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.

Ode to Yesteryear: Exploitation Double Feature

    More and more modern filmmakers are professing their love for films of the past by referencing and recreating them.  This is especially true of the grindhouse and exploitation films that seem to have been popularized by Tarantino and Rodriguez and whose references run wide and deep.  These serve as a quasi-in-joke to those familiar with the particular genres, films, actors, techniques, and clichés.
    Scott Sanders revives the blaxploitation film in full force.  Black Dynamite stars and is co-written by Michael Jai White, ripped beyond belief and fully aware of his surroundings.  Sander’s film pays homage to the low-budget inner-city exploitations by adopting the epitome of ridiculous plot points and technical elements.  Dynamite’s brother is killed sending the titular character on a sex-filled, Kung-Fu revenge rampage.  The story convolutes into Dynamite saving nearly everybody; the most extreme being the heroin addicted orphans.  He confronts friend and foe alike, demanding to be listened to and letting his fists do a majority of the talking.  There is really no limit this film doesn't push content-wise and feels like they packed three hours of story into half that. 
    Stylistically the film is nearly indiscernible from those it emulates, Shaft, Superfly, Sweet Sweetback, etc.  If weren’t for the obvious parody it would fit right in.  Dynamite is distracted by the boom mic as it hovers inches from his forehead.  Most scenes end with him declaring his superiority while brandishing his handgun and nunchaku.  The music feels right out of the seventies; the chase scenes make spatial continuity seem irrelevant.  In all respects, the film makes fun of everything that was blaxploitation and does so in such a jabbing manner that it surpasses its source.  One could not parody the genre more, short of casting white people in black face.
    On the other end of the spectrum is Ti West’s homage to classic splatter films of the 70’s and 80’s.  The House of the Devil is so pitch perfect and content and delivery that it could have easily been made 25 years before and no one would know the difference.  In contrast to Dynamite, West plays it serious.  The slow burn of horror is cautious in delivery, carefully withholding information for characters and audience alike.  We know when the young babysitter takes a job at a giant house owned by a creepy man that she will have a hell of a night.
    Filmed on 16mm and shot mostly at night, West’s film carefully controls the audience’s intake.  Much of the picture relies on methodical introduction of uncertainty; it scares us more with what we don’t see.  At the same time it shocks us abruptly; no scare tactic is off limits.  When it finally climaxes there is but 15 minutes left; 15 minutes that make up for all the blood lacking in the first 75.  We can only hope, given the expectedly unexpected ending, that the sequel is around the corner.

Both films highly recommended. 

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

Basket Case (1982)

            One of the more aptly named films I can think of.  It is also a very simple and cheaply executed cult film that spawned a pair of sequels during the ‘90’s.  Almost Cronenbergian in parts, the film delivers enough blood and creature carnage to make the midnight movie crowd happy as well as drops a few jaws of the everyday person.

            Duane carries his twin brother around in a picnic basket after a group of evil doctors separated them.  The twin, basically a head with arms, was thrown out with the trash and left to die.  Duane found his brother, being able to communicate telepathically, and saved his life.  The movie recounts their journey of exacting revenge on the doctors and society at large who are unwelcoming of the freak.

            There is not shortage of face grabbing, blood spewing, scalpel stabbing, and stop-motion creaturing, in the 1982 film.  It is no surprise that the film’s lasting status suggested a modern remake. (yet to be seen)  

The Fourth Kind

Olatunde Osunsanmi’s The Fourth Kind was marketed with the archival footage validity that suggested its truth superior to that of Blair Witch or others of the sort. Finding itself released shortly after Paranormal Activity may not have been detrimental to its not too dissimilar delivery. And where the much over hyped subjective footage fest becomes a dull bore , Osunsamni’s film only fares slightly better.

The immediate reaction to the conclusion of this film, or rather in its midst, is one of feeling cheated. The supposedly real archival footage of psychologist Abigail Tyler comes off as a cheap attempt at purported actuality. As it happens, she looks too much like an alien to pass as someone supposedly abducted by one. The lighting is so blatantly ambient and practical that it becomes an oversaturated but dull contrast to the rest of the film. The diegetic narrative is saturated with yellows and blue and makes the mistake of introducing its characters by naming the actors that portray them. A quick search of the film reveals that none of the supposed footage is real, nor was it even filmed in Nome, Alaska, nor did the psychologist actually exist.

For a film named as it is, clearly referring to alien activity, the beings themselves are notably absent save for a few shadows and noisy audio. To call this a science fiction film almost mislabels it. With a few major events to the contrary, one could almost read this film as entirely psychological, the events pertaining to nothing more than the mind and its creations.

Drag Me to Hell (2009)

It’s very hard not to read this film as a parody. Yet nowhere outside the film’s title is there anything to suggest that this isn’t a horror film that takes itself seriously. But, if we can look to the ultimate entry in Raimi’s Evil Dead trilogy, we see the stage for supernatural horror comedy had been set years before.

Drag Me to Hell moves to the modern context and switches to a female protagonist vying for a promotion at her trivial bank job. Her competition and boss, both male, are obtrusively ignorant and traditionally one-dimensional. Even her boyfriend, whose presence is interjected purely for narrative continuity, cannot even manage a convincing sympathy or concern for his girlfriends newly acquired curse. Per usual, then, the woman because the target for torture, a good deal of which manages to find its way into her mouth. Here is a short and incomplete list: a fly, mealworms, vomit, blood, handkerchief, and eyeballs. This film does manage to take extreme advantage of propelling disgusting content onto the face of its doomed heroine. Appropriately, the visceral and repulsive materials mark a sharp contrast to the neatly tidy and not unattractive actress whose screams come at almost consistent intervals throughout the entirety of the movie.

The opening titles suggest a classic horror film of decades past. Yet the clean cinematography marks a sharp contrast to the grainy (read: low budget) splatter fests of yesteryear. Throw in the distracting amounts of cheesy computer effects that make their presence known minutes into the film and it is marked as a modern piece of filmmaking. Thus it is hard to see Raimi’s film as anything but a gross exaggeration of the jaw-dropping horror fans flock to see. No one will question why the anvil was hanging on a pulley when the rope is then cut with an ice-skate and gravity forces the old gypsy’s eyes out of her head and onto the girl’s face.

Of course, I’d rather step down from my hypercritical pedestal for a moment and commend the film for the consistency with which it delivers scare tactics, a fact that certainly doesn't refute my preferred reading of the film. If I, or anyone, had a nickel for every time something popped out with intent to scare then we would have dollars, dollars. The film manages to take all these moments, many absurd, none scary, and keep the audience tense and expectant for much of the running time. The fact that on numerous occasions they involve vomitous, explosive bodily fluids and audibly enhanced grotesquery makes their infusion often satisfying. The film was not that entertaining, but for many (read: everyone I talked to) it was a successful and cinematically rewarding experience.

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.

eXistenZ (1999)

Cronenberg’s film feels more relevant now than it must have upon its release more than a decade ago. The film exists in a videogame world where the line between reality and virtual reality is not always distinct. The advancing complexity and quality of today’s video games are much closer to making this possible than they were ten years ago and we can only imagine what ten years from now will look like. But unlike many forward looking films, Cronenberg’s resists the urge to imagine a world of shiny technology in favor of one more primal. The world in eXistenZ is based in the mind with access granted via bodily penetration, which opens up a world of mutated amphibians, and guns made of bone and teeth.

Having first viewed the film nearly two years ago, my appreciation for it has only grown. The diegetic uncertainty of the characters is projected onto the audience as they try to decipher what is happening and why. Per usual, Cronenberg infuses the virtual world with varying examples of grotesquery. The assembly line of deformed and hybrid amphibians seem to approach normality in a world where genetic manipulation and hazardous chemical spills already transform the creatures. The living game controllers are a bit farther off whereas the bioport from which they receive energy might not be such a stretch. The greatest examination Cronenberg plays with is the concept of the game world and our willingness to partake in it. The eXistenZ players are literally in a state of suspended animation while their minds explore a fictitious yet more stimulating environment. It is a very unexaggerated example of how much time is consumed by mindless entertainment. Further, the film examines the morality found in a virtual world. Avatars come and go at the hands of the protagonists without any thought of the bodies that control them. Cronenberg exaggerates the violence, playing to the tradition of expending a great quantity of ammunition.

eXistenZ could be seen as a game created entirely in the flesh. The means by which it is accessed and played are void of synthetic components and contained in the neural networks of the squirming controller pod. The umbilical cord that plugs into the spine will bleed when severed and then pod itself can become diseased. Dissection of both pod and gun finds no mechanical parts, only flesh, bone, blood, and living tissues. Is Cronenberg suggesting that one day our entertainment will literally be fused with our bodies?

I don't think so. Rather, he highlights potential physical, social, psychological, and ethical dangers of being consumed by virtual world created solely for entertainment. One of the game testers comments on the dilation of the game whereby the hours spent in a game encompasses more time than the external world. Players could live for hundreds of years inside the game, and if given the opportunity, many probably would. Cronenberg certainly realizes the inherent danger in a society should it be consumed by video gaming zombies. And from this he makes an awesome movie.

The Fly (1986)

I would argue that Kurt Neumann’s original film is nothing to shake a stick at. And for that matter, neither is the George Langelaan short story that inspired it. However, 28 years after Neumann’s film, Cronenberg proves that there was a lot more squirm-inducing fun to be had with the story aside from the warnings of playing with science. The fact that the film would be a commercial success for Cronenberg certainly doesn’t hurt its appeal, nor does Jeff Goldblum’s eccentric and excited performance.

While the story may not be his, Cronenberg’s name is all over this film, and I don't just mean in the title. The lone mad scientist protagonist resumes his social and biological reign of terror on himself and the minds of those watching him. In this film, his eagerness costs him his life, and for a while, his appearance. Yet before his ear falls off and he starts ripping off his own fingernails, he perceives the newfound physical advantages as therapeutic and cleansing. But if we have seen a Cronenberg film, we know that things won’t remain so nice for long. The special creature effects have reached a fantastic complexity and grotesquery in this film. What makes them work so well, aside from fan pleasing vomit drop and gravity prone body parts, is their evolution. Unlike the original fly, Seth Brundle doesn’t suddenly appear as half-man and half-fly. His mutations, a cancerous disease, occur in stages that degrade his body almost exponentially.

We know that bodily transformations and assaults are a defining characteristic of Cronenberg films since the beginning, and The Fly proves to be the pinnacle of their employment. The fact that it is a fly becomes relevant, not only because it is someone else’s source story but because of the aversion to creepy crawlies by the general public. If Brundle had slowly turned into a dog it would be much less shocking but certainly just as strange. Bugs would not, even with the brutal death of the fly, disappear from Cronenberg films. Naked Lunch would find a typewriter beetle as a main character and the 2002 film would be called Spider. It is hard to see Cronenberg as anything but the mad scientist behind whose experiments are carried out from behind the camera lens. Much has been discussed in terms of his appearance, his ‘autobiographical’ cameos and characters of curious similarity to the director himself. To me, though, nowhere is this more evident than in The Fly. As a child that also collected bugs and creepy crawling things in my childhood, the fusion of man and fly represents much of what I wish I had come up with.

Additionally, there exists a concept in this film that is vastly disturbing, and I don't mean a human insect hybrid. There is a scene where Brundle transports a piece of steak. The steak appears perfectly normal to the eye, but to the tongue it is a different story. In a world where Photoshop has transformed our evaluations of the legitimacy of images, the steak is an early warning of not being able to trust what we see. However, the steak goes beyond mere image and into the physical. It is a three dimensional object created by a computer from the same particles comprising a real steak. Yet, this piece of meat was reinterpreted by the machine, into something inedible. Like a Photoshopped picture you cannot trust, this is a Photoshopped steak you cannot eat. I fear to think that it is only a matter of time before such technology invades our world.

Thus Cronenberg proves himself a forward thinking and innovative director by breathing new and original life into a tried and true story. His signature brand of gore reached mass audiences and grossed them out. At the same time, his scientific and technological warnings, whether heard or ignored, indicate his social awareness.

Shutter Island

Originally a David Fincher/ Brad Pitt project, both moved on to other things before Scorsese acquired the project, based on Dennis Lehane’s 2003 novel of the same name. The success of both Gone Baby Gone and Mystic River may have something to do with the adaptation of Lehane’s novel to the big screen. Thus far the critical reception has been a bit mixed.

Having read the novel in preparation for the film, originally scheduled as an October 2009 release, it seemed to me a rather average book for such an esteemed director to work with. Of course, if there is one director who has, through a long and commanding career, earned the right to do whatever he wants, then Scorsese would certainly be it. So as an adaptation to a page turning and layered novel, Scorsese’s adaptation is a perfect match; both book and film arriving in similar fashion.

The film is dark and moody, contained entirely to the Alcatraz-like mental hospital with occasional flashbacks to inviting external environments. A strong sense of deceit and uncertainty is developed immediately and the wonder of a massively foreboding asylum instructs an ominous reaction. Scorsese’s usual intensified style fits right at home with the psychological material found on Lehane’s pages. The stylish cinematography and cinematically dramatic sequences don’t aid in any sense of realism; a fitting mode of discourse for a story set largely in the architecture of the mind. And if you couldn’t gather from the trailers, there is much more going on here than what we see on the surface.

The film is not a word for word adaptation yet the overall plot is intact. As such, the book was moderately predictable with major twists and turn being expected. The precise details, on the other hand, were not glaringly easy to fill in. Here lies my main disappointment with the film; the absence of any obvious Scorseseian influence. Aside from the intensified continuity of constantly moving cameras and endless close-ups and abrupt moments of violence, this film could have been made by any number of Hollywood regulars. And perhaps it should have. This is not to say that Scorsese did not do an adequate job crafting an enjoyable albeit too long psychological horror film.

From the opening shot of a ship materializing from behind heavy fog, we know everything will be hard to see. Yet this is not only from the haze and destructive weather battering the island but, more prominently, from the secrecy surrounding the menacing stature of the compound. The environment may be one of the strongest developed aspects of the film. The island could be a haven of perfectly manicured lawns, an oasis of healing separated from the frantic mainland society. At the same time, it could be, and is, an escapeless and savage test of both mental facilities and physical abilities. The lavish decadence of the warden’s quarters contrast the cold, dungeon-like appearance of bare iron and moist walls found in Ward C. The brutal destructiveness of nature is an apt metaphor for the storm raging in the mind.

Shutter Island may be my least favorite Scorsese film if only for the reason that it doesn’t feel like a Scorsese film. I will not claim to have seen, or particularly liked, all of his films. Yet his newest feels the most contrived, as if he made for a bunch of horror film fans expecting the man to jump out of the shadows. Although, even the simple strike of a match manages to scare numerous audience members whose heightened tension was evident. But I feel like the arrival of a new film by one of the biggest directors is a moment to look forward to, and I want something more than another horror film.

The Thing (1982) Prequel

Let me say right from the start that it could be worse; they could be trying to remake John Carpenter’s classic, nearly flawless, fantastic masterpiece, itself a remake of the decent The Thing from Another World (1951) based on John W. Campbell Jr.’s story “Who Goes There?”. So since it is not worse, we’ll at least give it a bad. Word on the street is that the prequel, following the Norwegian scientists, begins filming in Toronto in March of this year.

Now we are all aware of the massive recycling program going on in today’s film industry. And if the slew of remakes (too many to name here), reboots (too many to name here) and sequels (too many to name here) aren’t enough, then certainly this prequel is. It stars Elizabeth Winstead and Joel Edgerton. So if you have seen Carpenter’s film, you know the absence of any female characters added a heightened sense of tense discomfort, which, regardless, this film will likely fail to replicate.

If you have forgotten, the film includes Keith David and Wilford Brimley, and of course Carpenter regular and owner of the silver screen’s most badass beard- Kurt Russell. The creature effects are ridiculous and amazing the Carpenter does a fantastic job at creating a tense, claustrophobic paranoia as the characters come to realize the creature could be anyone or anything. I cannot stress enough how much this film would have to live up to for anyone to like it save for the teenyboppers that have not seen either of the other films. The fact that it is a companion film gives it a little room but the filmmakers should know they are treading on dangerous ground.

Matthijs Van Heijningen is directing, and no, that name should not sound familiar. MTV’s movie blog (not a regular source) suggests he could be the next Zack Snyder. Uh oh.

Ever Seen It: Swamp Thing (1982)

Wes Craven’s attempt the show he could handle stars, stunts, and action resulted in this 1982 film based on the comic book of the same name. The film shows a group of scientists working on some special concoction that glows a radioactive green. Its purpose is to create an animal plant hybrid that can survive the harsh conditions of the swamp. To the benefit of the audience, the scientist himself gets transformed into a rubbery plant man with superhuman strength and primitive linguistic skills. He seeks revenge on the military minds who sought to take his prized creation.

The $3 million budget doesn't let the film takes itself too seriously, a necessary ingredient for the given content. And aside from the stray exposition about human nature, much of the film is good old-fashioned cat and mouse, or rather, swamp thing and wanna-be Rambo. Filmed in the swamps of South Carolina, the film includes enough swamp thing destruction and rampage to make it’s 91 minute running time go by in less time than it takes to say AAAGAHAJAHAGAHAAGAgAGAGAHAHAAGAHAA!

One of the most creative and original cinematic experiences carried about in this film is its use of transitions. Be they radial wipes, sides wipes, or black ooze, the filmmakers never fail to find a creative way to branch the narratively distracting lapses in time. Their absurdity is vastly overshadowed by how fun it is to see which one they will use next. But the film’s visual spontaneity doesn't stop there. The zoom is employed to mass benefit and helps bring out the intricate details of the swamp thing’s well done effects. Likewise, the film cares not for consistency in spatial orientation and freely inserts suggested viewpoints that stray (through obvious differentiation in lighting and location) from actual environmental placement. Yet despite these sentimental flaws, the film is entirely fun.

And not to spend and hour and a half for nothing, we learn that the special chemical doesn't immediately make one powerful; it simply amplifies the users essence. The creature we are inside is brought to life. Fortunately for us, the head baddie, appropriately named Arcane (who appropriately followed this film with Octopussy), turns into a marble-eyed, wolf like beast with whose weapon of choice is a medieval sword. Naturally, he and swampie battle to the death in the campiest and most entertaining segment of the film.

RIP Dick Durock -17 September 2009

Joel Silver in talks for 3-D remake...

Rabid.

Being the earliest entry into the Cronenberg oeuvre I have seen, it also feels the most deliciously classic. The visceral money shots that pre-date his most well known films are right at home and in appropriately raw form. In the wake of a motorcycle crash, a young girl undergoes lifesaving experimental surgery that leaves her hungry for blood, which she sucks from other humans through a blunt proboscis located under her left armpit. Those that she bites turn rabid, foaming from the mouth with bloodshot eyes and a hunger for flesh. The film has the air of a zombie outbreak, although in this case started by innocent porn star Marilyn Chambers in the quaint Quebec countryside.

Rabid is a telling film in the avid work of Cronenberg. The dangers of medical experimentation are explored to extensive degrees and the wider impact clearly warned of. Yet in comparison to heavier films like Videodrome, it is relatively easy to sit back and enjoy. Evidence of the young state of his career, this film certainly paves the way, both thematically and visually, for what Cronenberg will be most remembered for. We see it here in the rampant flesh explosions as the rabid citizens are gunned down. We also are treated to the fleshy orifice from which the hematophagic plunger emerges. And while the film may not be the most technically developed of its kind, its inclusion in this particular oeuvre awards it more credibility than the slew of b-grade horror films that surround it.

Yet the place that most solidifies this film into Cronenberg’s body of work is in its warning. Similar to a host of his other films, Rabid bluntly exercises fear of the scientific experimentation from which the blood-thirsty girl is created and in turn infects a population. It is in the guise of help, to create a morphogenetically neutral piece of flesh that can replicate any other, that the doctor grafts her skin in an attempt to save her life. And while the potential for such a procedure is more than relevant and current, this case is marked by a severe and dramatic failure.

What Rabid is, then, is a tentatively shlocky yet important stepping-stone for Cronenberg. One cannot expect to arrive at the top, especially with the content and themes of films that are to follow. And just as relevant, and hinted above, the film would likely be a formulaic and perhaps forgettable horror entry if the commanding career of the director had not prospered (in a manner of speaking) as it has.