Water Torture

The Plumber (Peter Weir, 1979)

Given the critical acclaim of Picnic at Hanging Rock (1975) and The Last Wave (1977), it is surprising to learn that Peter Weir, the leading figure of the Australian New Wave, would still have to resort to writing and directing a TV movie to make some cash. Consequently, his fourth feature would eventually be granted a theatrical distribution in the international market.

The Plumber (1979) is a 77-minute feature film that very much resembles a teleplay thanks to primarily being set in a single location. It centres on class conflict and male toxicity, and showcases the hypocrisies of its two main characters. Above all, the film serves as a spiritual forerunner to The Cable Guy (1996).

Jill Cowper (Judy Morris) is a postgraduate anthropologist residing on the university campus with her scientist husband Brian (Robert Coleby). She spends her days at home working on her Master’s thesis while Brian teaches and conducts nutritional research. He is determined to gain the attention of the World Health Organisation for his theory of Kuru, a fatal neurodegenerative disorder caused by cannibalism, still being present among the tribes of Papua New Guinea. His obsession with this discovery occasionally leaves Jill feeling neglected and alone. An expensive watch for Jill, does little to compensate for her being home alone for the majority of the day.

Max (Ivar Kants) unexpectedly barges his way into Jill’s life as the university's plumber. However, his  invasive behaviour is a red flag; suggesting he could be a shady or dangerous individual. Jill finds herself feeling increasingly uneasy and threatened in her own home by the disruptive and overly friendly plumber. The annoying tradesman exhibits a complete lack of respect for her personal privacy. Max’s bizarre behaviour is evident from the outset as she suspects he may have taken a shower instead of doing any work. Hardly professional.

Max is quite vocal about his dislike for the social and intellectual higher-ups. He sees Jill as one of the elitists perched above the ivory tower of academia and class privilege. Thus, she is the recipient of his subtle, irritating comments and disapproving looks. On the other hand, Jill’s quiet exterior hides a woman who despises Max for his complete lack of sophistication; which is rather ironic, given her studies on primitive tribes.

The scenes between the two characters are remarkably awkward and sinister at times. Weir lets various details linger longer than necessary; achieving an uncomfortable atmosphere throughout the course of the film which feels intentionally exaggerated. Thus, The Plumber alternates between absurd comedy and psychological thriller territory. It’s bolstered by a choice selection of library tracks from the KPM vaults; notably the eerie Sea of Tranquility by Edgar Vetter and W. Merrick Farran, which really fits the bizarre tone of the film.

Weir’s inspiration for writing Max originated from a cab driver he met who resembled a long-haired John Lennon. It was during the Vietnam War, and the director was shocked to discover that his driver held abhorrent opinions on the conflict. The apparent contradiction of a peace-loving crusty of the flower power generation, revealed him to be an unapologetic fascist in a deceptive guise. This was how the plumber/wannabe folk-singer Max came to be. He wears a "Save the whale!" badge, but does he really mean it, or is it performative?

Additionally, the blue sticker on Max’s leather jacket that reads, “Liberal = Less Tax”, was a slogan by Australia’s conservative party, ironically known as The Liberal Party. Further contradictions are evident in Max’s rant to Jill when revealing he was once a burglar:

“Anyway, I only ever took from the rich. Bludgers living off the workers. Sucking the life blood of the country. Vampires. I’d tread on them if I could. Squash ‘em like snails. Wouldn’t give it another thought. That’s the way we saw it in Melbourne. We had principles. The crim scene in Adelaide’s just the opposite. Real capitalist.” — Max

Evidently, Max still acts like a burglar by entering Jill’s home via the hole in the bathroom ceiling when she tries avoiding him.

The most distressing aspect of Jill’s situation is the isolation she faces. Her concerns are not taken seriously by the supporting cast. Her friend Meg (Candy Raymond) appears to regard Max as a typical individual, while Brian is preoccupied with his work to notice anything. The gaslighting further exacerbates Jill’s mental health. 

Brian’s subplot concludes with a group of colleagues from the World Health Organisation being invited to the couple’s apartment for dinner. The menu features Jill’s speciality curry, which on this occasion, she’s accidentally made excessively hot. Keep in mind, their bathroom resembles an obstacle course, with scaffolding everywhere, and you have the makings for a classic comedy skit.

Although The Plumber may appear modest and limited in scope compared to Weir’s other films, it is an exceptionally entertaining and fascinating study of the classes. It achieves this in a relatively short runtime. That makes this a beaut, I reckon.

Currently, The Plumber is available to stream on both BFI Player and the Criterion Channel. It's also available as a bonus feature on Peter Weir's The Car That Ate Paris (1974), which was released recently on 4K UHD. Alternatively, there are old DVD copies about. 

There'll Be Masterpieces

Scarlet Street (Fritz Lang, 1945)

To distance myself from this year’s cinematic tripe, I sought a vintage film. A public domain title from a YouTube channel I subscribe to caught my eye; Fritz Lang’s film noir Scarlet Street (1945). There is a particular satisfaction in experiencing a film for the first time, especially one as old as Scarlet Street, which exceeds all expectations and predictions. Given the film’s focus on deception, it is ironic that it actually fooled me.

Chris Cross (Edward G. Robinson) is a middle-aged dreamer whose life feels unfulfilled. He would rather be a fine art painter than a cashier. His boss’s affair with a young woman further exacerbates his drudgery. He is also burdened by his domineering wife Adele (Rosalind Ivan) who idolises her late husband and is more interested in her radio show The Happy Household Hour. Returning home from a formal dinner party, Chris accidentally knocks out a mugger with his umbrella while rescuing Katherine ‘Kitty’ March (Joan Bennet*). Unbeknownst to Chris, the mugger is Kitty’s boyfriend Johnny Prince (Dan Duryea) who she conceals from him after persuading him not to report the attack to the police. Kitty presumes Chris is wealthy given his formal attire. She is also aware of his gullibility and sees potential in charming some money out of him. The hustle is set.

Edward G. Robinson portrays Chris Cross, a man experiencing a mid-life crisis, with remarkable authenticity. The character was already diminished to an impotent individual well before succumbing to the influence of Bennet’s femme fatale. His unhappy marriage has him reduced to doing all the domestic work in the home. To keep out of Adele's way, he's forced to do his weekend painting in the bathroom. In a notable scene, Chris is depicted wearing an impractical frilly apron as he carves liver for dinner. At that moment, Adele enters and interrogates him about his relationship with Kitty. Is his affair with Kitty rumbled? The camera zooms in on him as he stares at the knife in his hand. Robinson’s expression conveys the turmoil within his mind.

Similarly, Joan Bennet’s Kitty is another unfortunate individual; despite her deceitful nature she remains a victim. She is constantly abused by Johnny and her money is frequently stolen from her. Her appearance is merely a tool for her boyfriend to exploit on gullible men. Yet she is hopelessly in love with him, even addicted to his influence. Her cruel control over Chris is a reversal of her relationship with Johnny. Consequently, selling Chris’s lucrative paintings, even taking credit for them, highlights her indifference towards the hapless cashier. In the ultimate act of domination, when Chris asks her to paint her, she hands him a bottle of nail polish and raises her foot. “Paint me, Chris!" Obligingly, he stoops to one knee and paints her toes. Like a cat with cream, she declares “They’ll be masterpieces.” In that moment I both admired Joan Bennet’s performance and wished for a fitting consequence for her character.

Dan Duryea’s portrayal of Johnny Prince should not be underestimated. His dominance over Kitty and dependency on money completes the ménage à trois of deception. Kitty is thus a tool for him to exploit. However, he is intelligent enough to be aware that Chris is the golden goose in the love triangle. Without him there is no fancy pad, fast car and wads of cash. Duryea’s conman is a compelling character. Initially he pretends to be a boyfriend of Kitty’s friend Millie Ray (Margaret Lindsay) but Chris has his suspicions. These are proven correct when he encounters Kitty and Johnny in a loving embrace which effectively triggers the film’s chilling direction.

Scarlet Street was not the first adaptation of Georges de La Fouchardière’s 1929 novel La Chienne (translating to English as The Bitch). That honour would go to the French dramatist André Mouëzy-Éon’s 1930 stage play. Jean Renoir would adapt it for film the following year. Scarlet Street was a reunion for its three main actors and director, as they had all worked together the previous year on The Woman in the Window (1944). Scarlet Street shares many similarities with its earlier French counterpart, although it had to adhere to the Hays Code at the time. Consequently, the professions of its two con artists were made considerably more vague including Edward G. Robinson’s. The film was still banned in some states. Having recently watched Renoir’s film, I find Scarlet Street considerably superior. 

The subplot involving Adele’s first husband is a notable element of Renoir’s La Chienne that surpasses Lang’s remake. It is less awkwardly introduced in Renoir’s film. However, this is not sufficient reason to choose it over Scarlet Street. Lang’s film is superior in every other department; better direction, superior acting, beautifully photographed scenes and no jarring time jumps. Furthermore, Lang draws upon his German Expressionist roots in the final ten minutes, veering into psychological horror territory. This is surprisingly downbeat given the era and beyond the black comedy of Renoir's original. In conclusion, only the most pretentious of cinephiles would opt for La Chienne over Scarlet Street. The cinematic equivalent of someone preferring Bob Dylan’s All Along the Watchtower over Jimi Hendrix’s superior cover.

Scarlet Street is a highly engaging film noir from Fritz Lang. It shifts between comedy and melodrama at times before concluding in Poe-esque horror. A cautionary morality tale at its core, it features a particularly early scene where the superstitious Cross is the third to have his cigar lit with the same match. Despite crossing his fingers, it spells doom for all of Lang’s characters. While one might escape justice, no one escapes their fate. An excellent film.

 *Didn't realise Joan Bennet was Madame Blanc in Dario Argento's Suspiria (1977) until now.

Fidel Gastro

The Platform (Galder Gaztelu-Urrutia, 2019)

Occasionally, a film which has been on my radar winds up disappearing like Malaysia Airlines Flight 370. Netflix's The Platform (2019), or, if we want to call it by its original Spanish title, El hoyo is one such film. Helmed by a first time director Galder Gaztelu-Urrutia, The Plaform piqued my interest largely due to it being a dystopian sci-fi thriller where residents of the Vertical Self-Management Centre, a vast prison tower nicknamed The Pit, serve a given period in order to achieve their freedom and improved status in the outside world. The inmates are allowed one object while confined in The Pit, which can be anything from a weapon to a violin. Each day, these individuals are fed via a magically descending concrete platform laden with food. The catch being, it's the only meal of the day and those on the highest levels can gorge on as much food as they want once the descending platform spends a short limited time on their level. Thus, the higher-ups can feast like kings, while the lesser fortunate, further down, might face the very real possibility of starving to death. Hence, The Platform is an exploration of classicism, greed and the true test of human solidarity. A further twist to this situation is the inmates being reassigned to a random level at the start of each month. 

Frank Zappa lookalike Goreng (Iván Massagué) is the latest inmate. Armed with a copy of Cervantes's novel Don Quixote, it's not long before he's forced to learn the basic rule of survival inside the megastructure: Eat to survive! Goreng's cellmate, Trimigasi (Zorion Eguileor), a short and stocky elderly man with a misanthropic outlook on life, is wondering how long his new cellmate will last.Trimigasi is also pleased that he's on Level 48 in the complex; a relatively high level where food is more likely to be available from the upper level. More chance of leftovers. The disparity between the two individuals could never be more different; including the reasons for their admittance in The Pit. Goreng volunteered to be in their for an accredited diploma, while it was either a one year stint in the hell hole or forever in a psychiatric hospital for throwing a TV out of his window and accidentally murdering someone.

Goreng comes with the solution that it would be fairer to ration the food. An amused Trimigasi asks him, if he's a communist. Goreng attempts to persuade the higher ups, unsurprisingly, he's ridiculed. Similarly, his plea is also rejected by those below him. It's not helped when the odious Trimigasi urinates on the lower level after they complain about no wine being left, either. The elderly cellmate's logic being they would have done the same, if the tables were turned.

Trimigasi: The people below us are below us.

Goreng: Next month they might be above us. 

Trimigasi: Yes, and they'll piss on us. The bastards.

Goreng also has his first encounter with the beautiful Miharu (Alexandra Masangkay), a mute and battle-scarred woman, who rides the platform in the desperate hope of finding her child in the lower depths of the pit. Goreng is shocked by the notion of a child even being in the concrete hellhole. And yet, as Goreng's first month rolls by, he adapts to his environment; becoming more comfortable with eating from the platform and forming a close bond with Trimigasi. The scenes where he reads to his elderly cellmate and they exercise together for their mental and physical healths, are genuinely endearing.

Our cellmates' relationship takes a dramatic turn once the sleeping gas wears off and Goreng wakes up tied and gagged to his bed by Trimigasi. It's the start of a new month, and the pair are now way down the hole on Level 171. Starvation is very real. Trimigasi has been in this position before and survived it by resorting to cannibalism. The elderly man proposes a dark and twisted offer to his cellmate: he'll carve strips of Goreng's flesh to feed the both of them. In the midsts of his leg being cut up by the old cannibal, he's saved by Miharu and Trimigasi is subsequently killed by Goreng. Thus, the wannabe revolutionary himself turns to cannibalism in order to the rest of the month in the Pit. Having eaten human flesh, the act has made Goreng see visions of Trimigasi; haunting him from beyond the grave.

Another month, another twist of fate. Goreng is now on Level 33, a far more survivable part of the Pit. He's greeted by Ramses II, a sausage dog owned by a woman named Imoguiri (Antonia San Juan), the very same admittance officer who interviewed him for his application for the Vertical Self-Management Centre. Having lost her fight with cancer, the new inmate has decided to spend her final weeks learning of what her work has led to. She quickly learns how naïve she has been and makes similar pleas for solidarity and rationing to the other levels, echoing Goreng's first month. But it hits much harder for Imoguiri being a former employee for this diabolical construction. She has blood on her hands. How many have died here? Could her employers really have put a child in this ungodly construct? When the month passes, Goreng discovers he's on Level 202. Imoguiri has taken her own life. Once again, Goreng must eat human flesh. Another vision forever accompanying our protagonist. Imoguiri and Trimigasi now serving as our protagonist's good versus bad conscience.

Ascending to a more privileged Level 6 the following month, Goreng has a plan. Estimating there must be around 250 levels, our protagonist persuades his latest cellmate, Baharat (Emilio Buale), a religious man who literally gets shitted on by the higher-ups during an escape attempt, to descend to the lower levels with him in order to feed the prisoners below. They will demand the inmates on the first fifty levels to go without food for the day and use physical force if necessary to enforce it. During their decent, they encounter a scholar who suggests a message must also be sent to the hand that feeds them on Level 0; an untouched dish. The panna cotta is the message. 

The slow descent to the lower levels is easily the piece de resistance of The Platform. Gaztelu-Urrutia takes obvious inspiration from Dante's Inferno. The two cellmates traversing down on the magical concrete slab makes for compelling viewing. You're never sure what they expect. On one level you see charred remains of two people, on another two cellmates in a rubber pool, who turn out to be the film's story writers. A further twist is the platform going even further down than Goreng's estimation. It turns out out to be 333 levels. Two cellmates on each level. It couldn't be more clear what the Pit represents.

Gaztelu-Urrutia's commentary on capitalism and classism is about as subtle as being punched in the face by Frank Castle. Hardly, the first film with these criticisms, let alone the only that year. Bong Joon Ho's critically acclaimed Parasite (2019) was also released at the time. However, the South Korean black comedy, is a far more stylish and nuanced offering, whereas The Platform is ugly and austere. Incidentally, The Platform has more in common with Bong Joon Ho's dystopian sci-fi thriller Snowpiercer (2013), but the advantage of Tilda Swinton and Chris Evans not being in it. Another obvious influence is Vincenzo Natali's proto-Saw film Cube (1997) in its concept. Each of  The Platform's characters seem to represent archetypes in the dog eat dog world of the capitalist hierarchy: Trimigasi completely capable of committing evil to get to the top, while Imoguiri being blissfully unaware of her part in the brutal system she's contributed to until it's too late. Lastly, Goreng representing the socialist revolutionary striving for solidarity resorting to violence to enforce it after all pleasantries fail. The viewer never gets to see who runs the show, only a grim looking maître d' and cooks meticulously preparing the banquet of incredible food which is never enough to feed everyone.

The only real gripe is the ambiguous ending that I won't spoil. Considering how openly blunt the film's messaging has been, why opt for a cop out ending that's so intentionally vague? A notable sore point observed from other reviewers. Regardless, this wasn't enough to ruin my overall impression of the film. The many positives outweighed those final moments.

The Platform is a horrifying film; brutal, nihilistic and hard to recommend to any dog lovers. However, it's the film's sci-fi concept which is the most extreme aspect. The brutalist construct boxing everyone into various levels as an allegory to the class system. I absolutely loved this film so much, I immediately hunted checked out Gaztelu-Urrutia's two other subsequent efforts. Alas, both The Platform 2 (2024) and Rich Flu (2024 /25) are significant downgrades and even more infested with shameless Marxist propaganda than your kid's university. The latter film being utterly soporific despite a ridiculous premise of a virus which only targets the wealthy. In any case, at least comrade Gaztelu-Urrutia has one truly great film under his belt, making it a crying shame it's rotting on Netflix and not available on any English friendly physical format release.

The Ear of Living Dangerously

The Ear (Karel Kachyňa, 1970)

With recent changes in online safety laws, I was in the mood for some Kafka-esque style thriller centred around authoritarianism working for the so-called greater good. Enter Karel Kachyňa's previously banned The Ear (AKA Ucho, 1970) — a film that tends to be lumped in as part of the Czech New Wave by various film critics and the like. Please believe the term new wave is the equivalent of kryptonite to your host. Pretentious film makers in this field are always justly worthy of mockery and ridicule, but I'll give them their fair dues if they deliver the goods. Life is far too precious to waste on some overrated, avant-garde spergfest like Věra Chytilová's Daisies (1966), a film also banned by the Czechoslovakian Communist Party (largely because of it being nonsensical shite rather than glorifying the rot of Capitalism, in my humble opinion) and subsequently worshipped today by pseudo-intellectual film snobs and septum-pierced hipsterellas. Then again, I am a fan of Jaromil Jireš's excellent fantasy horror Valerie and Her Week of Wonders (1970), another film in the Czech New Wave canon. Fortunately, the gamble paid off, as The Ear is another winner for your host.

Ludvík (Radoslav Brzobohatý) is a deputy minister returning home from a political shindig with his drunken wife Anna (Jiřina Bohdalová). Once they're dropped off outside their house, things don't seem right. Ludvík notices a parked car in the distance that appears suspicious. To make matters worse, Anna has lost the keys to the front door. Locked out, Ludvík attempts to sneak back in via the rear of the house. Once inside, there is no electrical power. Ludvík dismisses it as a power cut in the local area. However, Anna notices their neighbours opposite have all the their lights on. And thus, paranoia and anxiety worm their way for the couple. 

The premise paves the way for a compelling film revealing all the resentment in Ludvík and Anna's marriage, along with them living under a totalitarian regime where privacy is but a rare luxury. Even in their own home, there is no realistic sanctuary for them, as the couple believe their home is bugged; Anna mockingly calling whoever might be listening to her conversations as "The Ear". In particular scene, it's implied that the couple have sex in the kitchen as their bedroom is more than likely bugged. Much like Ludvík, the viewer is made to piece the puzzle together in the reason for their sinister predicament.

Via a series of flashbacks set at the aforementioned party, we learn of possible details that account for  Ludvík and Anna's safety being in jeopardy. Ludvík's peers were all absent from the ministerial soiree and the husband suspects he might be in midsts of a purge. In the case of Ludvík's boss, it might have been because he was Jewish and therefore subsequently "summoned" elsewhere off screen. There's a striking contrast between these flashback scenes and rest of the film where the couple are skulking about their home in the dark. One is an ultra bright and dreamlike setting, where drunken housewives wear newspaper hats, and visiting Russian officials, in military regalia, are comically leaping about like frogs; the other, is the two fearful protagonists, illuminating their home with old-fashioned candelabras, looking like they're transplanted into a gothic Italian horror. The quick cut editing between the two juxtaposed scenarios is perhaps the reason for its new wave label. It's jarring, initially, but achieves the objective of cluing in on the events leading up to the surmounting paranoia and dread throughout the progress of the film. 

Despite the surmounting levels of fear in the film, there are some unexpectedly amusing lines peppered here and there. One particular scene at the aforementioned party has Ludvík's comrade telling him that the catering staff are compromised, "See how he serves the food? None of them is a trained waiter, they're all spies!" Snarkily demanding, "Give me a bit of salmon. It's that red stuff  over there."

It isn't long until men in suits are wondering around outside the couple's property. A fearful Ludvík attempts to flush an important ministerial report down the toilet; eventually resorting to burning it. Anna wanting to open a window from the smoke, but warned not to by Ludvík, so not to alert the men outside their property. This is a sobering moment for her. Witnessing one of the men outside taking a vegetable from their garden, Anna comments, "They're stealing our radishes. At least he left the cabbage." A few seconds of jest whilst her world comes crashing in on her.

Amidst all the unfolding chaos, Kachyňa focuses heavily on his protagonist's estranged marriage and provides some heavy insight into both of these characters. It's the reason why The Ear is often likened to Edward Albee's play Who's Afraid of Virginia Wolf? albeit with the paranoia of Francis Ford Coppola's The Conversation (1974). Given the latter, it's somewhat likely The Ear might have had some influence upon on the American director's surveillance thriller.

Karel Kachyňa was already a veteran film maker when he co-wrote and directed The Ear. This might explain his brazen criticism of his government without any kind of fear of reprisal. Surprisingly, the film even received a theatrical release in the former home nation of Czechoslovakia; albeit, a very short lived one, as it was quickly pulled and banned by the ruling Communist Party. It would take twenty years and the Iron Curtain to be drawn back for for the film to ever resurface again. The Ear was screened at the 1990 Cannes Film Festival and rediscovered once more. Fast forward to today, and its chilling commentary appears to be just as relevant now as it did back then. Last and not least, The Ear serves as a very early example of paranoid-infused political thrillers which were popular in '70s cinema.

Count the The Ear as a rare breed of film that is worthy of admiration by film lovers with an appreciation for paranoid thrillers, as well as poncey chin-strokers who frequent art-house cinemas.

The Ear is available on Blu-ray via Second Run as well as an upload on YouTube. 

Wave in Fright

The Surfer (Lorcan Finnegan, 2024 / 2025)

The redemption arc of the eccentric Nicolas Cage is one that will be discussed by film bros for many years. The Oscar winner and Hollywood A-lister fell from mainstream grace and spent years in straight-to-video hell, before emerging again an as an indie film hero. He had also become an internet icon, prior; thanks to comical videos and memes, putting him on similar pedestal to Chuck Norris and Keanu Reeves. And so, Cage essentially cashed-in on his unhinged performances, leading to a late career renaissance and garnering critical acclaim with the films Mandy (2018) and Pig (2021). His latest endeavour, the psychological thriller The Surfer (2024 / 2025), is another notable manic performance in his illustrious career.

Set in the fictional locale known as Luna Bay in Western Australia, our protagonist makes his entrance driving his son to a house he's eager to buy. This residential property has personal significance to Cage's character, as it was his former childhood home. It's eventually revealed why he ended up in California; hence the lack of an Aussie accent. The Surfer is eager to buy it. Like all midlife crises, looking to rekindle the good times of his past; including his love of surfing. Being a Nicolas Cage film, nothing is ever that easy. It's not long before he's facing the prospect of being gazumped over his childhood home. To make matters worse, the territorial bogans won't allow non-locals to catch the waves. "Don't live here; don't surf here". 

One would assume, given The Surfer's premise and Cage playing the action hero in the past, it would be heading into familiar territory; it doesn't. Instead, director Lorcan Finnegan opts for a surreal endurance, that's somewhere in between the fractured mental state of The Swimmer (1968) and the daylight horror of the Aussie nightmare Wake in Fright (1971). Furthermore, Cage spends much of the film trapped in a car park like a fly in a web. Finnegan absolutely relishes putting Cage through a gamut of suffering to it coming across as sadistic. Observing Cage gradually degrade to the point of having to rummage through bins for food, and drinking water from puddles littered with cigarette butts, is both tragic and farcical.

Yet, despite some heavy themes, The Surfer does not to really dwell into really psychological horror territory like those other films. It's first and foremost a vehicle accommodating Cage's comfort zone in going doolally. Therefore, Finnegan's film is equally an alternative comedy as it is a psychological thriller, in many respects.

Before long, Cage's dreams begin to shatter in a series of anxiety driven scenarios. A vagrant, credited in the film as the Bum (Nic Cassim), living in a broken down car, shares many ambiguous similarities with Cage's Surfer. The Bum warns our eponymous character that the leader of the local surf thugs is the one responsible for the death of his son, along with killing his dog, too. 

Scally (Julian McMahon), a men's surf guru, serves as the film's antagonist. Dressed in a hooded, red towel robe and sporting and a constant devilish smile, Scally puts the Surfer through the absolute ringer; where his entire world begins to collapse. It reaches the point where he even doubts his very existence given the grand conspiratorial scheme that seems to be against him. Even nature itself plays a part in crapping on the titular hero, as a parrakeet literally shit on him, along with a run-in he has with a rat; evoking the Australian ecological horror Long Weekend (1978).

The Surfer's biggest highlight is Cage charging to the beach wielding a "LOCALS ONLY" sign post as a weapon and confronting Pitbull (Alexander Bertrand), one of Scally's bully disciples. The fight results in Cage ramming a dead rat into the bully's mouth. "You eat it! Eat the rat!", the most quotable line in the entire film.

A difficult film to pin down. I enjoyed this a great deal, but it's definitely not for everyone; even I can admit to that. A very close friend of mine, who had seen it prior to me, absolutely hated it and warned me about it. Curiosity obviously got the better of me, and I was far more positive about it than him, as I found it a far more rewarding experience than many of the other films that have been released this year. Therefore, I can absolutely see The Surfer being considered a Marmite film. Personally, this is Cage's most entertaining film since Mandy, so make of that what you will.

Up to Snuff

Tesis (Alejandro Amenábar, 1996)

Video cassettes spawned a new way in how we watched films. Gone was the ritualistic process of having to find out what the local screenings were in advance; along with the potential of a film being ruined by a bunch of annoying twats sat in the auditorium. Video brought convenience to the masses. The ability to pause and rewind a specific scene gave us the ability to analyse with more scrutiny. It also opened a proverbial pandora's box. Mature content, bereft of a video classification, became more accessible to minors with lax parents; including theatrically rejected titles finding a new lease of life on video cassette. It would lead to the infamous Video Nasty hysteria. More importantly, it would usher in a new generation of extreme horror aficionados as well as a general desensitisation as whole in how society sees violence. This is the main backbone to Alejandro Amenábar debut thriller Tesis (AKA Thesis, 1996).

Ángela Márquez (Ana Torrent), a student at the Complutense University of Madrid, is researching the effects of audiovisual violence upon society for her thesis. She's introduced in Amenábar's film onboard a stationary train. Along with her fellow passengers, she's made to alight from the transport, as a person had thrown themselves in front of the tracks. With morbid curiosity, she scrambles to get a peak at the gory mess. An official guides her away from the gruesome sight. Ángela's ghoulish interest is also evident when she asks her tutor, Professor Figueroa (Miguel Picazo), to lend her some dodgy tapes from the university's video archives; for research purposes, of course. This begs the question: what kind of reputable educational establishment would have morally reprehensible content on its shelves? Ángela also enlists the help of weirdo student Chema (Fele Martinez), a loner known for having an appetite for extreme horror and pornographic films. 

The mystery unfolds once Ángela's professor stumbles upon a mysterious iron door in the archives and discovers a room with video tapes. Figueroa comes to an unfortunate end, when Ángela finds him dead in the screening room; apparently while watching the tape he retrieved from the archives. Whether or not foul play was at hand, remains ambiguous. However, given the professor's obese state and constant respiratory wheezing, he could have just as well popped his clogs whilst watching Mary Poppins (1964). Our protagonist grabs the tape and rushes back home, without reporting the professor's death to anyone.

Ángela attempts to watch the tape at home, but is too afraid of whatever horrors she will see. Instead, our protagonist records its sounds onto an audio cassette. Listening on her walkman, the chilling sounds of a girl being tortured are too much for her. Therefore, it's off to Chema's fly-tip of a hovel to get him to watch it and describe what's occurring on-screen while her back is turned. Whist her back is turned and Chema's grisly intrigue, the pair stumble upon the revelation that it's an actual snuff tape. To drive it closer to home, Chema recognises the victim as a former university student who disappeared a couple of years prior. Thus, much like that all too familiar giallo trope, Ángela and Chema become unwitting amateur sleuths in a film laden with curveballs and misdirections to sate fans of Hitchcock style thrillers and Italian gialli.

Apart from its dark plot, heightened tensions and palpable suspense, what really drives Tesis forward is how well written the characters are. Ángela and Chema are like oil and water. At first, our heroine is like a moth to a flame in her morbid curiosity. She can barely watch the horrors which draw her, but she gradually is able to face it once she spends more time with Chema. A similar transformation happens to her sidekick. He becomes much warmer to Ángela, once she realised, much of his obnoxiousness and edge lord behaviour is more or less a personal shield in dealing with the outside world. Ought to add, despite living in absolute filth, Chema is right up there Mark Petrie, Tommy Jarvis and Charley Brewster as great fictional horror aficionados. Chema unashamedly wearing a Cannibal Holocaust (1980) T-shirt to university and adorning posters of Shocker (1989) and Alien 3 (1992) in his grotty bathroom speak volumes to me. A stark contrast to Ángela's solitary film poster in her bedroom of My Own Private Idaho (1991). Which has me cheering for him to not to die, solve the mystery and get the girl, even if he does give off school shooter vibes.

 

Bad boy Bosco Herranz (Eduardo Noriega) enters the fray as another integral character in the film. He's spotted by Ángela operating the same model video camera linked with the recording of the snuff film. Equally damning, is his association with the victim from the tape. Looking like Spain's answer to Paul Walker (Pablo Caminante, if you will), Bozco has Ángela both swooning and terrified of him. A key sequence reveals Ángela's mental being, as she dreams of having sex with Bozco, before he stabs her. Worth mentioning, both Ángela's mother and sister are smitten when Bozco charms his way into their house. The complete chad to Chema's virgin. 

Despite the few instances which defy logic (the secret area behind the metallic door in the university's video archives, being the obvious one), a night club playing the most atrocious euro techno music, and being around fifteen minutes too long, there's a lot I like about Alejandro Amenábar's thriller. Abundant plot twists and a number of red herrings, make it constantly engaging. It's all the more impressive once you realise this is incredibly low budget, written and helmed by a twenty three year old film graduate shooting at his university, and more importantly, more enjoyable than Mute Witness (1995) and 8mm (1999), two other Hitchcockian style thrillers from around that era, also themed around snuff films.

Tesis swept up all the major Goya awards (Spain's answer to the Oscars) in 1997. Alejandro Amenábar would follow-up its success with his science fiction drama Open Your Eyes (1997). He would cast both Martinez and Noriega again, alongside the gorgeous Penelope Cruz. It would get the American remake treatment, retitled to Vanilla Sky (2001) and starring action movie midget Tom Cruise. The remake would also feature Penelope Cruz reprising her role. Amenábar would also deliver The Others (2001), a fantastic supernatural chiller with Cruise's other half at the time, Nicole Kidman. No idea what Amenábar is churning out today, but I can confidently claim, he came out of the gate running with his impressive talent as both a writer and director. Tesis is superb mystery thriller.

Here's a currently working YouTube link of Tesis. Not sure how long it will remain, though,

Sumner of Sam

Straw Dogs (Sam Peckinpah. 1971)

From cowboys to cowboy builders! One might have thought American director Sam Peckipah, a film maker synonymous with violenct westerns, would have taken a change in direction with Straw Dogs (1971), considering it being his first feature outside of the genre. The psychological thriller set in an idyllic part off the Cornish coast in the Southwest of England, would be even more problematic than his ultra violent The Wild Bunch (1969). Peckinpah's shocking and cumbersome depiction of rape would forever mire the film with controversy. As a result, Straw Dogs would be banned in the UK during the mid Eighties, despite some cuts. Time to revisit the grand daddy of home invasion films.

American mathematician David Sumner (Dustin Hoffman) and his young, English wife Amy (Susan George) have moved to the latter's family home in Cornwall. The reason why is somewhat vague in the film, although it's hinted that David felt disillusioned or possibly scared over America's social climate during that time. Consequentially, the fight or flight theme would develop into an invaluable proponent to David's development as a character. Similarly, it would also highlight a very clear divide between him and Amy.

From the opening scenes, Straw Dogs depicts the Sumners in a marital struggle. A mismatched couple: he, a cowardly individual devoted to his work; Amy, the young and beautiful trophy wife, desperate for affection. Their relationship appears strained. Locating to the village where Amy was born and raised, is a last ditch effort for the Sumners to get things working again. Subsequentially, this proves to be a mistake, with Amy's old flame Charlie Venner (Del Henney) is around and still harbouring feelings for her. Venner's complete lack of respect for their marriage being unashamedly on display from the offset. Foolishly, Charlie is hired to help speed up the urgent work needed at the Sumner's farm. A leering Norman Scutter (Ken Hutchison), who also lusts for Amy, and odious rat catcher Chris Cawsey (Jim Norton) have taken too long to finish repairing the farm roof at the Sumner's residence.

A very clear cut of yin and yang can be seen with the characters Tom Heddon (Peter Vaughan) and Major John Scott (T.P. McKenna). Heddon, being the drunken and oafish bully, while the Major being the closes thing to the local sheriff. In some ways, Straw Dogs is a Western; albeit being set in the South West of England. The disdain between these two characters is obvious on-screen. The pleasantries are short, abrupt and insincere. The equilibrium destroyed in the third act, leading to the siege on the Sumner's home.

Peckinpah was battling some serious demons during the film's production. Various interviews with cast and crew mention how the director was drinking heavily and seriously in ill health, one person describing it as"walking pneumonia". Actor, Ken Hutchison reflects on the time when Peckinpah would tell him to come drinking with him at 3:00am in Land's End. During filming, Peckinpah would swap his coffee thermos with one containing scotch. The producers were concerned enough to order a replacement director to lurk on the film set should Peckinpah be unable to continue with the production. It's a miracle Peckipah managed to complete the film, in all seriousness.

This explains how the controversial double rape scene was handled. According to Susan George, a relative unknown at the time, she felt understandably worried about shooting the controversial scene. Intimacy co-ordinators didn't exist in the Seventies, and Peckinpah's withholding what he required from her, resulted with George threatening to quit from the film. What unfolds on film is a deeply unpleasant watching experience; then again such a traumatising experience always is. The sexual assault upon her by Venner is portrayed as being ambiguous, making it problematic. Amy's appears to be enjoying it in some instances. The scene is intercut with a pathetic looking David alone and abandoned at the hunt engineered by Venner to separate the couple. What's less of a grey area is the brutal second rape by Scutter, with Venner pinning Amy down during the horrific process.

Ironically, it's not the rape of his wife which turns the timid David Sumner into a shotgun wielding protector (he's unaware of it, after all), it's his deep seated urge to protect an unknown he's taken into his care after hitting him with his car. The stranger in question being local weirdo and possible nonce Henry Niles (David Warner, uncredited) fleeing from the scene after accidentally killing Heddon's daughter. When the whereabouts of Niles are revealed, Heddon and his drunken vigilante mob, consisting of the very same yokels who've wrought hell upon the Sumners, descend upon the Sumner's home. The result is a violent and drunken siege, which almost comes across as surreal at times, with David no longer running away, "This is where I live. This is me. I will not allow violence against this house." It also reveals just how different David and Amy really, along with the extent of the deterioration of their marriage. In one instance, when Scutter invades Amy's bedroom, she yells for both David and Charlie to help her.

Adapted from Gordon Williams's 1969 book The Siege of Trencher's Farm, Peckinpah made some major changes (e.g. the omission of the couple's daughter from the film adaptation), which angered the author. Amusingly, Peckinpah considered the book as "drowning in your own vomit" and went on record with saying, "I thinks Mr. Williams has a penchant for his own work. I don't." Furthermore, Peckinpah continued to explore his trademark themes centred around masculinity and violence. Hence, what would make such a timid and diminutive intellectual like David Sumner finally snap and smash a man's brains in with an iron poker while Scottish bagpipes are blaring in the background? This isn't a scenario that manifests spontaneously, and that's the beauty of Straw Dogs. The intense violence is built up thanks to a variety of nuanced verbal exchanges before they become physical. Which makes Straw Dogs an incredible ticking time bomb of a film, even after half a century.

Peckinpah's direction creates a sense of nihilism throughout, tainting the idyllic beauty of the Cornish locale. With the exception of possibly the Major, there aren't any real good guys within the film. Everyone appears to be portrayed as either deeply vile or completely damaged goods; including the Sumners. This makes Straw Dogs a pessimistic film, but a deeply engrossing one, however. Essentially, a film which requires a certain frame of mind, and not something to watch on the whim.

Ironically, Peckinpah wasn't the only American auteur to brings plenty of film controversy to the Great Britain that year, Stanley Kubrick would unleash a bit of the old ultra violence with his dystopian film A Clockwork Orange (1971). The two films would often draw comparisons, and were both subsequentially banned. However, given just how much Peckipah was always obsessed with the male machismo, I personally find Ted Kotcheff's seminal Australian thriller Wake in Fright (1971) a more fitting partner to Straw Dogs. They would also make for a suitable film double-bill. Can't comment on the Straw Dogs (2011) remake, as I never bothered with it.

Classic British thriller.