For many, the concept of aging can seem like an inevitable, terrifying reality. But for others, aging threatens more than just fine lines and greying hair. Director Natalie Erika James tackles the unseen horrors of aging with her first feature-length film Relic (2020), an unlikely ghost story that brings a haunting into the subconscious.
When Edna (Robyn Nevin), a doting grandmother, seemingly goes missing, her detached daughter and granddaughter must piece together the remnants of her home life. But when she finally returns, her family realizes that something has taken over both her and her home. Relic explores the unyielding complexities of generational trauma and the importance of family.
Erika James has built a career around connecting age, family, and the subtlety of fear. Her shorts Creswick (2017) and Drum Wave (2018) both explore the complexities behind the cultural responsibilities of family. These films use ambiguous sources of fear as thinly veiled metaphors for interpersonal and familial issues. Relic (2020) is her first feature-length film to follow in the same deep-rooted, visually-provocative storytelling style.
Edna’s character, who’s initially framed as a beloved elderly woman, is slowly coded with alzheimer’s. Although her home is traditional and welcoming, there are small glimpses of uncertainty strewn throughout her belongings. She leaves instructions on sticky notes around her home to “take pills” and “flush”, but as the film progresses these simple reminders turn into ominous threats like “don’t follow it” and “the walls are moving.” The progression of Edna’s disease becomes increasingly apparent through her erratic behaviors, but also through the sudden appearance of a sinister presence.
Relic relies heavily on the interpretation of visual metaphors, which are interwoven into the lives of the three main characters. The sudden onset of Edna’s alzheimers coincides with the arrival of the apparition, creating a link between Edna’s physical home and her mind. As her mental health begins to deteriorate, so does her house. Her granddaughter Sam (Bella Heathcote) is the first to notice large patches of mold slowly spreading throughout her home, which eventually escalates to different structural damages. These dark mold spores parallel the violent bruising that appears across Edna’s body. When Sam becomes trapped within the walls, unable to escape, it parallels the deterioration of Edna’s mind. Her home, like her mind, is crumbling.
The visual composition and framing are where the Australian film truly shines. Without compelling visuals, the underlying metaphors would seem underdeveloped and vapid. Erika James utilizes highly contrasted shadowing to hide ambiguous horror elements without resorting to cliché jumpscares. There are moments of impressive sfx and prosthetic makeup, especially in dream sequences and the final scene. Robyn Nevin also gives an incredible performance as her character descends into a catatonic, possessed state.
Still, the heavy reliance on metaphors can come off as pretentious, especially when paired with the intensity of the final scene. Certain cuts and dream sequences seem jarring and without merit, falling into the same pitfalls as Darren Aronofsky’s Mother! (2017). Relic, although visually impressive, also has questionable writing choices. There are certain reactions from Edna’s daughter, Kay (Emily Mortimer), that don’t make sense in the context of the film or established relationships. The lack of an intimately close relationship with her mother may lend itself to the guilt-ridden tension associated with Edna’s decline, but it also doesn’t provide a definitive baseline to the emotions the audience is supposed to associate with scenes.
At its core, Relic isn’t about a vengeful spirit or dark family secret. Edna and her family aren’t being punished for a long-forgotten crime or unknowingly making sacrifices for a pagan cult. These women are just continuing the line of generational trauma. Edna, Sam, and Kay are haunted by their own generational inheritance, whether it be disease, grief, or regret. Aging isn’t the kind of villain that you can outrun.
Coming-of-age films often adorn rose-colored glasses onto our memories; romanticizing the 6 a.m. commute, early-morning swim period in gym class, and the trauma of trigonometry. Sure, most coming-of-age films may delve into the ideas of bullying, isolation, and the insecurities of puberty, but rarely do they go beyond the precipice of teenage angst. These films need to introduce conflict that can be overcome by regular teenagers, through regular means. Anything beyond the realm of an after-school special crosses the line of achievable conflict resolution without adult interference. All teenagers want to feel empowered; they don’t want to watch their parent’s solve their problems. But when conflict surpasses what teenager’s can control, the result can be deadly.
There’s an unspoken tonal dissonance felt while watching Carrie White (Sissy Spacek), the titular teenage anti-hero of Brian De Palma’s Carrie (1976), reapply mascara in the broken mirror of her dimly lit bedroom before leaving for prom. The audience watches as she allows herself to be overcome with confidence — if just for a fleeting second — as the camera zooms out to reveal her domineering, abusive mother lingering just out of sight. As quickly as we’ve been eased by the prospect of a classic coming-of-age film makeover, Margret White (Piper Laurie) violently pulls us from our teenage fantasies.
As an audience, we experience the realities of Carrie’s torment alongside her. We know better than to find relief in her childlike excitement. When Margret White proclaims, “They’re all gonna laugh at you,” we know that Carrie is about to experience one of the worst realities of adolescence: finding out your mother was right.
Carrie exists as a horror film, allowing the apex of violence to overtake the entirety of the plot. While everyone may remember the prom scene for its visceral lighting and soundtrack, in this film, there are complex emotional layers stemming from years of abuse that all culminate into Carrie’s sudden, violent outburst. Our glimpse into Carrie’s high school experience acts as a microcosm of all the anxieties teenagers face. Not only was she blindsided by the emotional turmoil of puberty, but she’s also subjected to blatant hatred and isolation from everyone in her life. Unlike horror icons like Freddy Krueger (Nightmare on Elm Street) or Jason Voorhees (Halloween), Carrie wasn’t initially framed as a monster.
Still, there’s something to be said about the film’s ability to evoke a sense of unyielding cynicism in regards to its characters. Carrie sets out to explore far more than a complicated mother-daughter relationship. It’s not often that coming-of-age films intersect with the horror genre, but Carrie has maintained its place on the throne of cultural relevance for the last five decades. The film presents a unique take on the story of girlhood, centered around a social lightning rod that’s slowly building in power. Carrie, a social outcast with telekinetic abilities, has been transformed into a symbol of the horror genre, condemned to be seen as a monster. But the actual framing of the film presents Carrie as a victim of a cruel, cynical world.
Our introduction to Carrie begins as a zoom-in shot of a volleyball game during gym class. At first, there aren’t any visual indicators that single out Carrie from the rest of her peers. But when she misses the ball we witness the relentless bullying she faces from all the girls in her class. She’s subjected to physical violence, comments berating her abilities, blatant insults, and of course, the memorable request to “eat s–t.” Then, De Palma intentionally creates tension by sandwiching frames of violence with scenes of idealization, as the scene cuts to the notoriously sensual locker room scene, accompanied by hazy pink lights and a flute solo. The scene plays out like the textbook definition of the male gaze as it pans through rows of naked teenage girls. The camera moves slowly enough for the young women’s bodies to fully envelope the scene, yet quickly enough to prevent the audience from associating the bodies with the actual characters. As the girl’s are objectified by the camera, captured in their most vulnerable, disembodied state, there’s a contentious undertone to the pornographic imagery on screen. We watch as the girls laugh and joke around with each other, fully disconnected from the realities of insecurity and the perception of their own cruel actions. Then suddenly, we’re ripped away from our brief moments of ease when confronted by Carrie’s first period.
Carrie’s first period is the catalyst for the massacre that overtakes the cultural identity of the film. Her period, a long-standing symbol for womanhood and female sexuality, is the breaking point for Carrie’s sense of control and stability. The arrival of her period cuts through the softness of the locker room scene, turning the softcore 70s exploitation into an anxiety-ridden nightmare scenario. The camera slowly pans around Carrie’s nude body as she washes herself in the shower until it reaches her hips. When Carrie finally notices the blood, she reacts as if she earnestly believes she is in danger. When she runs to the other girls for help, she is in her rawest, most vulnerable state. Yet, the other girls choose to respond with overwhelming violence and abuse. This scene parallels the violent prom scene, but the tables turn on the perpetrators of Carrie’s initial torment.
Carrie is the victim of her high school’s cruelty.
De Palma chose to use a definitive narrative technique through sandwiching scenes with opposite tones to visually and audibly distinguish the conflict between a romanticized teenage fantasy and a grim, cynical reality. Whether it’s the sexualized softness of the girls’ locker room scene or the lighthearted shopping montage, the audience knows to be wary of anything bathed in soft light and accompanied by an upbeat soundtrack. From the very beginning of the film, De Palma blatantly juxtaposes the idealization that audiences expect to see from a coming-of-age film and capitalizes on developing distrust in response to every positive, cinematic moment. These scenes are often paired directly in conversation with each other; seen when Carrie accepts Tommy’s invite to the prom, followed directly by the scene of Chris and Billy slaughtering a pig. The romanticization of positive adolescent experiences create a further divide from the painful, grim realities of high school girlhood.
Carrie acts as a commentary on the representation of teenagers through a male gaze, working under the same general visual cues as American Beauty sans Kevin Spacey. Teenage mean girls like Regina George or Blair Waldorf might lay into someone’s insecurities or even enact cruel pranks around a doe-eyed protagonist’s love-life, but rarely do these mean-spirited acts lead to actual violence. But Carrie sets out to create the kind of reality that most high school students can’t even fathom. Characters like Chris Hargensen, who gleefully smiles while watching her boyfriend beat a pig to death in order to carry out her cruel prank, don’t exist on the same level as girls that run cliques. Even Sue Snell, the kindest of the mean girls, still joined in the ruthless locker room torment.
Still, Carrie’s characterization doesn’t follow the typical, relatable teen-girl mold that audiences have come to expect. She isn’t written to be the shy, quirky girl who fills her free time making art or studying extra hard to get into her dream college. In fact, her interests, aspirations, and long-term goals are never actually explored at all. We know Carrie wants to fit in, but other than gain social acceptance, she doesn’t exist outside of the confines of her high school torment. In the realm of this film, Carrie simply exists to suffer, react, and then eventually burn out.
Carrie is a lesson in empathy in the fight against high school cynicism. As an audience, we watched as the world labeled Carrie as a monster. Yet, while watching the film, we don’t fear her until it’s too late. We want to believe that she’s in control of her powers, but that means we sacrifice remembering that she’s still a teenage girl. Carrie isn’t the ruthless, bloodthirsty monster that she inevitably becomes, but the rest of the world is.
The Pitch: Yasuke (LaKeith Stanfield) isn’t your typical feudal samurai warrior, and no one will let him forget it: He’s Black. During an age of honor, tradition, and uniformity, the infamous Black Samurai’s high rank makes him a target in a world full of bigotry. But after a lifetime of pain and blood, all he wants to do is live peacefully. Unfortunately for him, that doesn’t seem to be what fate has in mind.
Based on the historical figure of the same name, Yasuke follows the samurai as he abandons retirement to help transport a mysterious, magical child (Maya Tanida) to safety. The series combines the creative vision of LeSean Thomas with the musical stylings of Grammy Award-nominated producer Flying Lotus for a show that transcends the expectations of the genre.
The Greatest Ronin Never Known: The entertainment industry has been trying to tell the story of Yasuke for years with the short-lived Afro Samurai and the now-canceled live-action film, set to star the late Chadwick Boseman. Yasuke, an African man who had served a high-ranking feudal lord during the 16th century, is one of the earliest known records of African descent in Japan. Now, backed by a predominantly Black creative team, the story is set to introduce a new generation of young, Black teenagers to anime.
The actual story of Yasuke largely remains a mystery to Japanese historians, which gives the creative team a lot of leeway when it comes to creating this adaptation. Choosing to base the series in an alternate reality lends itself to the otherworldly lore surrounding the character, but it also introduces different layers of conflict and character motivation that don’t always work. There are often abrupt transitions between light exposition or shonen-style fight scenes that one might expect from a story with magic and quick cuts to incredibly gory samurai fights. While many of these shots include stand-out animation, there is an obvious tonal dissonance in the story.
Not-Your-Father’s Samurai Anime: Samurai animes are known for their traditional approach and relatively formulaic storylines, but Yasuke melds the traditional tropes with a Southern Bronx flair. LeSean Thomas, the creator and director, is responsible for bringing the historic tale of Yasuke to life alongside renowned producer Flying Lotus. The result is a unique blend of mature, shonen-style action and an invitingly modern soundtrack that is sure to entice Western audiences. Similar in originality to the universally adored soundtrack of Cowboy Bebop, Flying Lotus combines nostalgic synth with roots in both traditional Japanese and African soundscapes.
The action ranges from classic shonen-style fighting to brutal moments of violence and gore. The animation comes from MAPPA (Attack on Titan: The Final Season) and includes a number of unexpected, cinematic framing choices. From intense tracking shots to impressive fight choreography, the short series is full of stand-out visual moments. The choice to include such visceral, dramatic gore is refreshing for a subgenre that can often appear diluted for more general audiences. Thomas is not afraid to crack a joke and then jump to a flashback scene of Yasuke cutting someone in half.
Six (Episodes) Under: Still, Yasuke cuts itself short with only six, 30-minute episodes in the series. The three-hour runtime is far too short for the amount of information and exposition required to fully appreciate the show. Yasuke and Saki might be able to develop a decent connection, but there are far too many characters to care about in such a short period of time. There’s also very little explanation around the rules or understanding of magic within the series’ universe, which turns Saki into an overpowered, underdeveloped Mary-Sue. With such stand-out visuals and representation, adding additional episodes to flesh out characters and relationships would elevate the show into a cult classic. Unfortunately, unless the creative team is willing to go back into the existing arcs, it might be too late to rekindle the same fire.
The Verdict: With big names like LaKeith Stanfield and Flying Lotus attached to the project, Yasuke is sure to make waves in the anime community. But its short runtime leaves a lot to be desired for anyone looking past the first layer. The show tries to pack two separate arcs into six episodes, which doesn’t give them enough time to flesh out the characters or establish cohesive worldbuilding. It’s easy to see the potential Yasuke might have achieved given another six episodes. Still, in light of the current political climate that’s working to dismantle institutionalized racism, it’s refreshing to see showrunners branch out the anime genre and include diverse characters in leading roles. There’s definitely going to be an outcry for more episodes, and hopefully, Netflix is able to see the same potential.
Where’s It Streaming?: All six episodes of Yasuke will honorably arrive on Netflix on April 29th.
Long before coming-of-age films romanticized the trials of teenage life, high school did not consist of makeover montages and kissing the star football player. In fact, high school can be a nightmare, especially for students battling mental illnesses. And for Rain (Madison Iseman), the titular teenage protagonist in Fear of Rain, her early-onset schizophrenia may not be the reason that she runs into demons in the hallways.
Castille Landon makes her horror debut with Fear of Rain, a psychological thriller following a schizophrenic teenager suffering from violent, intrusive hallucinations that cause her to question her reality. When she begins to suspect her neighbour has kidnapped a child, it’s up to her to figure out what’s going on since no one else will believe her.
While many popular films across the genre have explored mental health (The Babadook, Psycho), few have tackled the complicated nature of schizophrenia. The film does not render the same lasting impressions through memorable scare tactics but, rather, it works as a character study. Dealing with plotlines that tackle often-misconstrued diseases is a difficult task for screenwriters, but Landon’s first-person perspective gives a visceral look into the worst aspects of the disease.
The film opens on a classically cliché action shot of Rain running from a faceless assailant in the woods. Landon employs almost every slasher trope, from the handheld camera tracking shots to the heavy bass score during jumpscare moments. Genre fans would immediately recognize these tropes as an introduction to a slasher film, which makes the immediate shift into a mental health institution much more significant to the framing.
That is our first introduction to Rain’s delusions, which range between light intrusive voices and full-body immersions into a dreamlike state. As an audience, the initial framing implies a complete lack of threat regarding the stereotypical genre tropes, which only leaves room for sympathy. The dark, hooded figures Rain sees in the cemetery aren’t actual threats, but since Iseman portrays such a likable, sympathetic character, her battle with the disease only acts as an additional, interpersonal conflict, rather than something the audience should fear.
As the film is almost entirely shot from Rain’s perspective, the delusions are the driving force behind the fear within it. Except, rather than the outright fear which might occur in response to a haunted house or axe-wielding murderer, Fear of Rain capitalizes on fear born out of confusion. If Rain isn’t certain about the realities of something happening on camera, the audience isn’t either. As the film progresses, the audience starts to question if they can trust any aspect of Rain’s reality.
These empathetic tendencies extend beyond fear, too. The pain and embarrassment Rain feels after being mocked by her peers transcends beyond the screen. The audience wants to see Rain live a normal life, so when she starts to wonder if Caleb (Isreal Broussard) is real, the audience experiences the disappointing pain with her.
Functioning as a character study would not be possible if the cast didn’t provide such strong performances. The casting choices and chemistry between the characters are all incredibly strong, especially from Madison Iseman. Landon also utilizes a variety of visceral camera techniques during Rain’s delusional episodes. From incorporating blatant CGI to playing with the focus of the camera, the film cinematically explores the different visual elements to provoke fear and confusion.
Still, there are issues with the writing and framing that hold the film back. The ending is clunky with bad dialogue and unclear character motivations. Rather than showcase the biggest jumpscare or monster reveal, the film’s conclusion is supposed to be the pinnacle moment of delusional uncertainty, and the reality just ends up being disappointing. While the film starts a conversation about schizophrenia, some of the depictions of schizophrenic delusions come off as cinematic and juvenile rather than sensitive to the subject matter.
Fear of Rain isn’t scary like a traditional horror film. It’s scary because it showcases the nature of schizophrenia to a degree that many filmmakers are unwilling to explore. While the actual details of the plot are muddled together, it’s Rain that keeps the film from falling apart. It’s just a shame she wasn’t given a better story to tell.
Twenty years ago, Tom Green showed us what would happen if you gave a 14-year old unsupervised access to a film studio, and no one’s still certain if they made the right choice.
Freddy Got Fingered is by far one of the most divisive films across the landscape of criticism. Most people hate it; other people give it far too much credit as an existential landmark. It’s almost universally lauded as one of the worst films ever made, yet its status as a big-budget Hollywood film introduces contextual layers of intent – or so we can hope. The reality is – whether this film is good or bad doesn’t matter – this film is one of a kind.
When it comes to breaking down the originality of Freddy Got Fingered, it’s important first to decide how they’d like to categorize it. Labeling Green’s film as a satire or absurdist comedy is a far stretch from those that view the film through a gross-out humor or screwball comedy lens. Like comparing apples and oranges, audiences comparing the film to Borat versus something like Jackass aren’t going to have the same experience. These subtle distinctions contributed to the culture war between the rabid Reddit users who believe the film is a Dadaist masterpiece and teenage boys who spend their free time throwing around slurs in Fortnite and watching Family Guy.
Did Tom Green intend to inspire an early-2000’s comedy audience with avant-garde, surrealist art? Well, probably not. While there is a definitive plot, the film’s pacing and tone waver from beginning to end. It functions closer to a comedy anthology or dream sequence rather than a cohesive story. And, of course, this makes sense when considering Green’s comedic background. Yet, despite the public perception of Green’s comedy, the film’s violent juxtapositions still come as a shock two decades later. There’s truly nothing that can prepare a person to watch a beloved actor hold a horse’s genitals – which was not a prosthetic – and these brief scenes of absurdity continue to get worse from there.
Initially, it almost seems as though these moments exist as dream sequences, primarily through the first quarter of the film. Yet, the absurdity of these short sequences of social and sexual outbursts seeps out into the entirety of the film, impacting every character and relationship. The absurd extremity of this film doesn’t exist in the vacuum of Gord’s life; it’s simply the reality of that world.
Still, the disturbing, reaction-inducing visuals only truly work on a first-time viewing. Once the audience has accepted the gross-out humor and shock-value scenes, it’s easier to recognize it as a vapid, soulless vehicle for testing the limits of mainstream filmmaking. Freddy Got Fingered exists on the same plane as The Room and Fateful Findings and every other film you put on to make your friends laugh. It’s the 90-minute equivalent of a mid-2000’s shock site that you trick your friends into seeing between class periods. It has the same appeal as lemon party, but with a $14-million budget.
Is this film good? That’s hard to definitively say. Do I want to watch this film again? Absolutely not. There’s something to be said about the blatant significance Tom Green’s brain-worm-inspiring passion project contributed to the culture of edgy dude-bro humor, but that doesn’t mean it’s entertaining. It simply crossed the line and set the standard for new-wave reaction comedy. People might hate Tom Green, but without his grotesque contribution to comedy, we absolutely wouldn’t have the Eric Andre or Nathan Fielder comedy we’re graced with now. And for that, we have to thank him – even if we hate it.
After a trip around the sun, we’ve finally gone full circle back to March.
Happy Quarantine Eve.
I know I haven’t updated this website in a bit, and I’m sorry to those that are trying to keep up with me. That’s super lame.
But goddammit, I watched four movies for this idea, and I’m gonna finish it.
Can you guess which part of this is photoshopped? I’ll give you a hint – I don’t have a Mac.
So, circling back to the whole global pandemic thing – I think something we’ve yet to fully acknowledge are some of the subliminal cultural impacts of this pandemic, especially in the media we consume.
If you follow my work to any extent, you’ll already know my take on pandemic-era stylizations via ‘Songbird’ and other atrocities, but there are so many subtle cultural shifts that we might not even realize.
We’ve been forced into a new era for fictional media that’ll take academics years to study. From understanding the psychological correlations between maskless faces and villain-coding to shifts in the framing of hygiene and prioritizing health. Not to mention all the new opportunities that directors have when framing class conflict and handling the entire premise of race-relations and blackness in Western media.
COVID-19 will forever change the way we view fiction, both in front and behind the screen.
I know that came off as really intense – since it’s a really intense time – but there’s a specific cultural phenomenon that I want to explore today: Webcam horror – horror films shot entirely through webcams and web browser layouts.
Now, don’t groan. I know what you’re thinking, and I thought the same thing, “Webcam horror is an unimaginative framing technique used by lazy directors to inspire vitriol around topics that boomer-aged producers don’t understand.” I get it, and I mostly agree. Still, just because you and I aren’t afraid of Zoom doesn’t mean these films are going anywhere anytime soon.
Webcam horror wasn’t something born out of the COVID-19 pandemic, but it has definitely flourished now that we’ve moved our lives online. The genre is sort of a hybrid between found footage films – like ‘The Blaire Witch Project’ or ‘Paranormal Activity’ – and films that base their plot around the fear of technology – like ‘The Matrix’ or ‘I, Robot.’
To the same extent, webcam horror can be broken down into two distinct plot summaries: a conflict that involves exploring the “dark web” or anonymous Internet threats and ghosts using the Internet as a vehicle to haunt people.
And that’s where the genre seems to hit its first obstacle: Neither of these storylines are really scary. They have all the components of being scary – whether it’s ghosts, the threat of violence, sexual deviants, and shattering the illusion of privacy – but all of these films seem to just exist on the precipice of gratifying horror. None of them are able to actually take the leap into anything that would really stand out.
We’re essentially being blue-balled. Blue-screened? Whatever.
In theory, webcam horror fits directly into a niche, unexplored pocket where real, tangible fears reside: the Internet. I’ll be the first to admit that – despite working entirely online and in social media – I don’t know the first thing about coding or hacking or accessing any content that can’t be found on the first page of a Google search. Do I know about the “dark net” and red rooms and snuff films? Sure. Do I live my life blissfully ignorant to how that may affect me? You bet your ass I do.
As an added measure, I checked in with my roommates that both happen to be software engineers. According to my tech-savvy friends, they’d be considerably more concerned about data phishing and credit card scams than they’d ever been for dark web serial killers – not to mention the pseudo-technical breakdown I had to endure while they explained the implausible nature of hauntings through webpages.
Some longtime horror buffs might argue the subgenre has been around since the 2006 release of ‘The Collingswood Story,’ a low-budget film shot entirely through MySpace-era webcams. But we all know the real O.G. webcam horror flick is 2015’s ‘Unfriended.’
Unfriended
‘Unfriended’ owned 2015 solely for introducing this relatively new framing device to mainstream audiences. It wasn’t a movie that you’d expect to see in theaters; it wasn’t shot in HD, it didn’t star any big-name talent. Older crowds saw it as a commentary on the dangers of online anonymity and social networking, and younger crowds felt a generational connection to the interfaces and brand identities it explored.
I don’t have a caption, I hate this movie
The film follows a group of high school friends during their weekly Skype session as they find themselves on the receiving of what they assume to be a mean-spirited prank: they’re joined by the account of a girl who had committed suicide a year prior.
The film was divisive because it based itself around a visual gimmick. Audiences saw Facebook at the peak of the site’s popularity and thought, “Wow, I use that.” It bundled all the enticing corporate buzzwords for a generation that would later go on to create satirical raps to dunk on teenagers for not liking side-parts. It was the visceral punishment that Emily Osment could never enact towards her cyberbullies.
I was 16 the year it was released. Now, after rewatching the film six years later, it’s already dated.
POV: the Internet scares you
I don’t remember seeing it as a teenager because it’s forgettable. Aside from being the pioneer for webcam horror, ‘Unfriended’ didn’t bring anything to the virtual table. The Apple interface is dated and jarring to the eye with an unnerving level of overexposure – and I don’t mean to imply the lighting added to any of the horror aspects, but rather the lighting seemed unnatural and overtly unflattering. It looks cheap, and I know it’s not. Try to imagine the price tag it took to shoot a horror film primarily using the Facebook and Apple interfaces, thus correlating these two multi-billion dollar brands with bullying, suicide, and vengeful hauntings.
Not to mention the actual interactions with the Facebook ghost are anticlimactic, and half of the deaths occur off-camera. The other half feature embarrassingly poor effects, usually accompanied by webcam pixels and Internet connection drops.
Still, ‘Unfriended’ is certainly not unwatchable by any means. It’s just the kind of movie you put on while entertaining drunk friends or trying to make moves during a Tinder date. An indisputable interesting premises clouded by dated design and composition, bad dialogue, and unlikable characters.
Unfriended: Dark Web
It’s interesting to consider the premise of a haunted computer or webpage far more frightening than a plotline surrounding “dark web” hackers or Internet creeps, which is supported – at the very least – by the sheer financial disparity between the box office totals between ‘Unfriended’ and ‘Unfriended: Dark Web,’ with the latter grossing ¼ of the sales of its predecessor.
Ugly
Yes, of course they made an ‘Unfriended’ sequel. Where have you been?
Now, ‘Unfriended: Dark Web’ doesn’t necessarily follow in the same footsteps as the first movie. It’s also shot primarily over Skype, but instead of dealing with vengeful ghosts, the gang has to fight against a clan of Internet hackers. The film premiered in 2018 and has the cultural relevance of a one-million mom’s advert linking the dangers of social media and sexual depravity.
This movie gives me secondhand embarrassment, and the fact that I had to pay $4 to rent it on Amazon only makes it worse. Look at the extent I’ll go for this blog, only to have my most popular article still be about an adult baby pornstar.
Again, the film follows a group of friends during one of their weekly Skype calls, each character fitting into their diversified horror tropes. Instead of a ghost joining their video chat, the group is faced with an anonymous syndicate of hackers and other web specialists that trade cryptocurrency for snuff films.
Again, it’s undeniably a unique premise that utilizes an interesting visual gimmick. But it just doesn’t work. It doesn’t work to the point that it became almost unbearable to watch.
It’s so boring and ridiculous. It’s like they condensed and commodified the front page of Reddit, and even that would be an insult to Reddit. It preys on the baseless fears found in click-baity Facebook posts that your mom would share about the dangers of the Internet – that there are legions of sociopathic murderers on the Internet and all around you. It combines the fear of Anonymous with an 11-year olds understanding of Internet processes.
“Sam, there are bad people on the Internet.” Yes, I know. But they don’t meet up in cryptic video games, hack into subway stations, and wear matching cloaks to fuck with Millenials.
Don’t text: about to boot up Minecraft so I can get back into drug smuggling.
And they especially don’t appear as pixels when walking in front of cameras.
I just can’t suspend my disbelief enough for this movie to work in any capacity, and I don’t know anything about computers. It’s far more silly than it is scary, and it gives off Fornite kid energy.
Look me in my virtual eyes and tell me this was good.
Host
I’ve given my thoughts on the stereotypical webcam horror films, but does that mean the entire genre is garbage?
Maybe not – but it’s a loose maybe.
Webcam horror has so much potential to mend a psychological bridge between the sudden onset commonality of Internet connections and horror. At a baseline, we’ve already created a negative connotation with Zoom meetings because of the pandemic. It just makes sense to pursue art at its expense, but it feels like no one is willing to put in the effort when it comes to researching realistic depictions of Internet practice.
That’s where Rob Savage’s ‘Host’ comes into play.
Look how realistic and not UGLY this looks…
‘Host’ – a Shudder exclusive – was released at the end of 2020, right at the apex of pandemic-fatigue and seasonal depression.
Again, the film takes place over a Zoom call between friends, but the updated interface lends itself to a more organic visual framing. Obviously, the film’s timeliness lends itself to the plot and visual gimmicks, which means the characters are all able to have clear, HD cameras.
It takes a similar approach to the O.G. ‘Unfriended,’ dealing with a haunted Zoom call, but the actual schematics of the plot are more grounded in horror film reality – I.E. the characters perform a seance, rather than coming across a haunted Facebook page. Circling back to the concept of timeliness, the film also takes place during the Covid-19 pandemic. It’s definitely acknowledged, but it never becomes the main focus of the film.
‘Host’ fights the common framing dissonance that plagues these films, specifically in regards to character development. The ‘Unfriended’ franchise relied on audiences’ familiarity with classic character tropes, rather than giving its characters any personality or depth. Now, Savage’s characters aren’t fleshed out to the extent of a character study, but each person is an individual. Everyone has their own lives and their own relationships.
Might call up the girlies and have a séance later. Just girlboss stuff.
There are various sequences where the director includes visual cues solely for the audience – rather than the characters – of tonal shifts and points of plot progression, and it’s so refreshing. Savage treats the audience like they’re smart and present, unlike the countless big-budget horror films made to be put on in the background.
Now, ‘Host’ isn’t perfect, it falls prey to the typical “anti-Blair Witch syndrome” where it’s obvious that the budget was blown before the actual monster reveal, which means the jumpscare ends up looking like a Spirit Halloween mask. Simply don’t reveal the ghost’s face, it’s never a good effect.
Still, Rob Savage raises the bar for new storytelling techniques. Horror movies don’t have to be distributed by A24 to be considered good or important to the genre, especially when smaller directors are able to completely overhaul a subgenre.
Okay, that’s all. Sorry this took a month to finish. See you next week…
Makeover Montages. Mean cheerleaders. Crushes on athletic himbos.
Although The Princess Diaries (2001) embodies the classic coming-of-age film archetypes, its characters stand out from the cinematic sea of quirky, shy-girls that undergo transformations to impress vapid high-school boys. There’s an inherent strength and resilience beneath the surface of Mia’s character that sets her apart from the cliche, “not-like-other-girls” girl of the early 2000s. Mia Mignonette Thermopolis Renaldi (Anne Hathaway), Princess of Genovia, is the brave, relatable female-role model of Marvel’s Cinematic Universe. It’s time that Disney starts acknowledging the film’s legacy.
Just like other iconic superheroes, Mia’s role as a teenage bureaucratic leader finds its affirmation in an inspirational quote: “Courage is not the absence of fear, but rather the judgment that something is more important than fear. The brave may not live forever, but the cautious do not live at all.”
Now, you might be thinking, “That’s ridiculous. The Princess Diaries isn’t a superhero film. Mia isn’t a superhero,” but for a myriad of reasons, you’d be wrong.
The Princess Diaries follows Mia, the typical quirky-girl-turns-overnight-princess after discovering that her late-father was the heir to the throne of Genovia, which makes her next in line for the throne. The Princess Diaries is instrumental in the adolescent timeline of countless late 90’s and early 2000s’ kids and remains a staple in Disney’s nostalgia vault. The film truly has everything that you’d want out of a coming-of-age film: a plot that exists just within the realm of possibility, makeover montages, dreamy ball gowns, a comedic-relief best friend with a cute, yet unattainable older brother, and Julie Andrews.
Still, these factors aren’t what make her a superhero. Just like every other Marvel figurehead, Mia’s strength comes from her inherent desire to help people beyond herself.
Walt Disney Pictures.
Throughout the film, Mia fights an internal conflict about abdicating her claim to the throne, thus giving up her power. Upon the inevitable acceptance of the title, Mia says, “See, if I were the Princess of Genovia, then my thoughts – and the thoughts of people smarter than me – would be much better heard, and just maybe those thoughts could be turned into actions.” She doesn’t want to be a princess because it’ll make her popular or make some cute guy notice her; Mia wants to rule Genovia because she wants to make the world a better place. The film even establishes that she’s heavily involved in social and political campaigns alongside her best friend, Lilly Moscovitz.
Mia’s character arc is reminiscent of Marvel’s revamped depiction of Peter Parker in 2017’s Spider-Man: Homecoming. Both Princess Mia and Peter Parker discover their individual “powers” at 15-years old. They both go on their own journeys to discover the importance and ramifications of this secret, unimaginable power. Most people wouldn’t instantly associate Spider-Man’s story as a coming-of-age film, but Marvel’s rework of the superhero really showcases the grounded, relatable-nature of Peter Parker’s character. Especially if we compared it to Sony’s various depictions.
Marvel has created a surplus of overpowered, almost-omnipotent superheroes, and while everyone loves Iron Man, Thor, and Black Panther, these characters stand as aspirational – not relatable – figures. Children can watch these 30-year old heroes and see them as role models, but there aren’t really moments in their expositional films that allow younger audiences to see themselves in the character, especially in the later installments. Yet, depicted as high school students, Peter and Mia go through the same emotional and enlightening trials of their young viewers.
The Princess Diaries and Spider-Man: Homecoming also have several cinematic parallels that draw the two stories closer together. Both Queen Clarisse Renaldi (Julie Andrews) and Tony Stark (Robert Downey Jr.) act as mentors, providing our protagonists with the tools and lessons needed to establish themselves as leaders in their respective communities. Incorporating the generational mentor trope is fairly common in films aimed at younger audiences because formative relationships with authority figures are relatable. Both Mia and Peter crave validation because both have been subjected to a lifetime – at least to teenagers – of ridicule and criticism. Both have experienced the superficial trauma of high school torment and the unspoken trauma of losing parents, and now they’re faced with the possibility of emotional and material validation from two people of massive affluence. It’s easy to see the parallel between Queen Clarisse and Tony Stark as notable political figures, but what really draws them together is their role as suitable replacements for paternal role models.
Although Mia has a healthy relationship with her mother, it’s made clear through expositional dialogue that she had never met her late-father. Meanwhile, it’s implied that Peter’s only source of a parental relationship is with his young aunt. Both Mia’s mother and Aunt May are depicted as young, idealistic women with lively dispositions, and while their relationships are very strong, there’s a notable lack of grounded, parental authority. Now, of course that’s not to say that these women are bad role models, they’re both incredibly strong single parents, but that’s why Queen Clarisse and Tony Stark play such vital roles in the development of Mia and Peter’s character.
There’s a general thematic conflict throughout both films that show the importance of balancing having fun while you’re young and accepting and embracing the responsibilities of growing up. Visually, that can be seen by comparing Mia’s mother and Queen Clarisse or Aunt May and Tony Stark. Both films even include conflict points where Mia and Peter overextend and make mistakes, thus causing their respective mentor to doubt their abilities. But once Mia and Peter are able to redeem themselves, it’s made clear that they don’t have to give up the characteristics that make them lively and fun, they just have to balance them with their newfound responsibilities.
To the same extent, there’s an important dynamic between the side characters from each film that represent Mia and Peter’s social responsibilities. Both films have stoic underling characters – Joe (Héctor Elizondo) and Happy (Jon Favreau) – that offer comedic and poignant perspectives to the protagonist. These men act almost like a set of unseen training wheels to the protagonists, protecting them from the brunt of social agitators. While both men have the mentors best interest at heart, it’s clear that they’re able to help mediate the obscenely difficult realities that come along with our protagonists new job. The audience loves to see Joe and Happy because they’re often met with blunt, deadpan humor, but the audience also knows that these men are there to keep Mia and Peter safe.
Hector Elizondo as Joe. The Princess Diaries.
Still, the most compelling comparison between the two films is apparent at the conclusion of both stories. Both Mia and Peter are able to acknowledge and accept that they aren’t quite ready to accept the full force of their potential. Peter turns down Tony Stark’s offer to become an Avenger with the understanding that he still has a lot to learn about his responsibility and power. Mia, who was hesitant about accepting her role as a political leader through her film’s entirety, chose to accept her title with the understanding that she could continue to pursue education until she was ready.
Using this specific method of conclusion instills the idea that it’s perfectly alright to continue to grow and learn at your own pace, especially for younger audiences. If princesses and superheroes can have flaws and need time to figure themselves out, you can, too.
And while her internal strength is commendable, there are definitive ways that Princess Mia fits into the Marvel Universe.
Following Disney’s acquisition of Marvel in 2009, the MCU officially belongs under the same proprietary ownership of the Disney Corporation as The Princess Diaries. While their shared parent-company is an important factor in the cinematic universe’s connection, what really establishes Mia’s canonical tie is the presence of a single, vital cameo appearance: Stan Lee.
Stan Lee in The Princess Diaries 2: Royal Engagement.
The late Stan Lee was instrumental in Marvel’s canonical catalog, and in addition to writing, editing, and producing, the creator also lent himself to Marvel’s on-screen depictions. Lee made a point of appearing in every on-screen portrayal of a Marvel character in major motion pictures, culminating in 60-cameo appearances across Marvel’s projects. From Iron Man to Avengers: Endgame, fans of the franchise could count on seeing a brief glimpse of Lee, all of which can be characterized as unnamed minor appearances.
Now, Stan Lee has made a variety of cameo appearances outside of the Marvel Universe. Yet, every live-action, non-Marvel cinematic cameo casts Lee as himself. Seen in popular cult-films like Kevin Smith’s Mallrats and Larry Cohen’s The Ambulance, audiences can usually find Stan Lee signing autographs for starstruck young fans. There are only two instances in cinematic history that depict Stan Lee as an unnamed, minor character outside of the Marvel Cinematic Universe: Kevin Smith’s Yoga Hosers and The Princess Diaries 2: Royal Engagement. Lee makes a surprise appearance alongside Princess Mia on her wedding day and is described in the end credits as the “Three Stooges Wedding Guest,” thus cementing The Princess Diaries’ canon in the same universe as the MCU.
Following its release, princess movies have not been able to achieve the monumental reach laid out by The Princess Diaries. The film was a building block into the self-love and self-esteem movements, teaching viewers always to have faith in themselves. Mia is a hero to countless young kids, whether the MCU chooses to acknowledge her or not. Still, hopefully one day, Marvel’s catalog of superheroes will extend a helping hand to keep Genovia safe.
So, we all pretty much agree that we aren’t taking award shows seriously anymore, right?
On Feb. 3rd, the Golden Globe nominations were announced, and we all got to see – and tweet about – how ‘Emily in Paris’ was nominated for best television series, among other surprising cinematic upsets. At this point, the bar is pretty much in hell. I don’t think it’s an exaggeration to say that we’re wading through literal garbage.
To be fair, this is me at any given moment in New York City
I can’t even be mad at the nominations for the recording of ‘Hamilton’ or the sequel to ‘The Croods’ because my brain refuses to comprehend them. I simply cannot allow myself to believe that – of all the work we saw in 2020 – Sia’s exercise in public degradation is somehow considered the best of the best. We’re better than this, ladies.
Still, there was one film that caught my eye while perusing the nomination lists: Jayro Bustamante’s ‘La Llorona,’ for best foreign film.
Since it’s a Shudder exclusive – one of the few streaming services that I actually pay for instead of leeching off of my friends and family – I watched it almost immediately, and I’m confident in saying that it might be one of my favorite films this year.
‘La Llorona’ is a Guatemalan film that film follows the haunting of Enrique Monteverde – a stunning portrayal of a war criminal – and his family, and it completely blew me away. The story is loosely – obviously since it’s a ghost story – based around the trial of Efraín Ríos Montt, a Guatemalan dictator that was responsible for the Indigenous Mayan genocide of 1982. Staying in canon with the actual war criminal’s trial, Enrique Monteverde is acquitted and left to face the mob of public outcry, rather than actual jail time.
Look at the beautiful, ornate detail from this shot
The film starts by introducing a heavy, politicized plotline but slowly descends into the supernatural territory as it progresses. Similar to the pacing of ‘Black Swan,’ Bustamante leaves many of the supernatural elements up to interpretation until the film’s climax.
I don’t talk about it very often, but I am a big horror fan. Some of my favorite films are horror films, but true horror fans know – and it’s okay to admit – that most of the content we’re getting is generally just not worth your time. There is a surplus of mediocrity across each streaming platform because horror films are cheap and easy to make, and unfortunately, studios know that people are going to watch them. Just like how you’re about to watch my little video – because it took me a long time to make.
“Sam why does your audio sound so different?” Fuck you
Now don’t get me wrong, there’s nothing better than the sheer spike of serotonin one can get from making out with someone in the midst of a semi-shitty horror film, but there’s something about a smart horror film that makes it so much better than any cheap, high school fling.
This film is almost everything I could want – without all the stereotypical tropes – from the horror genre. Going into this film, I expected the run-of-the-mill haunting: a complete lack of character development, an ominous basement door conveniently placed right under the stairs, and a bad jump scare every 15-or-so minutes.
And that’s what really blew me away: Bustamante doesn’t use cheap, fake-out jump scares. Every scene that’s supposed to invoke a sense of fear is carefully calculated and built up over time, rather than tossed away with a lazy visual misdirection and shrill violin sound effect.
Bustamante is also amazing behind the camera, especially when it comes to his lighting and framing techniques. He uses the typical blue-toned night sequences that are a staple of the genre, but his shadow balance never seems cheap or artificially produced in post.
Now of course, there are problems with the film. It’s a horror film, after all. I don’t think it was necessary to use the La Llorona folklore, especially when considering the framework of the character conflict. While it’s easier to sell productions that are somehow linked to existing commercial property, I think the insertion of La Llorona dilutes the gravity of the conflict. Depending on the version of the story, La Llorona – a spirit forced to haunt the Earth for drowning her sons – is known to attack children or attack cheating husbands. She’s not some righteous figure used to exact punishment for genocide.
Another issue – which may just be down to my interpretation – is the framing of this righteous punishment. Obviously Enrique Monteverde is not someone to sympathize with, especially considering his direct role with the violence against the indigenous people. However, Enrique’s wife, Carmen, continues to perpetuate violence and victim-blame on behalf of her husband. We know that Carmen is fully aware of the atrocities committed by her husband and goes as far as to tell her daughter to “move on” from the past, but she’s allowed to live.
Still, there’s something to be said about the layers of conflict within the realm of this film. While it’s definitely a ghost story, the real framework of ‘La Llorona’ lies with a commentary on race and racial identity. The Monteverde family are paying for their crimes against indigenous Mayan people. The Monteverde family, although they are ethnically Spanish, are white, and they have committed violence against indigenous people of color. ‘La Llorona’ tackles race issues just like ‘Get Out’ tackles race issues, but this kind of racial disparity isn’t as black and white.
In my last post, I made a point of acknowledging the importance of properly, articulately framing race in media. To be clear, I am speaking on this issue as an ethnically Hispanic person. Racially, I am white. Ethnically, I am Puerto Rican – among other things.
That’s showbiz, baby
I’m not going to use this post to talk about the concept and commodification of diversity in media, but I want to go over an issue across the Hispanic and Spanish community – especially in the United States – that correlate ethnicity to race and the belief that non-white people cannot be racist to other minorities.
Colorism and blatant racism are a huge issue in the Hispanic and Spanish community. Yet, since we are also minorities, this issue is often overlooked. The number of times I’ve heard, “We can’t be racist, we’re Puerto Rican,” is far too many to count. Race and ethnicity are not interchangeable, and racism doesn’t stop with Eastern European white people.
Micro-aggressions on account of race and colorism is still perpetuating violence against people of color. Bustamante’s framing of race is why his film struck out to me, a white Hispanic person, who has occasionally stumbled into the pitfalls of minority baiting. This raises the bar for the entire genre and certainly deserves a Golden Globe nomination.
Yet, lurking deep within the corners of popcorn horror film forums lives another adaptation of La Llorona. A film that does almost the exact opposite of Bustamante’s version.
In 2019, Micheal Chaves released ‘The Curse of La Llorona,’ and ever since that moment, I’ve wished La Llorona would drown me in a river.
As I have previously expressed, I am a proponent for ironically enjoying bad movies.
This is a large part of my personality and – much to the dismay of most of my friends – how I spend a lot of my free time. I was in high school during some of the peak moments of “cringe culture,” and if there’s one thing people in their early 20’s love, it’s making fun of things on the Internet.
But not ‘The Curse of La Llorona.’ This film is so bad. It’s not even fun to make fun of it.
If this was just a regular, run-of-the-mill February horror film release, maybe I could look past it, but it bases its entire premise on the commodification of Mexican culture for white people. ‘The Curse of La Llorona’ is barely a movie, and I mean that at its most basic level. It is 90 minutes of basically the same horror short back to back, coupled with a production that looks like it came out of a SUNY film program.
*I can make this joke because I went to a SUNY film program.
Go Bulls
The family is composed of a white matriarch, Anna (Linda Cardellini), and – what we can assume – are her half-Mexican children. The film tries so hard to attach its ill-conceived characters to the actual history behind La Llorona but still have to connect back to the whiteness of Hollywood. There’s no reason that they had to cast a white actress to play the lead character when so many talented Mexican actresses are available.
Now, I’m sure someone out there will come across this blog and think, “Well, why can’t a white actress play this role? Isn’t that racism?” So, here’s the big picture: Framing stories that have historical ties to other cultures and only recasting races based on aesthetic preference creates ‘white savior’ complexes.
Linda Cardellini is a white savior in ‘The Curse of La Llorona.’ Now, don’t turn your nose up at ‘Freaks and Geeks ‘ or ‘Stranger Things,’ this error is due to the writing and narrative framing of the film. From the very beginning, Anna is framed in opposition with Patricia, a Mexican woman whose children are removed due to neglect. Yet when it’s finally revealed that Patricia was also a victim of La Llorona, she’s still vilified and framed to be a crazed, terrible mother. When Anna has to consult a curandero – a Mexican folk healer – the traditions and practices of the Mexican people are framed as a caricature of ridiculous superstition.
The film is composed almost entirely of exposition and jump scares, all of which include cheap-looking effects. The sequences are drawn out to the point that they become laughable, and the character motivations are virtually non-existent.
Hey Bestie, what the fuck is this?
As consumers of media and lovers of film, we are in a very delicate place right now. We are caught between a dramatically evolving social climate and an industry that wants us to spend our money. I’m not saying you should give up your sweet, sweet Blumhouse makeout session, but at the very least, you should take them out on a nice date to see a nice foreign film once in a while.
“Bridgerton’s end result is a heady cloud of pleasure and true love set in an idealized, more inclusive milieu. At a time when I’m longing to escape the real world, few fantasies are more inviting”
“Let us simply celebrate good television, made by a shop run by a woman who loves good television and written by people who are experienced in television.”
This is what critics are saying about Netflix’s ‘Bridgerton,’ a period-drama based on Julia Quinn’s romance novel series. The eight-episode mini-series is produced under Shonda Rhimes, who’s also responsible for ‘Greys Anatomy,’ ‘Private Practice, and ‘Scandal.’
Critics love ‘Bridgerton,’ it has an average score of 89 percent on Rotten Tomatoes. It’s Netflix’s highest-grossing content as of January 2021, even outperforming ‘The Witcher.’
So, here’s the question I, some nobody blog writer, am posing: why is it so ugly?
Why is nobody talking about how ‘Bridgerton’ is ugly?
You might be looking at the screenshots I’ve inserted throughout this piece and wonder, “Ugly? These aren’t ugly! The costume design! The set design! Regé-Jean Page!!” To which I would say: Yes, there is an obvious passion behind both the costume and set design, but my beef is with the editing.
Maybe I’m just some boring, contrarian hater, but I hated this show so much that I felt compelled to obtain* Adobe Premiere so that I could pinpoint every instance of editing failure. This show is edited so laughably at points that I’ve fully transcended my usual posting style and have had to relearn the Adobe Suite.
The saturation in this screenshot makes me physically uncomfortable.
My roommate and I watched ‘Bridgerton’ over a few days in early January. I’ve seen the whole mini-series, and I revisited it to make my video.
So, let’s talk about it.
To an extent, I can understand the superficial arguments about why people like this show. Shonda Rhimes’ productions cater to a specific audience, and I am not that audience. Don’t get me wrong, ‘Legally Blonde’ is one of my absolute favorite movies. I love certain romantic comedies. I watched ‘Gossip Girl.’ I can get down with a pseudo-gratuitous sex scene that’s framed for women.
Those dogs were one of the best parts of the show
My dislike for ‘Bridgerton’ doesn’t come from some internalized misogyny based around female-leaning media, which is a big aspect of the show’s critical praise. It’s simply a culmination of terrible editing, ridiculous world-building, and unoriginal story elements hidden under the poorly-crafted guise of hot people. You can put lipstick on a pig, but it’s still a pig.
Critics have commended the show for its inclusivity and framing of female sexuality, neither of which have apparently been explored by other period-pieces along the same line. Granted, I’m not going to pretend to be one of those period-drama historians that spent their adolescence scrutinizing the ‘Pride and Prejudice’ remakes. British guys with large foreheads just don’t do it for me, I guess I’m just built different.
I’d prefer to focus on the show’s visual shortcomings, but just to be clear: ‘Bridgerton’ is absolutely not the socially-conscious passion project that critics have purported it to be. If anything, the illusion of empowered women and racial inclusivity is blatantly contradicted by its own camera framing and dialogue.
It’s astounding that media critics for prestigious publications see the mere existence of people of color on-screen and consider it a victory for all of humanity. Bridgerton’ has been lauded for its reframing of racial integration through its very weak political exposition. It took four episodes for the show to create a distinction between a nuanced sense of colorblindness and a throwaway explanation for racial equality.
Rather than just continue with the established social hierarchy, thus creating a cinematic timeline where racism wasn’t an issue, the show concaves in on itself with a single scene of dialogue. Race is not a plot point up until the line, “We were two separate societies, divided by color, until a king fell in love with one of us.” Beyond this scene, between two black leads, race is not acknowledged by any of the white characters. It’s never expanded on as a plot point or point of contention.
There’s no reason that the show couldn’t simply be racially colorblind. Choosing to pursue such a contrived explanation for racial equality not only undermines the significance of using black leads, it insults the viewer. ‘Bridgerton’ felt it’s audience was either too stupid to understand that black actors could be cast irregardless of historical accuracies or that they were too racist to care.
The writers also completely uproot the facade of female empowerment by continuously putting down female characters to uplifts the main cast. The production set out idalotrize Daphne as a strong, feminist character, while also continuosly making a mockery of other supporting female characters. Phillipa and Prudence Featherington exist solely to take on the “ugly step-sister” trope, despite not being bad people.
The writers were so mean to these two for no reason. Big “I’m not like other girls” energy.
But I digress, this blog is supposed to be about the actual visual elements of the show.
So, as I’ve previously stated a million times before: I have a film degree. I know editing is hard.
But come on.
‘Bridgerton’ allegedly cost around 5-million dollars per episode, according to a report from The Sun. Now, of course we’ll never know the exact amount that was spent on the show, but if it’s even in the same realm as 5-million dollars, there’s no excuse for the editing choices.
When I reminisce on period-dramas with vibrant, detailed visuals, I think of Sophia Coppola’s 2006, ‘Marie Antoinette.’ The film is, unfortunately, not very good, yet very visually capitvating. The ‘Bridgerton’ team seems to have taken a note from the film with their a preference for high-contrast, highly-saturated color corrections.
But where Sophia Coppola is able to fabricate a lush, extravagant expedition into French high society, the editing in ‘Bridgerton’ turn a well-dressed Hallmark film into a high school theatre production.
Why is this scene lit so brightly? Why can I see so far into the background? It looks like live theatre.
Every scene shot in natural light is so overly saturated that actors constantly look ill. It’s so obvious that whoever color corrected these scenes wanted to create a dynamic contrast between the bright, ornate details and foliage, but chose to sacrifice flattering lighting for any of the show’s cast. These scenes are oversatuarted to the point that the sky behind the actors often turns white. Regardless of how nice these sets may be, turning up the white contrast to such an extent cheapens the look of the entire show.
While I’m not one to perpetuate unrealistic beauty standards, it’s important to point out how the the terrible lighting also showcases every instance of texture in an actors skin. Sure, Skin has texture. Regardless, these scenes are distracting and ugly. It also highlights the redness in each white actors’ skin and eyes. Shots don’t have to be dark to be dynamic, every other show seems to have figured this out.
I hate not being able to enjoy popular media, but we really have to start raising our expectations for passable television and movies. If you’re paying for a Netflix subscription, you’re funding these ugly projects. If I wanted to watch hot people have sex in-between boring subplots, I’d just watch porn. I’m hoping that we’re all just a little stir-crazy from being in quarantine and once everyone gets laid, we can take off our Hallmark-goggles.
At least we’ll probably get to see Regé-Jean Page in more roles.
If you’ve been following me for a while, you might be thinking,
“Wait a second. Hold on. She already wrote about ‘The Human Centipede.’ It even had the same title.”
And you’d be correct.
Back in February of 2020, I wrote a column about how I supported ‘The Human Centipede’ – and other exploitation films – as an artistic endeavor. I had written it while working at The Spectrum, which is the University at Buffalo’s student newspaper, and they even ran it in print.
But here’s the issue – it’s a bad article.
So young and pure and cute. Not yet ruined by the journalism industry.
I had written the piece and then edited it with my very talented team, but somehow it just came out bad and unorganized. We’re all human. It’s in the past.
You’re welcome to revisit it and take a look into my not-so-long-ago writing style, but if you’re here for that sweet, sweet ‘Human Centipede’ content, I’d stick around here. It’s time that I give Tom Six’s infamous trilogy the proper treatment – or at the very least, the most treatment some former-film student’s blog can offer.
Let’s just get this out of the way.
This is the blog post where I come out in support of ‘The Human Centipede’ – again.
The film – and the subsequent two sequels – are based around the story of a perverse German doctor with a god complex who wants to surgically connect people mouth-to-anus. His character motivations really flesh out the delusional evil of his mental state because of his focus on sheer domination, rather than any sort of resource-partitioning justification complex – the guy’s not trying to save the world here.
I know I just danced around saying the obvious – the movie thrives on shock value. I’m not going to deny that the mere thought of being force-fed someone else’s shit while experiencing the physical torture of having your lips removed and sewn into someone else’s anus would cause a physical reaction in the viewer.
Shock value horror films aren’t for everyone, and that’s completely valid. My roommate doesn’t even want to hear me talk about this post. It’s completely valid to be utterly disgusted by this movie, but that’s the point of the genre.
Body horror and exploitation films are pretty much cut from the same cloth. Although both types of film encompass different characteristics, both are vehicles for visceral-emotion-inducing visuals. Both are also pretty panned across critics and audiences alike.
While the first ‘Human Centipede’ is closer in tone to something from the ‘Saw’ franchise, it’s certainly not saying anything profound. The first installment of Six’s franchise really isn’t even that good once you get past the shock value of the plot. It doesn’t come close to something like Pascal Laugier’s ‘Martyrs’ or even something outdated like Ruggero Deodato’s ‘Cannibal Holocaust.’
Beyond the shock value of the plot, there isn’t really any substance to the film. It’s undoubtedly a midnight movie – a trip through exploitation for drunk frat guys and edgy high schoolers. Yet, Six makes the –artistic choice- to take the film completely seriously, almost to the point of questioning the project’s self-awareness. Six is exactly the kind person that ‘The Human Centipede’ was made for, which isn’t a compliment. Vapidly existing just to create noise.
‘The Human Centipede’ is an experience rather than a story. And even if you hate it, even if you despise it with all of your being, it is still technically art – and I think it’s important that the film exists.
It’s been 12 years since the first film came out now, and criticism has really shifted since it’s initial release. Following its theatrical announcement, the film immediately garnered the attention of everyone with even the mildest Internet presence. I recall many critics calling for the demonization of the film. Some wanted it banned, and some even sent the director death threats.
Now, if you look up reviews for the first installment of the film, critics are far more understanding of it’s cultural relevance. So, my criticism of authoritarianism on censorship and media doesn’t really matter, does it? It goes without saying that I don’t think the film should be banned or even avoided by mainstream media consumption. Films shouldn’t be banned just because people feel uncomfortable with them.
I think most people agree – but I need to pad out this blog post.
Before I was a pretentious film major – and a post-film school, useless-film-degree holder – I loved horror movies. I still love horror movies. I know it’s a personal preference, but from what I’ve seen, there are two types of people: You either really love the genre, or you can’t watch it. And to be fair, I might be biased. I was one of those weird kids in high school that became totally desensitized to violence and gore and the all-assuming gross-out content. I watched the “Video Nasties” list religiously and shared the 2000’s shock websites that hosted those kink videos.
I spent my adolescence exploring horror and have always respected the genre’s innovation – even in the face of the steady decline of quality in films backed by major production companies.
That’s why I think Six’s film is important. I don’t think it’s good at a basic level. I don’t think it’s shot in any particularly interesting way, I don’t think the actual special effects are used enough, and I don’t think the actual plot points are really very special.
Still, I do think it’s important for the continued innovation of the genre.
I’m so sick of having to watch trailers for another Blumhouse release starring Lucy Hale, but for a while, that’s what was profitable. Ari Aster has found success with “Midsommar” and “Hereditary,” which include scenes with extreme violence and bodily harm. But for every nuanced, artistic exploration is another Blumhouse film. It’s much easier to sell another date-night, predictably forgettable film than it would be to pitch a film based around bodily horror.
But Audiences didn’t want Ari Aster, they wanted ‘The Bye Bye Man’ or ‘Ouiji’ or a remake of ‘The Craft’ – and god that sucks. I’m not saying ‘The Human Centipede’ is anywhere close to being compared to one of Ari Aster’s films, but at least it’s taking a risk.
And just to be clear – I do genuinely like ‘The Human Centipede: Full Sequence,’ which was the 2011 sequel. Six took the sequel in a starkly different direction, incorporating more artistic framing and gritty contrast. It’s certainly not a masterpiece, but it’s one hell of a horror movie.
The third one… also exists. We can leave it at that.
Still, I’d rather have a film shift the cultural expectations of the genre rather than add to the monotonous pileup of garbage that’s released every year.
Sam Vargas 