Enter the Void (2009)

     In a pulsating phantasmagoria of acid-tripped title cards, Noe introduces his latest feature atop a pulse-pounding electronic heartbeat hyped on amphetamines.  There is no doubt that many, many narcotics are to come.  If the endless neon lights of Tokyo side streets weren’t clue enough the POV DMT hit seals the deal.  This is a drug movie.  One that resists the ethical considerations surrounding their use and instead gets strung out on life, death, and sex.  There are no moral debates to the aforementioned topics, unlike Irreversible; Noe doesn’t delve into ethical implications.  Rather, he inhales the intoxicating fumes of Dimethyltryptamine and trips through death in the labyrinthine Tokyo streets.  The viewer must be willing, or equally intoxicated, to join the ride.
    Our point of view is through the eyes of Oscar, a twentysomething American living in Tokyo.  He is also a heavy drug user, a literal motherf*cker, and a prospective spiritualist.  He takes a few hits of DMT, the same chemical released when one is about to die, and disappears into a psychedelic stream…  From the hands of his friend, Alex, comes The Tibetan Book of the Dead.  It tells of the afterlife.  They discuss this existence, explained by the book, as a cycle where the spirit is absorbed into light sources to higher and higher levels.  The concepts are nominally intangible yet conceptually akin to someone accustomed to different plains of consciousness.  As the pair walks the carnival-like streets to The Void we experience every footstep, every blink, nearly every sensory input Oscar receives.  He enters the neon bar, black lights illuminating the darkness like a synthetic Pandora.  Seconds later he is in the bathroom frantically dumping pills into the ground level Japanese toilet.  He hurriedly scrapes them from amongst the cigarette butts and unclean tile.  A bullet rips through his chest; his fingers fumble in the warm blood.  Oscar dies on the disgusting bathroom floor, the only cinematic locale to rival Trainspotting. 
    The remaining two hours are a beautiful nightmare, one in which he watches over his stripper sister; seeing both conception and abortion of her baby.  He drifts through walls, passing countless, rooms, stairways, and endless partitions.  There is a renowned sense of freedom not even possible during the heaviest trips.  He cycles, passing through glowing orbs in the environment before starting again with the events that carry on after his death.  More walls, more lights, more sounds textures and luminescent voids.  Until finally, as dreamed of before death, he floats through a hotel filled with friends.  He glides above room after room of copulating couples and passionate threesomes; a sexual cornucopia that fuses Eyes Wide Shut and 2001 A Space Odyssey into a relentless foray until he becomes, almost perfectly, the starchild.
    Gasper Noe’s style is very much intact.  The opening title cards, perhaps seizure inducing, introduce the strobing, neon color space in which the entire film exists.  Oscar’s room is illuminated heavily by blinking advertisements from outside, shifting from green to purple to red and yellow.  White, it seems, does not exist.  Nearly every shot is from behind his eyes.  The single exception may be his initial DMT hit that slowly floats above even him; but it is still clearly his point of view.  We are treated to the unreal trip sequences as otherworldly shapes intertwine and morph between colors, sometimes resembling dendrites or caterpillars or mind-tunnels to other dimensions.  Present too, in amplified color swirling accents, is raw, uncensored, pornographic exploits.  Where Irreversible teetered between violence and sex, Enter the Void dissolves the former for heavy doses of the latter.
    The film may be the new ultimate trip, clearly influenced by Kubrickian obsessions.  It, too, runs a little long for the conventional viewer yet is fully motivated by its content.  And more than many filmmakers today, Noe has created an experience, one fraught with visual and audible stimulus and intending an experience beyond the typical drama.  In this case, a psychedelic melodrama.

Irreversible (2002)

            The first frames are credit roll.  Last names only and backwards E’s, N’s, and R’s.  The words are at first cryptic and stream by in blood red capitals before slowly titling sideways and finally spinning out of control.  This flows naturally into the first shots of the film; tilted, off-angle exteriors with flashing lights and brick walls.  The camera twists and turns out of control, unencumbered by the formal expectations of feature film viewership.  Through the S&M nightclub, The Rectum, Marcus searches for le Tenia (the tapeworm), the man who raped and abused his girlfriend.  He falls victim instead, his arm broken backwards before his friend Pierre smashes the man’s face with a fire extinguisher.  The blows are relentless, the camera-eye unflinching, the metal body unyielding.  The man is left with only his lower jaw and a pile of mush where his face and skull used to be.

            Noe’s film is relentless; a series of long takes playing in reverse chronology that follow a man seeking revenge and the irreversible consequences that take place during a night of extreme violence.  Yet these first few minutes, complete with infrasound at 28Hz, while indeed disturbing and horrific are nothing compared to the inciting incident that takes place in an underpass below the Parisian streets.  Noe is clearly asking if the violence we are introduced to initially is justified by the ungodly time spent in hell; a red lined tunnel converging in the distance, void of any earthly familiarity.

            I’d be inclined to say yes, if the man Pierre obliterated had in fact been le Tenia.  Instead, le Tenia looked on amusedly knowing the pair will soon be arrested and his crime will go unpunished.  The complete lack of consequence with which Tenia observes the murder foreshadows the complete lack of humanity with which he commits his own crime.  If anything, the man’s unrecognizable face is a reminder of earlier in the night.

            It cannot go unquestioned how images like Noe’s can be put on film.  The weight of what they represent and the vérité in which they are presented leave a considerable impression on the viewer’s mind.  It is one that is immediately shocking and unendingly disturbing.  They serve as warning, as cautions, as artistic testaments to the evils of mankind.  Yet we can still wonder why Noe chooses to show what he does; why he wants his audiences to be uncomfortable both physiologically and emotionally.  Is this exploitation cinema or are they raw warnings?  For me, the jury is still out but both remain plausible explanations.

Buried (2010)

            The simplicity of this film’s plot is equaled only by its absurdity; a guy wakes up in a coffin buried beneath the earth and spends the rest of the movie trying to get out.  For many, the premise is immediately laughable and quickly extinguished.  Can one really expect to carry and audience for and hour and a half stuck in a single, solitary, claustrophobic location?  And what’s more, will anyone care to try?

            From a production standpoint this film is genius; one on-screen actor, one location, how they sank $3 million into it its beyond me.  I could have filmed the entire thing in my backyard.  From a writing standpoint it would be a great experiment in MacGyver-esque problem solving with extreme limitations and very few opportunities.  From an acting standpoint it's the chance for an intense and varied one-man-show; you have to carry the whole movie.  And from an audience standpoint, especially one with increasingly critical eyes, it's a chance to see just how well the publicity stunt comes off.  (Why didn’t Criss Angel star?)

            This film could not have existed before the digital age (except of course the period when coffins had a pulley system with an above ground bell because people were afraid of being buried alive, estimated running time- 2 minutes).  A guy wakes up buried; he panics, and then dies.  The importance of a cell phone is beyond words as a literal and physical lifeline.  Is this a plot necessity or a comment on our culture’s incessant need and craving for the devices?  A plot necessity of course!  Before time and air run out (built-in suspense) our protagonist, Paul, must find out where he is and how someone can get him out.  Turns out he is in Iraq and being held ransom by terrorists.  I haven’t decided if this is efficient terrorist stratagem or not.  You don’t need to hide a body because you already did yet neither does your opponent.  Luckily, he finds a few various tools, which nearly all give light.  With these, we are able to share the confined experience as he fumbles endlessly with phone calls to the outside world he (SPOILER ALERT) will never see again. 

            The film is immediately gimmicky and makes no point in going anywhere else.  It can’t.  Yet for mindlessly simple set-up it manages, despite expectations, to hold on for nearly the entirety of hits running-time.  The visuals are varied enough between the different colored light sources and changes in composition that the eyes are not instantly tired.  If anything, the film could have developed its claustrophobic intents a bit stronger by resisting long pullouts.  Without a doubt the concept is flawed from the beginning but if we lend the freedom, it manages it well.  That is until a snake finds he way in and out of his pants and he proceeds to attempt setting it on fire inside of a tiny box.  I don’t know if he realized he was also in this tiny box.  Regardless, these extreme moments are few and if anything the film should be commended on its success at fulfilling what it set out to do.

            That is, bury a man, and follow him for the hour and a half (SPOILER ALERT) leading up to his death.  We can argue all day about plot holes and inconsistencies, not limited to talking on the phone upside down.  But this would miss the few points that the film tries to make or the comments it offers on our culture.  There are so many pressures from uncounted sources that we literally feel trapped and we don’t know how we got there.  Or, that one must literally think-outside-the-box to save his life.  Or that studios are always confining artistic freedom within an acceptable box to the point that it crushes the artist.  Or that the War in Iraq was such a waste; we were literally burying people alive.  Or…

Rare Exports (2010)

     A new holiday traditions begins this year.  It is not the feel-good-beyond-belief classicism of Capra’s It’s a Wonderful Life or the immortal childhood classics like Home Alone and A Christmas Story.  And it is by no means the brass commercialism of the fat, jolly Santa.  This Finnish export re-imagines the entire fairy tale behind St. Nick in a dark and rebellious tone that is, ironically, more in tune with the absurdity of an old man sneaking into houses during the midnight hours.  Somehow, this always gets overlooked.
     On the Russian side of the Russian/Finnish border stands an imposing mountain.  Only the greedy American businessman, looking very Scrooge-like, knows it to be the giant tomb of a frozen Santa.  He leads the excavation and subsequent robbing of earth’s most important grave.  In the meantime, schoolboys Juuso and Pietari witness the explosive activities.  Soon thereafter the local reindeer population, their fathers’ main source of income, is slaughtered by what Pietari knows to be the escaped Father Christmas.  Juuso and the rest of the town’s children disappear leaving Pietari to fear for his life in the wake of late night study sessions on the truly sinister origins of Santa as sadistic child-boiler.  A short time later, Pietari’s father captures old Kris Kringle in a punji pit designed for wolves and baited with a severed pig’s head.
     The old man is like no other cinematic interpretation of Father Christmas imagined thus far.  His old decrepit body is scrawny and malnourished.  He is bleeding from the stomach having been pierced by a punji stake.  His withered body is adorned with a wispy, dirty beard and the eyes bore deep.  The most animated his body becomes is when his nostrils twitch and Pietari’s smell drifts through his nose.  His hangs from a chain and is wrapped in plastic bags above the cold cement floor.  His captors munch gingerbread and look on in amazement at the evil-eyed old man
     The absurdity in this movie knows no end.  From the epic and moving score to Pietari dangling heroically from a helicopter; there are things not even the veteran cinephile has ever seen.  This genre mixing Xmas horror has an all male cast a la The Thing and a Santa logo suspiciously similar to District 9.  It mixes sweeping vistas with a grizzly slaughterhouse and explosive actions sequences with midnight movie madness.  It can only be presumed that this sure-to-be cult hit will find its place on the Christmas dinner table for years to come.  Highly recommended for its deliciously entertaining escapist fare and critique on the hyper-commercialization of modern Santa.

Valhalla Rising (2009)

    Nicolas Winding Refn strips his world down to the bare essentials; Earth and Death.  In the mist of the Scottish Highlands is caged a mute, one-eyed animal.  The beast is taken out for regular bouts of carnage, both in the vein of jugular tearing and skull-bashing.  The collar and leash that confine his movements are but minor disadvantages with mortal benefits.  One-Eye’s graying beard and neatly contained crop of lengthy hair quickly become matted in the mud of his battleground.  The only reward he receives for his kill count is a ladle of watery soup from the hands of a young, androgynously blond-haired boy.
    This child becomes his mouth; speaking more in a single word than the mute does from start to finish.  One-Eye talks with his eyes and with his body.  His red-saturated hallucinatory premonitions provide his escape.  In a matter of seconds he breaks his collar and slays his captors, making habitual use of a diving leg smash and finishing his opponent whence they have fallen to the earth.  The mute ties his final captor, as if to crucify, to a large rock only to disembowel the living man.  He continues through the thin air being tailed by the child.
    The unlikely, almost affectionately paired duo arrives at the aftermath of crusading Christian Vikings.  The small village’s men are slaughtered, the naked women chained, the huts burned.  One-Eye and the boy join the Vikings as they return to Jerusalem; a journey guided by God through the fog covered waters of the ocean.  Their faith in God will surely return them to the Holy Land.
    The river they abruptly find themselves in, and the land they soon set foot on, is surely more Hell than Heaven.  The first Viking is killed by an obsidian arrowhead of unknown origin; the first sign of primal inhabitants.  The open-air burials on raised scaffolding display withered and decaying bodies.  The forests have no end.  The mud is thick.  Their world is a wicked hallucination.  The Christians continue to delude themselves with visions of grandeur in building their New Jerusalem devoid of women or food.
    Valhalla Rising finds Refn at his most meditative and, despite my unrelenting adoration for Bronson (2009), perhaps his most masterful.  The savage brutality and violent masculinity is echoed yet is stripped of its societal incarnations and individual motivations.  Here, it is survival at its purest.  It is no small fact that One-Eye is both caged and collared and tied to a post like a dog.  He is fed from a bowl without spoon and used only for fighting.  And he doesn't talk. Unlike the violent nature of Bronson, One-Eye’s violence is not spurred on by challenging authority and immortalizing identity but by prolonging the physical life. 
    It is a life born from the earth and never separated from it.  His cage, the only time he is ever inside, is an extension of a massive boulder.  His battleground is but a textured and dirty mess of mud.  The rock cairn he erects on the edge of the water where he commits his final cleansing comes tandem with the bloodstained premonitions of his body beaten to death on a rocky outcrop.  While he bathes his body for the last time, the final Christian leader does the same, only to be penetrated by three arrows that leave his body floating in the dark water.
    It is unclear just what One-Eye has sacrificed in the final chapter.  Nor is it certain that he didn't lead the Christians astray, as he was accused.  It is certain that no New Jerusalem is to be formed in the primordial land. 
    Refn’s Death Trip is written in six chapters that suggest an easy reading but do not provide a concrete solution.  The child is all that remains after One-Eye is beaten by natives covered in dry mud who would undoubtedly admire their victim’s martial talents, enduringness, and affection for dirt.  The Christian faith is darkly portrayed and leaves very little reason to believe in God.  It is not surprising that Refn has exhausted himself with a pair of violent films soaked in masculinity and seeks explorations entirely surrounded my women.  Likewise, it should be noted that the film at hand demands multiple viewings.

Winged Migration (2001)

            For a film about birds flying, Winged Migration is one of the most memorizing and choreographed pieces of documentation ever conceived.  As a product of human accomplishment, it showcases the much more amazing accomplishments of the natural world.  The yearly migration of millions of birds from across the world is captured in unprecedented intimacy and detail.  It will likely stand as a supreme document of the natural world and shall remain long after many of its subjects have perished.

            The film opens on a river.  It is surrounded by lush greenery only moments after being assaulted by driving snow.  The time-lapse reveals a flock of geese about to commence the titular narrative.  One remains behind, its foot caught in a fishing net, but is saved by a young boy.  It is one of the minor points of misfortune in the film.  The human element, already inherent in the existence of the film, is unnecessary in its content.  Save for the moments of destruction, hunting and oil spills, the birds remain detached from the Homo sapien confines.  For some reason, and perhaps providing a point of connection that for many makes the film worth watching, the filmmakers felt the need to include us.  Regardless, and only aided by the carefully chosen soundtrack, we identify the human characteristics present in the birds, their social and personal behaviors, and ascribe them to ourselves.  It should be no point of contention that we are part of the animal world, and like the bird that devours the young of its fellow avian, we have stamped our own brand of destruction upon their world.

Dancer in the Dark (2000)

            Von Trier seems incapable of not pushing the modern movie making boundaries in any film he does.  The intoxicating carnality of Antichrist is a testament to his depression.  The Five Obstructions has him literally forcing another filmmaker to experiment.  And his co-creation of Dogme 95 is only the beginning.  So the fact that he employed over 100 cameras for his 2000 musical was just another notch on his belt.

            Bjork stars as an immigrant working a dangerous factory job with deteriorating eyesight to pay for an operation so her son doesn't follow in her footsteps.  She also has a love for musicals where the characters break out into song for no apparent reason and plot elements are satisfactorily concluded, at least for their characters.  In this film, the musical numbers are set within the construct of the mind, and in their conclusion, we return to the unchanged diegetic world and nothing has been resolved to the benefit of the protagonist.  Rather, it was just a bunch of singing and dancing existing entirely as escapist fare.

        It was von Trier’s attempt to shoot this musical numbers, with the 100 customized Cinemascope-ish lenses, as a live event.  With this number of cameras running the event would only have to happen once and could be cut in real time.  DVD interviews show von Trier displeased with the failure of his experiment.  The rest of the film is not representative of the failure von Trier talks about.  The harsh elements Bjork encounters only expand to the point of no return.  Von Trier makes the point clear that in his musical, singing and dancing will not overturn the narrative course of events and that even such usually good-natured fun can end sour.

            It is another case of von Trier pushing his female leads to the extreme and on-set relations between the two are notoriously strained.  The film strays from the usual cheery lighting of commercial musicals thus grounding the film a bit further in reality.  In fact, it would be safer to not to call it a musical but rather a dramatic and depressing narrative with self-mocking musical interludes.

Them (2006)

            It is at least a trifle ridiculous that online forums argue about character development between this French film and the 2008 American remake, The Strangers.  Neither film relies on character development, not even in part.  The closest we get to understanding the protagonist victims is through the repetition of poor decisions that leave them subject to further torture.

            The film here remains superior to the glossier English version.  The opening sequence could itself function as a taut if unmotivated horror short with no explanation and no qualms about being that way. In fact, it bears only minor connection to the tortured stars of the rest of the film, a simple intro to the savagery to come.  This is certainly where both films are on par and is thematically, the source of any and all horror.

            The unmotivated and casual terror employed by the strangers demands an explanation and remains unnerving in its absence.  We can explain very easily the vampire and werewolf and countless other monsters, supernatural or not.  We can explain serial killers and demented minds whose stories develop their abnormality as the point of fear.  And, of course, we can explain the ingenious ability of the human mind to perpetuate

Fearless (2006)

            Long advertised as Jet Li’s final film, it would be an unfortunate conclusion for such a big martial arts star to go out on such dissatisfying battles.  If the posters aren’t enough to alert the observant viewer to tacky dramatics, the ensuing fight scenes should certainly be enough to turn them off.

            The story takes itself a little too seriously, perhaps attempting to be an end all to the generic plot of martial arts films.  One lone fighter must avenge the name of his family by training and defeating numerous opponents in close combat.  Undoubtedly, he must also go up against a buffed up Westerner whose only means of communication are grunts and howls.  I pray the film knows what it is doing in taking these stock characters, pushing them over the top, and letting them play out against one another.  This does not make it any less entertaining, just a bit antithetical to the emotion laden story the filmmakers are trying to develop around it.

            It seems a long time since the intricately choreographed scenes of Jackie Chan’s stunt team where complex hand-to-hand fights are filmed in lengthy shots displaying the actor/artist’s talent rather than flashy cinematic post production.  Many of this film’s epic battles take place in computer-generated arenas that hardly pass as amazing and pass even less as realistic.  This is not to say that the fighting lacks the talent of the countless martial arts films that precede it, there are indeed entertaining scenes.  But judging martial skill is muddled by the improbable wirework and annoying background graphics.  This goes without mentioning the plight of all modern action films in cutting nearly every punch and attack into a different shot.  I would much rather see the fights temporally choreographed than making them appear so in postproduction.

            Per usual, yet not explicitly, the cinematography showcases the foreign landscape while highlighting the cultural connections to it.  Many cases find CG distracting, and the script supervisor must have taken a few days off, but other than these instances the film is enjoyable enough the look at.  It should be known by now that this was not Li’s last film and certainly not the last one he fights in.

Sin Nombre

 Cary Fukunaga, the writer and director of 2009's Sin Nombre (which approximately means "Nameless"), pours our his heart in this hour and a half long story. The movie, with some rather decent actors, revolves around a boy whose heart has been broken, and a girl whose life is about to change. As the girl gets ready to head north of the border (from Mexico to the U.S.A.) she enlists the help of her long lost father, and her uncle. Meanwhile the boy, whose life is split between the gang he fights for and the girl he loves,  makes a mistake that puts a death sentence on his head. Deciding to make a run for it, he finds himself in the company of the girl and her father and uncle.
 The film is an impressively beautiful look into the life of a gang member, employing cinematography and mise en scene to enhance the disparities of life within and without the gang. Shots are reminiscent of 2007's The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford during the train sequences. Massive, single-source lights spill over the crowded rooftops of the train in dense mists, creating a sense of awe and wonder in a gloomy and despairing vista. The train is representative of hope and the future, but its danger looms over everything. There are indeed as many shots of setting suns and distant horizons, as there are of dark places and grimy conditions.
 It may be difficult for me to judge the acting, due to the fact that they are speaking in a different language, but from what I can tell, things seem to be top notch (if not, then just a few notches below). The film is quite well-pulled-off: from beginning to end one feels immersed in the interweaving stories, as much as the intense landscapes and several chase sequences. It's a full movie: love, hope, fear, danger, action, romance all combine in one rather amazing film.

I Love Sarah Jane (2008)

            It is not immediately apparent that this Australian short is a zombie film.  More than anything, says director Spencer Susser, it is about the power of love to blind its bearer to anything else going on in the world.  Made in order to support a pitch for a feature, the film stars Mia Wasikowska as the only girl still alive in the wake of a zombie outbreak.  In fact, only the kids have survived.  The sole adult is the girl’s father, tied up in the backyard, who becomes subject for the kids’ torturous experiments.

            The film is simple and clocks in at 14 minutes yet seems to pass in even less.  The gray and dismal apocalyptic world is rather featureless save for the overturned cars and scattered bodies.  And as a whole, the film casts and almost demure tone as the lead boy shyly approaches the girl of his dreams whose zombie handling skills rivals that of any of the gang.

            Susser had his hand in Spider on the camera or electrical crew and his first feature, Hesher, has a commendable cast.  He is likely a director to keep in mind.  The film can be found on Wholphin number 10, or apparently YouTube.

The Last Station (2009)

I could have told you absolutely nothing about the life and death of Russian writer Leo Tolstoy. For that matter, I could not have claimed to care. Yet Hoffman’s film, which deals precisely with the end of days for Russia first iconic writer, casts aside any prior knowledge or interest in the man. The film cares not for its viewer’s personal exposure to the writer and manages to make the film fascinating for both the educated and ignorant alike.

Towards the end of his life, appearing much like Charles Darwin, Tolstoy took to the woods. His commune, a populated and strict society, seems by today’s standards as another attempt at fair and equal living for all involved. Yet Tolstoy himself admits to not being a very good Tolstoyan, proof that an idea can be taken from its creator and mutated into something unrecognizable. The fact that he cared not makes his aged character more intriguing. His final days saw him turn his entire work over to the public against the pleading of his wife. (This constitutes the majority of the narrative.)

The strongest suite of the film, for someone unfamiliar with its historical accuracy, is (this feels so film school) the mise-en-scene. The costumes range from simple to rich, dirty to clean, lively to dull. The sets are beautifully furnished with aged and endured artifacts, each could certainly tell a story of its own. The vast and lush countryside meld into the warm and inviting forest that takes on an almost fairy tale perfection. Warm yellows, calm off-whites, and vivid greens dominate the film. Every environment, whether lit by flickering candles or filtering sunrays, is captured with such rich and inviting cinematography that the film ultimately becomes a foremost example of naturalist escapist fare. It would appear impossible not to die in peace when surrounded by such sights.

The Last Station is not a film I would have sought out for its content. Yet in its conclusion, it is hard not to want more of the musically heightened emotions, enchanting photography, and thought provoking themes of death and family. For someone so young, it is yet another point of support for my anticipation of old age. And for someone so surrounded by film, it is a refreshing and exciting discovery far from the expected and customary areas of exploration.

Peter Jackson's Bad Taste (1987)

Every filmmaking machine has to be turned on at some point, perhaps before its output is of epic proportions. Such is the case with kiwi Peter Jackson and his string of splatter fest films through the late 80’s and early 90’s. This particular film is his first feature, taking four years to produce, and was filmed without sync sound, a finished script, actresses, or real guns.

The finished film is almost textbook bad, if only moderately bad taste. Filmed only on weekends, the elements to be filmed had only come to mind in the previous week. This makes the film feel, and I will of course give it a lot of slack, a bit disjointed and at times episodic; one scene to the next is joined by blurred connections. But all this hardly matter in relation to the on-screen events and shear audacity of the filmmaker and his devoted crew.

My favorite part is when a guy cuts a hole in the floor with a chainsaw and dives through it onto an alien and cuts his way through the top of the alien’s head and out the bottom, wiggling his way to the floor as his feet disappear through the alien’s mutilated face. And this is only one of the countless examples of gratuitously ingenious and comically headshaking carnage dished out on the invading aliens whose only goal is the strip humans of their fat and ship the rest of the meat back to the home planet in cardboard boxes. Of course, for much of the movies the aliens take on human form and stumble through the New Zealand landscape in search of humans to eat.

Bad Taste, despite it consistently creative disemboweling endeavors, becomes a bit taxing to view. All manner of weaponry reap harvest on the cranium and trails of blood and guts must have polka-dotted the entire island. The novice construction, and obvious and confirmed lack of direction, make the narrative (albeit just an excuse for some splatter effects) unbearable and purposefully laughable. This film, besides being a creative stepping-stone and experiment, is basically an excuse to kill aliens in ways that have always just been talked about. I will not use the term endearing, but there is something quaint about this film having been spawned by the peaceful kiwi country and helmed by a man whose fame comes from films that bear little resemblance to this one.

Ong-bak 2

In case you were wondering how the Muay Thai infused Ong-bak began, which you weren’t (but who cares), this sequel fills all that in. Star Tony Jaa takes the directing helm for part two and delivers a film that, while occasionally distracted by exposition and plot development, is basically a giant, awesome, amazing, brutal, fantastic, insane, bloody, jaw-dropping, mind-bending, laugh inducing, pain inducing, flippin’ sweet fight scene.

We see Jaa as a child whose parents are inevitably killed by a mean ruler and he must avenge their death by training in the combative arts in a remote and impressive village of fighters. The rest of the movie is Jaa killing a bunch of people, and an alligator, and inflicting pain on countless more. If the first film wasn’t simply an excuse to show of the martial skills (District B13 anyone?), then this film makes it rather impossible to be anything but. The visuals are dirty and detailed, beautiful and scary. The fighting is the same.

Like any martial arts movie worth watching, a variety of fighting styles, weapons, and characters come and go and battle one another. Animals manage to get their combative skills in as well. As a whole, though, the film is entirely watchable and admittedly quite exhausting. The fight scenes are diverse enough and complex enough to make them fun. Despite the lack of acting ability, Jaa manages to seem human enough to enjoy watching. This sequel may be superior to its predecessor in both its technical qualities and its fight choreography.

The first Ong-bak tried to take itself a little too seriously for the comedy sprinkled throughout. This film, while laugh inducing because of the sheer incomprehensibility, demands to be taken seriously. Any film with such a staggering body count and savage depiction of ceremony certainly shouldn’t aim to joke. The one exception remains the unexplained and underdeveloped basket-head who makes an ominous appearance towards the end of the film. Check out this sequel for an intense, pleasing, and mindless experience.