Going Underground

Creep (Christopher Smith, 2004)

File Christopher Smith's directorial debut Creep (2004) as another overlooked Y2K era horror film constantly overlooked by wet-behind-the-ears film buffs on YouTube. Smith's subterranean themed chiller, located beneath the streets of London, was another important entry in the New Wave of British Horror as it was another quality entry in the movement; maintaining the momentum kickstarted by Neil Marshall's Dog Soldiers (2002) and Danny Boyle's 28 Days Later (2002).

Horror films set in underground caves and tunnels are of particular interest for your host, as they represent the primal fear of the dark and unknown. An abundance of phobias, like bathophobia (fear of depths), cleithrophobia (fear of being trapped), taphobia (fear of being buried alive) and the more familiar claustrophobia are inextricably linked to the dark below. Hence, horror set underground has resulted in some delightfully atmospheric films, like C.H.U.D. (1984), The Descent (2005) and As Above, So Below (2014). It also might explain why this humble film blogger is one of the few people who likes the unfortunately titled The Midnight Meat Train (2008) given the piss poor CGI gore effects and Vinnie Jones being in it.

George Clooney, the smarmy-faced global ambassador of those dreadful Nespresso adverts, is in London. Determined party girl Kate (Franka Potente) confidently assumes she's in with a chance in hooking up with the Hollywood A-lister if she gets to him in time. This means, she's willing to ditch the office party she's at, where her only entertainment is ridiculing Guy's (Jerry Sheffield, AKA the boyfriend in Natalie Imbruglia's Torn music video) obnoxious come-ons. Kate is wasted from the booze and drugs she's already partaken in and falls asleep at a train platform. When she wakes up, she finds herself all alone and locked inside a London Underground station. Thus, the premise is set and introduces the viewer to the subterranean world of its titular antagonist.

Creep is essentially a gore tainted, morality tale for our heroine. Kate's an arrogant and unlikeable individual, initially. However, given the film's grand order of horrid individuals — which includes the stuck-up bint queuing at a ticket machine, a jobsworth security guard (who really should have spotted Kate asleep at the train platform; the film's most egregious plot hole, for many) and the aforementioned Guy attempting to rape our heroine — Kate is the least insufferable of the lot. This doesn't absolve her condescending treatment toward the junkie homeless couple, Jimmy (Paul Rattray) and Mandy (Kelly Scott), who are squatting in the station's store room. Their chances of survival would have been far greater if the party girl never chanced upon them. 

In an archived interview with the BBC, Christopher Smith intended for Kate to be written this way:

"The idea of the story is, here's someone that you see every day whom you might not like but you might recognise in yourself - in the way that you step over homeless people and don't give them the time of day. I wanted to ask, how do we take a character that's this full of herself and this full of self-importance, and shake her down to a level where she can be mistaken for a homeless person? For me, the first likeable person in the movie is Paul Rattray's character [Jimmy], the homeless guy. And by the time you get to him, you're like, 'At last! A character we can actually like!'"

In retrospect, that's a refreshing aspect which distances it from the virtuous white tank top and high waisted jeans final girls of the 2000s. Additionally, Kate's canary yellow dress is a notable feature in the film, as it gets increasingly grubby and dirty throughout the progress of the film; ultimately leading to her being mistaken for a vagrant by a faceless suit and tie man at the end of the film. Reinforcing Kate's moral lesson.

That very same BBC interview, also clears up the notion I had about the film being a quasi-remake of Garry Sherman's subterranean horror Death Line (AKA Raw Meat, 1972), which also features an underground denizen who eats people. Smith hadn't seen the film at the time, and goes on to reveal that Creep was inspired by the London Underground scene from John Landis's masterpiece (and quite frankly, the greatest film ever made) An American Werewolf in London (1981). Always a delight whenever a director appreciates a proper film and not some pretentious one they were taught at film school. 

While Potente does a commendable job in turning her unlikeable character into a sympathetic one, it's method actor Sean Harris's performance as the titular villain, hilariously named Craig, who happens to be the biggest highlight of the film. Severely deformed, our antagonist looks like a cross between Gollum and a chav roofer in baggy shorts and Dr. Martens boots. Along with the heavy prosthetics, he physically exudes the part as the creepy denizen. In one particular scene, he descends down from an overhead vent, casually swinging with one arm before landing to the ground; like a hideous gymnast. Craig also emits a piercing shriek when he enters an area, which is both chilling and fascinating. Another great detail is how the he seems to alert his presence with a mischief or rats, like a mutated Pied Piper. This all leads to the vital question on the origin of the character.

Much like Marshall's The Descent, Creep also manages to contain plenty of visual stimuli, despite being set underground. Locations are surprisingly various: from the brightly lit Charing Cross Station; rat infested sewage tunnels; unknown storerooms; a long forgotten hospital basement; and an abandoned underground station that serves as the Creep's lair — overall, striking locations for this film. The constant surge of urgency for our protagonist, and a sewage worker ironically named George (Vas Blackwood) who is rescued by Kate, contribute to both a highly atmospheric and kinetic film, and why it's one of the more effective slashers from this era; especially given it's relative low budget.

In summary, Creep is an impressive debut from the writer and director who would helm Severance (2006), one of the few Danny Dyer movies worth watching; the psychological, mind bender classic Triangle (2009); and the folk horror gem Black Death (2010), the end of Christopher Smith's winning streak. Thus, it's a shame not many people know about his debut, other than brainlets prefering Patrick Brice's 2014 found footage film with the same name over it whenever it's discussed; which ought to be made a criminal offence, in my opinion.

Praying for a domestic physical release of Creep, as the recent Aussie Blu-Ray will easily break the bank to buy and ship it.

Of Death, of Love

Dellamorte Dellamore (Michele Soavi, 1994)

Largely considered as the last great Italian Horror by film critics and genre enthusiasts, Michele Soavi's darkly comic Dellamorte Delllamore (AKA Cemetery Man, 1994), is both a surreal and unconventional offering bound to frustrate and confuse anyone mistaken into thinking this would be another gory, flesh eating, Italian zombie flick in the vein of Zombi 2 (1979) or Burial Ground: The Nights of Terror (1981). While commonly described as an existential zombie film, it's only partially accurate, as the zombies, or "returners" as called by the film's protagonist, are only prominent in the first half of the film. The remainder is a descent into madness, where the living are the bigger focus of the story. Culminating with an ambiguous ending, that's open to all sorts of interpretation.

Gianni Romni's screenplay is an adaptation of the novel of the same name, penned by author and comic book writer Tiziano Sclavi. The book was a prequel to Dylan Dog, a cult Italian comic storied around an English, paranormal investigator. Artist and co-creator, Angelo Stano based his on the titular character on the English thespian Rupert Everett, after seeing him in the drama Another Country (1984). Flattered by the use of his image and the general premise of Dellamorte Dellamore, Everett's eagerness and involvement in the film's pre-production came very early on.

On the outskirts of Buffalora, a rustic town in northern Italy, the chronically depressed Francesco Dellamorte is the caretaker of the nearby cemetery, which is besieged with the select undead who rise from their graves seven days after their burial. The thirty-something protagonist, who has more in common with an emo teenager, is accompanied by an almost mute (the only thing he utters is, "Gna!" and in typical Lassie fashion, its meaning is understood by Dellamorte), spherically-shaped manchild known as Gnaghi (François Hadji-Lazaro). Together, they deal with the returners like a humorous odd couple burdened with the most mundane of tasks. Interestingly, Dellamorte is a bit of a pretentious prat with his depressed poetic drivel and confessing to only reading the telephone book. His cellar dwelling companion, however, likes nothing more than consuming plates of spaghetti with bread and watching war footage on his beloved TV.

Their dynamic changes with the introductions of She (the stone cold, Finnish Italian fox Anna Falchi). The buxom bombshell plays three different, but identical looking women (technically four if you count her returner form). The first is a beautiful, young widow with a penchant for the ossuary. The second is the second mayor's secretary with a fear of male genitalia. The final version of She is a college student who turns out to be a prostitute. All three of these incarnations have a profound effect on Francesco Dellamorte's mental state. Ultimately, turning him into a man who no longer kills the dead, but the living. As shown when the Grim Reaper appears and tells Dellamorte, "Stop killing the dead. They're mine. If you don't want the dead coming back to life, why don't you just kill the living, shoot them in the head? Are you listening to me?" Indeed he does, as he eventually drives into town and goes on a killing spree; shooting the local youths who mocked him for supposedly being impotent.

Structurally, Dellamorte Dellamore is top heavy (not a pun on Falchi's fantastic topless scenes*) as the first incarnation of She consumes the first hour of the film. The other versions of the alluring femme and their impact in the film, run far shorter. They're all pivotal, however, as they're key triggers to the decline of Dellamorte's deteriorating mental state. There is of course Gnagi's sideplot, where he falls for the career obsessed mayor's daughter. Dead or alive; she's still only fourteen years old, regardless of Gnagi believing he is also a child. Back on topic, the film does manage to work really well, despite its absurdity. It's largely due to its uniqueness and its surreal, dreamlike quality; everything feels and behaves so out-of-wack, that any flaw might come across as intentional by Michele Soavi. A notable reason why Dellamorte Dellamore is given the clichéd description as being Lynchian. Although, Italain horror has always had its own eccentricities and general weirdness well before the term was ever coined.

In terms of the film's visual style, it's a veritable mix of vintage Sam Raimi and early Peter Jackson; particularly many of the nocturnal graveyard scenes. Mauro Marchetti's stunning cinematography easily elevates the film above most other '90s horror films, let alone the barely functioning Italian horror industry at the time. Soavi, a fan of classic fine art and recreating them in his films, creates a homage to one during the ossuary scene, where Dellamorte has his head wrapped in a scarf, passionately kissing a veiled She; an obvious reference to Rene Magritte's The Lovers II. Other films also get the referential treatmentl  the most blatant being the snow globe from Orson Welles's Citizen Kane (1941). A totally obscure one, is Dellamorte constantly mistaken for an engineer; a reference to David Hemming's character in Dario Argento's Deep Red (1975). Of course, Soavi was no stranger to referencing grand pieces of art with his directorial debut, the Euro-slasher Stagefright (1987); a classic horror in its own right.

Perhaps the film's greatest achievement is Rupert Everett being in it, playing it thoroughly emo, yet defying the odds and being the superb lead. Easily his best film. Witnessing him shoot dumdum bullets into the undead while acting thoroughly morose is how I would imagine Ash J. William would be if he was a poncey English bloke. Everett is also the common element that keeps the film flowing and compelling, regardless of its incoherent plot. He bridges all the on-screen insanity from one scene to the next, from his comedic scenes with Hadji-Lazaro's Gnagi, to his doomed romances with Falchi's multiples of She; it's thoroughly entertaining.

Bottom line - Dellamorte Dellamore is a classic, yet sadly perfect swan song as the last great Italian horror. It's also tragic Soavi never helmed any other theatrical films afterwards and retreated into TV work, as he stepped out of the shadow of being Dario Argento's protégé and proved to possess his own unique style and talent. The Italian film industry was in dire straits at the time, and all the great directors were well past their primes, which makes Soavi an important name in the canon of Italian horror for being responsible for its last great entry.

*Can't link any of the multiple screenshots I took of Anna Falchi's topless scenes as Imgur deleted them. The philistines.

Tape Todeskingz

Der Todesking (Tuesday scene)

Jörg Buttgereit, 1990

Revisiting Jörg Buttgereit's Der Todesking (1990) AKA The Death King years later and it's still a depressing viewing experience. The art house horror anthology is connected via a sequence of short films themed around death and suicide; each one representing a day of the week. Craig David's Seven Days it ain't!

The most upbeat scene in this doomfest is where a film degenerate like myself scans the aisles of classic films in a crummy video store; a much lamented ritual that was common for your host. This was a important tradition spanning from the early eighties until the local Blockbuster became a Greggs sometime in the mid noughties. Gutted! What isn't relatable is what follows afterwards as men will be crossing their legs when they witness what's on that fake Ilsa She Wolf of the SS film our protagonist rented.

Down with the Todesking!

Perhaps the most surprising legacy about Der Todesking is the crude logo from the film being tatooed on the alabaster skins of numerous emo goths, doomer edge lords and other misguided crusties. These permanent ink stains, shared on social media, are a worse fashion faux pas than the video store clerk’s Timmy Mallet threads, in my opinion.

Man About the Haus

Red Sun (Rudolf Thome, 1970)

What bugs me about new wave cinema is this whole notion that its rejection of traditional film making fundamentally makes it an intelligent art form. Thus, pretentious art house films are treated like the emperor's new clothes. Straddling the thin line between art house and exploitation is the appropriately coined tern - artsploitation. Rudolf Thome's Red Sun (1970) is an example of this category and not to be confused with the testosterone loaded, east meets west western Red Sun (1971).

Red Sun's trailer instantly grabbed me as a film I very much need to check out as it gave me strong Jerzy Skolimowski's Deep End (1970) vibes. Turned out to be a correct assumption. Despite its different subject matter, it proved to be an entertaining offbeat comedy. Red Sun isn't quite as good as Skolimoski's film, but it does have enough charm which won me over.

Thomas (Marquand Bohm) is an obnoxious layabout and a sponger, who crashes the crib of his ex girlfriend Peggy (Uschi Obermaier). While dossin' there, he learns that Peggy and her housemates are a radical feminist, bomb-making collective, who murder their boyfriends after five days.

The beauty of Red Sun is watching Thomas, the German equivalent of Robin Askwith, raid the fridge and ponce money off the deadly terror cell to buy cigars and moan about the tedium of having to work. What's even more entertaining is how nonchalant he is regarding the dangerous predicament he finds himself in. The fact that Peggy and her criminal cohorts are remarkably dumber than Thomas is the icing on the cake for me.

Intentional or not, Rudolf Thome's film has so much levity that it looks and feels like a seventies sex comedy rather than a feminist laced crime thriller. There's no real depth or emotion to the characters either, save for Isolde from the death-dealing sisterhood, who sheds some remorse occasionally. Supposedly influenced by Jean Luc Godard’s work. I would say this trumps any of his films as this is art house cinema I can watch without being bored to tears. The film does lose its way around the midway point, but I found enough entertainment from Red Sun to forgive its mistakes.

For a German film from the early seventies, I presumed krautrock or German psychedelia would be the soundtrack to the film, but it turned out to be some choice British prog rock instead thanks to The Nice's Rondo and The Small Faces performing Rollin' Over along with the legendary Grand Theft Auto V trailer tune Ogden's Nut Gone Flake. To tie Anglo German relations further, Georg Friedrich Händel's funeral parlour choon Adagio (Messiah) is repeated throughout the course of the film, thankfully without Jim Morrison's spoken word poetry ruining it. 

Lastly, how fit was Uschi Obermaier back in the day? Jimi Hendrix was like a rat up a drain pipe and made the effort to travel to the hippy shit-hole she was living in known as Kommune 1 just to score with her. This blogger hates hippies with a passion, but in the case of Uber Uschi, going incognito like Sid James once did when he sabotaged the crusty hippy gig in the adjacent field to him in Carry On Camping (1969), is a worthy effort.

"Ich bin ein hippy, Uschi!"

Floundering Nemo

Inside (Vasilis Katsoupis, 2023)

One is the loneliest number for Willem Dafoe in his latest film, Inside (2023). I can relate, since judging by the various comments and reviews I've read, I'm probably the only one who likes the film. If you watched the trailer and expected a Michael Mann style art-heist thriller, then that's on you!

Willem Dafoe plays Nemo an artist/art thief abandoned by his accomplices after a botched theft to steal an Egon Schiele self-portrait. Trapped within a swanky and inpeneterable penthouse, he's left at the mercy of the smart home's faulty automated settings and what little food is available to keep him alive. From Willem Dafoe to Daniel Defoe, Inside is conceptually Robinson Crusoe in a high-rise appartment.

What makes the prospect of Inside so enticing is seeing Dafoe, an incredible actor synonymous with playing unhinged characters, carrying an entire film while he is trapped in a single location. The premise might not appeal to some, but it's far more appealing than the usual over-hyped Hollywood brain rot out there, that's for certain. It's also wildly entertaining watching Dafoe completely trash a penthouse apartment.

Not without its faults, Defoe's performance makes this film a mesmerising viewing experince. Watching him fall into complete despair and lose his mind, feels almost sadistically entertaining. Munching on ice from the freezer to stay hydrated and keep cool from the sweltering heat coming from the aircon, is desperately gruelling. To then hear, the fridge freezer auto play the Macarena song whenever it's left open too long, is hilarious. Nemo eventually being broken by it and finding it entertaining is on par with Dr. Yen Lo's brainwashing from The Manchurian Candidate (1962).

With the plumbing turned off, water becomes a scarce commodity, and so Nemo has to collect water from taps on a timer for the house plants and take dumps in a bath. Food is also limited, and our imprisoned protagonist eventually has to resort to eating the penthouse's tropical fish and dog food.

Starved of social interaction, Nemo observes the penthouse's CCTV as a window beyond his confines; the others are a hurt pigeon facing a similar fate outside the apartment, and a video art installation room. He becomes drawn to "Jasmine", the cleaner he desperately tried to alert. As his health and mental state deteriorate, Nemo experiences hallucinatory fantasies of both her and the penthouse's owner. These surreal scenes are welcome breaks from the obvious monotony at times.

Nemo's hope of escape from his palatial confine materialises with a tall structure created from various furniture reaching up to the apartment's skylight. It resembles a modern art sculpture. There's also his elaborate mural borne from his deteriorating mental state. A person utilising his pain and suffering to creative: a satirical take on art by Katsoupis, perhaps? There's also the scene where Nemo finds William Blake's The Marriage of Heaven and Hell in a secret room. Which is right about the time the film takes an about turn into the existential and symbolic representations of mankind's relationship with Heaven and Hell.

Biggest gripe with the film was its finale. Ambiguous endings are often a clichéd cop-out. A cheap trick employed by pretentious film makers. Their intention might have been to let the viewer fill the last piece, but it often comes across as either their lacking the necessary skill, or apparent laziness to effectively end their film with the same level of expertise with what preceeded it. Given the film's obvious spiritually symbolic final scenes, the ambiguous climax might have been intentional by Katsoupis, but it still comes across as underwhelming, regardless. Still, despite this blunder, Inside is a film where Dafoe gets to deliver a phenomenal performance, and it's completely indebted to him for being such a compelling viewing experience.

You Don't Know Jack

Croupier (Mike Hodges, 1998)

I'll preface my thoughts on Mike Hodges' stellar slice of Brit noir, Croupier (technially a British and German co-production) with my personal opinion that the nineties were lean times for both horror and British film in general. The less said about British horror at that time, the better. Thus, when Croupier originally came and went, even after its 2001 re-release attributed to its American success, I put it down as another one of those "critic's film" to avoid at the time. How wrong was I?

Clive Owen plays Jack Manfred, a struggling writer working on his debut book, who, thanks to his estranged father, lands a job working as a croupier in a London casino. Born and raised in a South African casino, Jack has a godly croupier skills. What follows in the film, are a series of events where Jack's personality meshes with his novel's protagonist, Jake. Initially inspired by his corrupt colleague, Matt, played by Press Gang's Paul Reynolds. The film leaves some ambiguity over whether or not the character of Jake comes from a hidden persona within Jack, but it becomes abundantly clear Jack's mental state is far from normal as the film progresses. This is enforced throughout the film by Jack's quotable "hang on tightly, let go lightly", catchprase being repeated throughout the film.

The real charm of Croupier comes from Clive Owen's smug and judgmental voice over. His whole personality exudes that of an individual with a massive superiority complex. Jack is able to read people in the same vein as the cards he deals. Ironincally, despite the film being set in a London casino, the subject matter doesn't focus on gambling, but rather Jack's addiction to seeing people lose. It's fixation for schadenfreude where he describes the casino environment as "the house of addiction". It's not long until he's smoking like a circus chimp and boozing for Britain just to calm his nerves when he's back home. As Jack gradually slips into his Jake persona, he's able to snitch and cheat on his social circle with no remorse whatsoever since it's all in keeping with Jake's character. In this respect, he's psychopathic in nature, and that's what makes him such a compelling character to watch on screen.

There are three women in Jack's life who appear to symbolise important aspects about him: his girlfriend, Marion (Gina McKee), a store detective, acts as his moral compass, infatuated with Jack as  a writer and attempts to mould him into something he's not, like wanting his hair dyed blonde and having him wear a ridiculous boy band hat; his co-worker, Bella (Kate Hardie), mirrors his judgemental and callous evaluation of people; while Jani (Alex Kingston), a fellow South African and the film's damsel in distress, might possibly serve as a window about his past. What's revealling about his relationship with Jani, is it's not a sexual relationship. Even while sharing a bed with her, while at his agent's country home for a weekend, he's doesn't pursue anything.

Jack's world is also really engaging. Much of it is nocturnal; including a bizarre tennis match at night scene. Much of our film protagonist's life is a subterranean existence; living a in a basement flat with iron bars over its windows (which has notable significance at the end of the film), to the sub-level casino decorated with distorted mirrors everywhere (apparently based on the old HMV store on Oxford Street).

Events go positively Lynchian after a casino heist, as Jack's world goes completely off-kilter. Some scenes are surreal; like his chance meeting of a self-proclaimed "white witch" at a restaurant, who happens to own the very car he sold at the start of the film. Fate seems to be the integral theme of the film while simultaneously casting some doubt on whether or not its Jack or Jake who is actually on the receiving end. 

Not many films out there that have had me watching on repeat like this. Croupier impressed me enough that I kept discovering various elements with every viewing. Easily my favourite film discovery so far this year. Too bad it took so long in discovering this gem.

Also, based on his performance in Croupier alone, it should have been Clive Owen cast as Jame Bond instead of Daniel Cragface. What a wasted opportunity.

Croupier (Original Trailer)

Mike Hodges, 1998

Children of the Grave

All Quiet on the Western Front (Edward Berger, 2022)

Stumbling upon something worth watching on Netflix is a rare treat, since the streaming site tends be the bastion of all things shite in my world. Lo and behold then that Edward Berger's German language adapation of Erich Remarque's anti-war novel All Quiet on the Western Front is a harrowing and compelling film worthy of praise.

From the wide-eyed naivety of Paul Bäumer and his patriotic school mates; gleefully enlisting as grunts in the war to end all wars, to the corpses of young men strewn across the muddy battlefield, All Quiet on the Western Front is a descent into hell that left a sobering impression upon me well after the final credits. Ultimately, it's a distressing tale which loses none of its poignancy even nearing a century on. It might not be as faithfull as Lewis Milestone's film from 1930, but Berger's update is still a very respectable effort.

Two stories are conveyed in All Quiet on the Western Front: the main one being the daily horrors faced by Bäumer in the trenches; while the other is about the Armistice agreement. What's darkly disturbing is how a few men situated in a railway carriage can be bickering over the terms for peace while the butchering continues en masse. What's even more sickening is a blood thirsty general ordering his soldiers to storm the trenches one final time just before the eleventh hour. Gut-wrenching.

As much as I admire Sam Mendes' 1917 (2019), I much prefer Berger's more focused anti-war message rather than gimmicky one-shots; it's still shot superbly, regardless. Bizarrely, All Quiet on the Western Front reminded me of Phil Tippett's animated fantasy horror Mad God (2022) since they both share similar themes of perpetual insanity. Both released this year and both apocalyptic in scope.The catastrophic carnage of seeing soldiers who are barely even men suffer and die is both mortifying and relentless, that it even leaves someone like me sickened by it. A horrifying film, but an effectively important one.

Fritz Like a Glove

The Golden Glove (Fatih Akin, 2019)

Late pass here! Heard a lot about this film the last couple of years, but it wasn't until now that I got to see it. Kicking myself for taking too long, because it's a superb film. Based on the true story of German serial killer, Fritz Honka; a repulsive-looking, alcoholic, night watchman who lured vulnerable women to his festering lair for booze and a good time. Unfortunately, for some of them, his attic apartment would be the last place they would ever visit alive. These victims would eventually be dismembered and then hidden within the walls and beneath the floorboards of his rancid, porn-decorated flat.

What's blatantly apparent about Akin's film is how insanely well it depicts the seemy and pathetic lives of the local denizens of the notorious Hamburg pub, The Golden Glove. Set in the seventies, the viewer is thrown into Fritz Honka's repulsively, grimy, alcohol-fuelled world. Life is incredibly bleak and depressing for the patrons of this seedy drinking establishement. It makes it all the more plausible how the disfigured Honka, could take advantage of a number of alcoholic women for his own malevolent satisfaction - which includes beating them and inserting large frankfurters in their orifices. It's on the same atmospheric wave length as the real crime scuzziness of Fhiona Louise's Cold Light of Day (1989) - a film based on another real life serial killer, Dennis Nilsen. Genuinely felt rotten seeing not only Honka's cruel depravity unfold on-screen, but also the entire social environment he was a part of. At times I was reminded of Jim Hosking's The Greasy Strangler (2016); minus all the hipster comedy.

Amazed how Jonas Dassler, who was in his early twenties during the filming of The Golden Glove, managed to play Honka and was transformed into playing a man almost twice his age at the time with such a high degree of conviction. The film weights heavily on his performance and the gamble of casting someone so young actually pays off here. In other films with a similar subject matter, there tends to be a narrow, redemptive opportunity presented at some point to the protagonist, and here this is also the case. Thanks to Dassler's performance and Akin's direction, it doesn't feel like a shoehorned cliche, however.

Both the make-up and production design are the biggest highlights of the film. The characters and sets instantly transport the viewer to this grim and seedy world from the past. The acidic oranges and browns remind me of vintage Open University lectures from back in the day. Love all the little details found in the film, like the Magic Little Tree air freshners adorned everywhere in Honka's apartment, to mask the rotting smell of the cadavers. Also, Honka blaming the awful smell on the cooking coming from the Greek family living below him was hilarious.

The problem with serial killer films including those based on real-life monsters, is that they either tend to psychoanylise them and attempt to humanise them into almost sympathetic characters, or just glorify them as anti-heroes. Thankfully, The Golden Glove is a film that goes against these portrayals. You're meant to be repulsed by these horrific people and that's what makes this film so damn immersive and compelling to watch. Definitely would have made my film highlights of 2019 if I had bothered to check it out earlier. Better late than never.

The Golden Glove (Trailer)

Fatih Akin, 2019

Count to 100

Celebrating the one hundredth anniversary of one of the most influential films of all time, is worthy of a dedicated post here at Dada Debaser. F. W. Murnau's 1922 German Expressionist film Nosferatu – Eine Symphonie des Grauens, or to English language heads, Nosferatu: A Symphony of Horror (commonly abridged to just Nosferatu), cemented its legacy in the annals of cinema as one of the greatest horror films of all time. 

Won't even bother going into regurgiating details of its origin, production woes, or its legal problems with the Bram Stoker estate, but it's worth mentioning that its obvious deviation from the Dracula novel, made it a uniquely iconic entity in its own right. Also, the documented interest in occultism by its producer Albin Grau, was evident in many of the film's visual details, such as Hutter's contract papers. The ghoulish undead visage of Count Graf Orlok, played by Max Schreck has ingrained itself into popular culture since it first made its presence known exactly one hundred years ago this very day. You could travel into the deepest heart of the Amazonian Rain Forest, stumble upon the remotest tribe there, play a scene from the film on your phone, and they would probably successfully identify it as Nosferatu while tucking into some long pig. That's how recognisable it is.

On a personal tip, Nosferatu was perhaps the earliest film throughout the history of cinema that I actively sought out to watch from beyond my timeline and became my first foray into German Expressionism, without some pretentious film scholar demanding it. It wasn't just the grand daddy of vampiric horror, it was the very ancestor of an entire movie genre. It was the common element that bridged the gap between serious 'kino' *yawn* heads and horror fans like myself.

Happy Birthday, Nosferatu!

Dada Debaser Bonus:

The film received the remake treatment in 1979 by tougher than leather film maker Werner Herzog, who this time around managed to get permission from the Stoker estate to use the official character names. Herzog's Nosferatu: Phantom der Nacht (Nosferatu: Phantom of the Night), AKA Nosferatu the Vampyr miraculously emphasised the gloomy existance of Schreck's character, now called Count Dracula (Klaus Kinski) even further, by portraying him as an even more pathetic entity in comparison to the original. Isabelle Adjani being cast as Lucy Harker set into motion this lad's penchant for goth babes, which, in all honesty, is probably the reason why I slightly prefer the remake over the original to this day. Kinski returned to his role with Vampire in Venice (1988), which I never bothered with, since Herzog wasn't involved with it and I've been burnt by way too many of Kinski's movies, although the trailer does look pretty cool.

 

Hard to believe, but, E. Elias Merhige, the director of the completely bonkers Begotten (1989), helmed a fictional account of the making of Nosferatu, with the novel spin of Max Schreck being a genuine blood-sucker in the film Shadow of the Vampire (2000), causing all types of mayhem during the production. Featured in the film are acting luminaries John Malkovich, Udo Kier and Willem Dafoe in one of his most underrated performances, as the repugnantly creepy Max Schreck. A gothed-up Catherine McCormack, higher than graphics card prices, as Nosferatu's objet de désir, Greta Schröder, is another major hightlight from the film. The film is one of my favourite movies about movie making and well worth checking out.