!” delivered to an audience member). From that point on, they sound massive and the crowd has well and truly warmed to them.

Musically, Skindred meld together a few different styles, borrowing from reggae, ragga and hip hop but usually their songs are built around a huge, bouncy riff. On record, I can sometimes find this a little repetitive however the formula makes them an ideal live band, with songs designed to make you dance, bounce and headbang, often all at the same time. It's hard not to get involved, even if you're bordering on “too old for this shit” as I very nearly am. Personal highlights were the brilliant 'Doom Riff', whose soaring chorus, 'woah-oh' singalongs and, well, doom riff are the stuff of genius, as well as new tune 'Volume', which sounds immense.

Set-wise, they play a good chunk of songs from their new album Volume, a surprising number from Roots Rock Riot and only 2 tracks from 2011's brilliant Union Black record. Obligatory early singles 'Pressure' and 'Nobody' are belted out, the latter bringing the main set to a close. They return with help from the support acts to close with a frantic 'Warning'. Benji's inter-song banter is great; universally positive, funny and appreciative. The admission that he and drummer Arya Goggin were missing Downton Abbey to play for us had me in stitches. It's this kind of charisma that should be propelling them to the upper echelons of the rock scene. It's the kind of positive message that needs to be heard, without the band being overtly political and po-faced about it; if they declare world peace tomorrow, this should be the band they book for the party.

So why aren't Skindred huge? They're certainly big, probably on par with the likes of Bullet For My Valentine or at least Twin Atlantic, but nowhere near as popular as the likes of Bring Me The Horizon or Biffy Clyro. And why is that? They're a peerless live band and a lot more fun than any of the others I've just mentioned. Sadly it may be that too many people in the metal scene are purists and just won't accept the stylistic mix. If that's the case then guys, please, get over yourselves. This is the next big band to fill out a festival; Benji is destined to be stood there, probably wearing a top hat and jodhpurs, demanding 'Scream for me, Donnington!” We just need to buy their records and make it happen. Go on then, what are you waiting for?

Film Review - Crimson Peak

Film Review - Crimson Peak

Guillermo Del Toro is a talented director with a fine CV under his belt. Aside from a few forays into Hollywood blockbuster-dom, he's a fully-fledged auteur: key concerns, a visual style all of his own and everything else you'd expect from the word. I'm going to avoid talking about Pacific Rim as much as possible in this review, as it frankly doesn't support most of what I'm going to say...

I'll get it out of the way now: I thought Pacific Rim was unintentionally hilarious and a really bad film. An admirable attempt at something quite new, spoiled by some baffling set pieces, silly plotting and truly abysmal acting (the continued popularity of Charlie Hunnam continues to baffle me). As his most recent film, I wasn't exactly full of confidence going into Crimson Peak. But how wrong I was to allow my faith in an artist to be shaken.

Crimson Peak is a fine slice of Gothic horror, almost Hammer-like in its atmosphere, shocks and cleavage (in terms of both boobs and knives). Likeable protagonist Edith Cushing (Mia Wasikowska. Brilliant as ever, even if the character name is a bit obvious) finds herself embroiled firstly with the unsettling ghost of her dead mother (effective, kind of dementor-like) and the mysterious Baronet Thomas Sharpe (y'know, like a knife) for whom she falls as quickly as women do in this type of film. Tom Hiddleston (Sharpe) looks unassailably cool in Victorian costume and does well with a part which in the wrong hands could have been shrinking violet or scenery-chewing panto villain. His delivery (along with his jaw line) is somewhere between serpentine and gentlemanly and keeps you guessing despite some telegraphed plot points. Completing the love triangle on which the film stands, is Jessica Chastain's Lucille Sharpe, symbiotic sister to Thomas. Again, in lesser hands she would be drenched in cliché but lucky for us Chastain is one of the finest actresses on the planet and elevates a potentially thankless character into something truly scary. It's worth pointing out that this is a much better, more atmospheric and scarier horror than her last foray into the genre, Mama (Andres Muschietti, 2013).

The film is going well, and veers effectively between creepy and downright unpleasant, for the entire first act. Then we arrive at Allerdale Hall, the Sharpes' dilapidated family mansion, for the second act onwards. The hall is pure Del Toro and a masterpiece of set and production design. Built over and gradually sinking into a clay mine, Allerdale has fallen into disrepair and you can sense the demonic glee Del Toro takes in torturing you with every noise, locked door and darkened corridor. Much like the tree in Pan's Labyrinth, this is location as character and works brilliantly. The clay mine motif is a brilliant one, allowing Del Toro to justify Allerdale's walls oozing with red goo and the snow turning, well, crimson. It's the House of Usher, cracked but bleeding rather than falling; the house is the Sharpe family.

Del Toro turns the expected horror screws throughout, filling his shots with ominous images: the creepy photographs and wax recordings; the marble walls of a bathhouse look like they're splattered with blood; the wooden embellishments of Allerdale's doorways look like spearheads. All of that Victorian machinery has something deliciously torturous about it, too. The film is littered with foreboding in the corners of the frame. Del Toro is also quick to reference horror classics such as The Shining (a rotting body in a bathtub, a bouncy ball returned along an empty corridor) and Rosemary's Baby (what exactly is in the tea they're feeding her) and the aforementioned nods to Poe. Far from being a pastiche or an ironic tribute to horrors past, this is resolutely Del Toro's own film. Key motifs of his such a child (or an innocent) in peril, a family unit featuring a monster, and an unhealthy obsession with insects are prevalent throughout.

It's far from perfect, though. Simply referencing your knowledge of horror without using it to drive a plot or create suspense can make its own problems. For example, you'd be hard pressed to find somebody who didn't work out what the evil plot was from some distance off. Likewise the Sharpe family 'dynamic'. The film skirts dangerously close to camp at times, with some overwrought moments. While Charlie Hunnam is less awful than usual in this – his appalling mid-Atlantic accent kind of suits the proto-American period – he is still a terrible actor, and his sub-plot feels tacked on (often with a long knife).

So often is the case with horror, a film will treat you to 80 minutes of enjoyable foreplay and then offer a disappointing climax, normally by showing you some duff CGI which lessens the effect of all the good work before it. Pleasingly, this boils down to a quite brutal throwdown between two beautiful women (the sight of Chastain in clingy Victorian undergarments is worth the price of admission alone... sorry). Lots of blood is spilled and no concessions are made for younger viewers. Exactly what horror should be: horrible.

So it's kudos to Del Toro for getting his mojo back after a disappointing foray into robots and giant monsters. This time he keeps his monsters human-sized and suitably monstrous. Leaving the cinema, I can't help but wonder how good his version of The Hobbit would have been if he hadn't walked. Del Toro would have made you really believe that Gollum would eat Bilbo during 'Riddles In The Dark'. If instead of that, we get more personal and passionate films like Crimson Peak, then I'm happy with the trade.