A Quick Look At The Red Shoes

Whilst unlikely to beat out any film with ‘chainsaw’, ‘massacre’ or ‘slumber party’ in the title, Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger’s The Red Shoes (1948) is nevertheless classic Horror cinema made manifest.

A defining moment in the ‘A Star Is Born’ film type, The Red Shoes is perhaps most curious for its relationship towards style and excess. Herein, the British penchant for cinematic realism finds itself uncharacteristically, violently endowed with crazed, expressionistic passion - exemplified best in its fifteen-minute-long depiction of the titular ballet performance. It is a sequence that delights in shadow-play, montage and throwing reality itself into question. But it is in that inner turmoil between styles that the film is most engaging; where its characters maintain that recognisably restrained affect, so coveted by contemporary David Lean, the macabre world they are thrust into takes those internal conflicts of the soul and forces them to emerge in malevolent spectacle. Victoria Page’s dual longing for love of a man and the love of ballet, a conflict between a life of normalcy and one of expression, is this internal style conflict writ large. She dies in want of an unattainable solution.

The dark fairy tale was born from a post-war Britain, one whose national optimism belied a time of austerity, toil and drudgery. On the horizon, Britons could see the promise of self-actualisation. But it would not yet be theirs to take. That the film’s conflict emerges so violently, its consequences so fatal, speaks to that prime function of the great horror pictures - to bring out and confront us with that which we deny in ourselves.

Lost Highway: Rejections Of Realism

In David Lynch's 1997 film, Lost Highway, curious characters give way to expressionist horror as an abstract, mystery unfolds. Described as a 'psychogenic fugue', the film works from a blueprint, or bible, that Lynch has since often referred back to; one where he is concerned as much with rejection as he is with statement: a rejection of the realist cultural tendencies that declared immersion as the ultimate ambition of cinema.

Prognosticating postmodern anxieties, Siegfried Kracauer’s realism emphasised the stern hand of an auteur in deciding upon a singular reality. This monolithic vision would grant purpose, artistic or political, to narratives untarnished by ambiguity, eccentricity and fantasy. Where the neorealists and kitchen sink realists would take up this mantle and reject relativism, Lost Highway is a film that rejects clear patterns of meaning, or singular interpretations. As such, Lynch, as auteur, instead prioritises the total devolution of meaning, inviting not strict purpose but subjective abstraction. It is an almost entirely relativist film. In the realist sense, it is worthless. 

Yet, I can't help but find connective tissue between these disparate schools of cinema. Particularly regarding the technological element which affects them. Again, immersion is the operative word. To have been immersed in Kracauer’s time was an altered state. Within such a state, we can be taken on empathetic journeys in much the same way as reading a novel. To be immersed today is our default. Digital media culture has us so ingrained with fiction and story that the lines between our own dimensions of reality are constantly blurred. 

In a telling Lost Highway scene, Bill Pullman's character, Fred Madison, refutes video recordings. It echoes the "what if phone but too much" sentiment, where our cyborg-esque relationship with modern technology is considered to have a dehumanising effect, serving as a barrier between our perspectives and reality. The complaint that no one has authentically experienced an event, often a concert or live performance of some kind, because it has been filtered through a phone screen first.

However, it comes with an important distinction: Fred despises not the inaccuracy of filmed life, but rather its innate truthfulness. He cites a preference to remember things as they took place, not to see them perfectly re-represented. At its core, this suggests an authenticity that relies on subjectivity itself- that objective truth is in fact alien and inauthentic, contrary to the human experience. 

Fred will go on to be haunted by these inauthentic authentic video recordings for the film's duration- whilst, simultaneously, the audience are faced with nonlinear, abstract imagery that breaks them out of the stupor of filmic illusion; Fred and audience alike clamour for closure and the restoration of the repressed, but the wild, surrealist subjectivity of Lost Highway runs free. 

In this sense, it is the anti-realist nature of the film that emulates, for the audience, that dreadful impact of realist, authentic film on the subject, Fred. That is all to say that I think when we look back on film movements and the ambitions of cinema, they then demand a certain contextual relativism, in place of aesthetic absolutism. We study shifting technologies and peoples as much as the content within, and, as meaning has shifted, it is the very rejection of immersion which lends surrealism its affecting power in an age of digital ubiquity. 

Adaptational Anguish in New Mutants

Spoilers follow.

New Mutants, in the immediate collective response to its release, has been plagued by one thing above all. Not the oft associated delays, but instead with the question of adaptation. Adaptation is a difficult topic to discuss. Personally, I find that adaptation is a futile lens through which to analyse a film. More often than not, we should look to the meaning of the film as its own text and take it on its own merits. However, especially in the superhero genre, adaptation is also a site which creates meaning. This is not only a film that has caused controversy with its adaptation of the source material, but also one whose meaning lies in this very adaptation.

Trailer for New Mutants.

First, to address the elephant in the room, the films adaptation of race is galling. Discussions surrounding whitewashing in this film are fair, accurate and necessary: Two characters, Dr. Cecilia Reyes and Roberto DaCosta, who are both traditionally depicted as black characters in the source material were portrayed by two decisively non-black actors: Alice Braga and Henry Zaga, respectively. The director, Josh Boone, attempted to address these questions of whitewashing, and chose to opt for the strange strategy of doubling-down on his colorblind casting approach. Boone has since deleted his Instagram account in response to the backlash.

In my view, what makes this whitewashing so necessary to acknowledge and engage with is not merely the erasure of black identities, but that it informs the wider lens from which the film was produced. When we look to Boone's comments, where he suggests that a non-black actor could better deliver a portrayal of a privileged upbringing, we can see that it is in fact little to no different to what presidential candidate Joe Biden has also said. I do not bring Biden up without reason- that their comments are similar matters because it informs us on the film's ideology. It is the post-racial view of the liberal who believes, with so much time removed from the Civil Rights Movement and the election of President Obama, that racial conflict and injustice is a thing of the past. Importantly, the director's post-racial lens seems to have influenced not only casting decisions, but the depiction of mutancy itself.

In New Mutants, mutancy is alternatively the condition or gift of superhuman powers. An offshoot of the X-Men franchise, where mutants are a deviant minority who are taught to use their powers at superhero school, the New Mutants shifts the locale from that school to a mental institution instead; focusing primarily on Dani Moonstar, a Native American mutant whose powers bring nightmares to life. Horror genre antics ensue. With regard to adaptation, as it is an adaptation of the New Mutants comic book series, it's worth looking at the film's own perspective on this. When we do so, I think we see that this the loosest of adaptations, one that prioritizes re-imagination and re-invention to create its meaning. Re-imagination, that is, of not just of the New Mutants characters and story, but of the X-Men franchise on the whole. If there is a compelling idea in this movie, it draws itself from this.

One such re-imagining is when we see the comic book Sam Guthrie, whose powers famously made him nigh invulnerable when blastin', inverted in the film- becoming a character who instead knows only hurt. An emotional hurt, sustained from childhood, but repeated, self-inflicted physical pain also. That invulnerability is stripped away as part of the character's journey from page to screen.

Left: Sam Guthrie in New Mutants (1983) Right: Sam Guthrie in New Mutants (2020).

It is indicative of the re-imaginings on the whole. Where Sam is re-imagined as self-destructive, Roberto is re-imagined as an insecure boy fronting as a jock and Rahne Sinclair is re-imagined as a lesbian, facing conflict between her sexuality and fundamentalist Christian beliefs. One rumor that set social media and fan communities aflame was the notion of Storm being originally cast in this film as a jailer role. Whilst that never manifested, the design ethos is clear: gone are the trappings and moralism of traditional superhero fictions. These are not X-Men, mutants hated and feared by humans, but rather teenagers who hate and fear themselves. 

The most significant of these imaginings, however, is both the thematic core of the film and something deeply alienating to the fan audience. Rather than take place in the iconic school for mutants most associated with the franchise, this film relocates its cast of characters to a mental institution. A jarring change, for sure, but one vital to the film's meaning. By moving the traditional X-Men coming-of-age story out of a school and into a mental institution, what we actually have is merely the exchange of disciplinary institutions. This change serves to highlight not the differences between the story of the New Mutants and the X-Men characters, but rather the similarities. They are repressed, traumatized individuals, sequestered away from the public, supposedly for their own good. The student is treated to the same institution as the patient or the prisoner; in this film, Dr. Reyes keeps her subjects all under constant, panoptic surveillance. It is a re-imagining of the school setting, a haunted hospital, an asylum and a prison all at once. That the film chooses to reveal that Reyes does not, in fact, work for the X-Men, perhaps helps the film go down easier with hardcore fans, but weakens the text as a whole. 

Nevertheless, the school/hospital exists as a site of the return of the repressed, where deviant sexuality and identities inform the condition of mutancy. So far I have neglected to discuss the film's constant delays and unfortunate production cycle. Too easy would it be to fall into the trap of maligning the 'New' in the ever-delayed New Mutants. A witty critique, to appease the readers who look to a film review for a good pun and a reaffirmation of their own opinion. To do so would miss the mark of meaning: the title 'New Mutants' is a reference to two things. The first, Marvel's original name for the X-Men franchise 'The Merry Mutants', and herein we can make whatever joke we like about them not being so new anymore, but the second is all the more compelling and informative. 'New Mutants' was how literary critic Leslie Fielder, in 1965, referred to the new generation of Americans engaging in counter-cultural practice. He lambasted and feared the turn of the new generation from the values of the old, feared the perversion of conservative social norms and could not abide what he referred to as the 'irrationalists'. 

The title New Mutants carries with it this weight, twisting it on its head, but retaining that particular association with a thematic generational conflict that has its roots in even the earliest of X-Men comics. Realized in this movie, the rebel youth have to break away from the authority of an older generation who can offer them nothing, but abandonment and abuse. Boone's mutancy no longer possesses a racial or genetic element, present in both source material and the film franchise at large. That this mutancy develops at puberty is highlighted, as is the sexual relationships between the youths. It is not to say that there is an inherent danger to sexuality, be it divergent or normative, but rather professes to explore the dangerous effects that surplus repression can have. 

For the men, it is the manifestation of their failure to perform the masculine function. Whilst Roberto embodies a direct, physical emasculation, his powers causing him to become "Too hot" in sexual situations, leaving him unable to adequately perform, Sam's character imperils the social function: not only committing patricide, but collapsing his very source of labor and income also. He has killed his father, but cannot replace him. In both of these cases, the masculine role in the nuclear family model threatens to fall apart. The feminine role in that structure threatens to fall away also, as depicted in Dani and Rahne's relationship with subversive sexuality. It is a lot more pronounced and the relationship that forms between them is depicted quite clearly.

In the background of two scenes, we can see the youths watching episodes of Buffy The Vampire Slayer. Apparently the only entertainment afforded to the facilities patients. This inclusion echoes back to the comic book mutants relationship to television (then it was 'Cowboy vs Indian' Westerns distressing Dani, and Magnum P.I. enamoring Roberto). You can also feel the inspiration of Buffy throughout, but this is not only a nod to a preceding, influential text. It serves a narrative purpose, giving Rahne exposure to one of popular cultures most recognized and resonant lesbian relationships. Rahne's sexuality becomes entwined with the abuse she faced from the fundamentalist Reverend Craig, who dealt upon her lasting physical abuse and called the emergence of her mutancy-qua-deviant sexuality that of a witch. Her struggle is then one between the side of her that feels free and the side that feels shame. The re-emergence of Rahne's traumatic upbringing, as Dani's nightmare powers bring the ghost of Rahne's abuser back to brand her as a witch once more, doesn't actually factor into this, however. Rahne is just as happy to explore her newfound relationship with Dani. So whilst Dani's powers, throughout this film, perform a literal return of the repressed, it is only Dani and Illyana who face their returned fears head on, fighting to once more repress their nightmares. The rest of the patients are quite content to allow Dani to vanquish her own fears and perform their repression for them.

Dani and Rahne's relationship as seen in the film.

Where 2019's X-Men: Dark Phoenix is a not-so-subtle depiction of the dangers of surplus repression and the necessity of dealing with your trauma, New Mutants follows this legacy, albeit never in such a clear cut manner. Whilst it is the dominant theme throughout the film, the re-imagining of one character particularly dives into this question of repression and living with trauma. Many criticisms have been levied at a sequence of scenes having Illyana Rasputin, perhaps the closest this film has to a conventional action movie protagonist, espouse prejudice against the Native American lead. To many fans, transforming this character into what appears to be a racist bully is the far greater adaptational sin than the whitewashing of other characters. In my view, these criticisms come across as commentators either not fully engaging with the text or expecting these characters to adhere to some traditional superhero morality: something the film simply is not interested in. The comments that Illyana makes, being dismissive of Dani's Native American identity, bringing up crude, childish stereotypes and especially referring to Dani as 'Pocahontas', a preferred insult of not the most mature man in the world, are not simply to characterize her as a dominant, mean girl, but instead are part of this wider thematic exploration of repressed trauma.

Vital here is that Dani herself recognizes and calls out these insults and attempts at dominance for what they are. She specifically mentions that she heard them as a schoolgirl. It is a turning point in the film for Illyana, the deliverer of these petty, racial insults, who is then subsequently shown to be an eternal child; trapped in her traumatic past and incapable of moving forwards. Her coping methods are an abrasive personality and a puppet dragon named Lockheed, who doubles up as an imaginary friend. It is not to say that the cycle of abuse will inevitably turn us into racists, but illuminates instead the film's view of racism; that prejudice such as this is petty, childish, and a flaw in someone's individualized personality, rather than relating to any kind of structural oppression. 

Recounting her story, Illyana talks about the abuse she suffered as a child, under what she refers to as the Smiling Men. She would later kill these men, 'one by one'. During the abuse, however, the child would recede into an imaginary world called Limbo- a 'special place' where the Smiling Men could not harm her. In concert with her mutant abilities, this place became real. No longer merely receding to Limbo, she would physically go there and can do so at will. Dani's power to return the repressed has a distinctly opposite effect to Illyana's own power. Where Illyana's 'special place' is made real, what Dani makes real are Illyana's nightmares; the abuse she created Limbo to escape from. As Dani receives a story-line about making peace with her repressed fears, Illyana too finds her source of power from repression itself. Both characters have engaged with their nightmares and resolved to once more push them out of view. The fight that ensues is then one against a child's horrific imaginings of her abusers. Disappearing into her Limbo world once more, Illyana will soon triumphantly emerge, empowered with sword in hand and an actual, realized dragon replacing her puppet. She slays these monstrous imaginings, going on to fight alongside Dani against the manifestation of her own repressed fear: the demon bear. 

Their earlier clash, the scene that sparked such controversy, when seen in full and taken in the context of the film is in fact an important connection between the two. A relationship that may not adhere to conventional morality, but nevertheless is mutually beneficial. In true coming-of-age story fashion, their very exposure to new identities better equip them for the trials ahead. For that reason, I can't get behind the outrage at the mere depiction of bigotry. Certainly, it seems strange to watch a film that purports to have horror elements and influences, to only shirk away when the film dares to make you feel uncomfortable.

Importantly, there is a far more egregious instance of Dani's indigenous portrayal, that the proverb oft referred to in the film has more Christian roots than Native American, which demonstrates that Native American identity was poorly researched in the writing of the script. Manifesting on screen in a less than satisfactory way, the identity is nevertheless present and the portrayal of bigotry is not gratuitous, but informative. This is a sticking point, because I would argue that the depiction of Illyana's bigotry is simply not rooted in the same kind of racism that the casting of Reyes and Roberto was. I think it is crass to make such a comparison. If we are to be clear, I don't think this movie is blanket racist so much as it is specifically anti-black in its racism. There is a view, it seems, that the very presence of blackness will impede or supersede the story being told. Because, of course, there are no black stories to be told about trauma, repression or disciplinary institutions. 

The New Mutants look to a future that will never come.

In this film, the New Mutants franchise has been re-imagined through the lens of post-racialism; where casting is colorblind, prejudice is a personal character flaw and indigenous belief systems are fictional sources to be adapted as if they were a comic book. The wider X-Men franchise has also been re-imagined to not only explore repression, but to highlight the roles that speciously beneficial disciplinary institutions, like schools and hospitals, play in said repression. But by never diving fully into its horror influences, it gives us a flaccid ending, wherein which the nightmares pull back, our characters neatly repress their fears once more and promptly walk off into a new day.

Twenty Years On, 'Battle Royale' (2000) Still Screams OK Boomer The Loudest

Kinji Fukasaku's swan song, the cult classic Battle Royale (2000), will be twenty years old this December. Its former controversy has been neatly forgotten, now existing to most as little more than a Hunger Games prequel or Fortnite: The Movie. It seems pithy to even summarise the film, it has so successfully embedded itself in the popular conscious, but, for the uninitiated, it concerns a class of upstart schoolchildren who, after being trapped on an abandoned island, are forced to kill each other off until only one remains. And it's bloody fantastic.

It has an unrelenting pace that promptly sets about delivering exciting action sequences and compelling character vignettes and, of course, the camp, B-Movie gore and gratuitous violence is undoubtedly great fun for genre aficionados. Nevertheless, the film has always held more value than Asia Extreme-style fetishism would have you believe.

Based off of Koushun Takami's similarly controversial novel, the film adaptation skewed loyal, keeping the vast skeleton of the story and making very few deviations from its source material. Yet it is these small changes, the barely noticeable additions and omissions, that I find most interesting when comparing the two texts. These are differences that most commentators seem to have written off as the mere side-effects of adapting a story from one medium to another, yet these minor changes nevertheless set in motion a butterfly effect that significantly shifts the film's meaning, even as it rigorously adheres to all of the original's sweeping narrative beats. To take this further, I see these changes as a very conscious shift from one set of meanings to another; from the anti-authoritarian satire of Takami's novel towards a more specific examination of generational conflict from Fukasaku. Particularly, the film version concerns itself with the bitter lashing out of failed masculinities unto a scapegoated juvenile underclass.

We see as such in the divergence of meaning in the different Programs, as the titular contests are known. As written by Takami, the Program is an abstract evil that persists automatically through the state apparatus. It's true meaning and purpose is unknown, potentially forgotten, and only exists because no one dares to challenge the dominant ideology. So, no one believes in the program, but all feel that they must act as if they do, since everyone else does. As it is later revealed, the Program is in fact a vital part of the authoritarian infrastructure and a truly educational exercise; it serves as a transformation of the community into individuals, teaching the nation's populace that there can be no class solidarity. It is perhaps not the most subtle of political parody.

Drawing on his own experience as a young person in the waning days of World War II, director Fukasaku channelled instead the nihilistic violence which the older generations inflict unto their children. The satirical elements of the novel are pushed into the background in favour of a different meaning to the Program: spite. Adults fear the spectre of juvenile delinquency and see this act of total violence not just as discipline or punishment, but as karmic justice. In their eyes, it may be harsh, but certainly not cruel: it is a reactionary model, incurred by the transgression of rebellious children themselves.

This manifests itself most notably in the focal antagonist played by the enigmatic "Beat" Takeshi Kitano, the ex-teacher and current taskmaster similarly named Kitano (In the original novel, he was Sakamochi). Kitano, who was an old, disgruntled teacher of the class, bursts onto the scene with a military entourage, killing, displacing and denigrating the class's then-current, now previous, teacher, Hayashida, as a failure of an adult.

Kitano is perhaps the character who sees the most changes in the transition from the novel to the film, since his reign of terror is far more personal and far more vindictive than Sakomochi's. Originally, Sakomochi was a mere government agent and no teacher at all, though he effected the mannerisms of a particularly sadistic one. In addition to this, there was no personal connection between the 'teacher' and his class. Kitano, meanwhile, is indivisible from his torrid relationship with his former pupils. Where in the original novel the first killings are done so out of indifference (they score too low on the governments in-office betting pool), the film adaptation baptises the Program with two instances of revenge killing. First, a student undermines Kitano's authority by continuing to whisper, even as he had disciplined the class not to. She receives not detention, but a knife through her forehead. Subsequently, Kitano, who had taken a knife to his rear in his days as a school teacher, pays the offending student back with an identical slash, before detonating the explosive in his collar and killing him. Only after these personal killings are exorcised from his system does the game begin.

The teacher, Kitano, and his class.

The Program then unfolds as a realisation of his obscene, total power as an authority figure: both in a governmental sense and in the educational. One fascinating scene depicting the exercise of his absurdist teacher-patriarchal powers occurs when the female lead, Noriko Nakagawa, is ambushed by Mitsuko Souma, a merciless fellow student playing for keeps. Whilst the novel and other ancillary materials draw her as a far more haunting character, depicting her backstory as the tragic victim of the cyclical natures of violence and abuse, the film shows us a sinister, unsympathetic villain. She exerts her power indiscriminately and with a certain Machiavellian ingenuity; capable of dropping crocodile tears at any cynical moment. When she appears in front of Nakagawa, armed with weapons salvaged from her previous kills, the implication is clear: Nakagawa is the next to die.

However, Mitsuko's dreadful image is shattered on the sudden appearance of Kitano, who, armed only with an umbrella, swiftly sends her fleeing. Now that he is running the Program, even the most hardened killer will succumb to his abstract authority.

Kitano appears with his umbrella.

The ethereal, dreamlike quality of this scene is precipitated by the actual dream sequence- one where both Kitano and Nakagawa resemble children, eating ice cream and jumping by the riverside. In this moment, they are equalised and placed on the same infantile standing. In one sense, it works as a simple flashback which serves to establish the relationship between Kitano and Nakagawa, something set up by Nakagawa being the sole student not to disrespect him and that is paid off when Kitano reveals his perverse fondness for his student. But there is a definite notion that this is not just a shared memory, but a connected psychic experience endured by both Noriko and Kitano simultaneously. These disparate characters are allowed into each others intimate spheres, seeing each other in a state that social convention prohibits.

It is here where Nakagawa uncovers the central lie of Kitano's character, something that Nakagawa understands, but the other students fail to: Kitano is totally pathetic. His authority is totally abstract, as meaningless in a militarised death game as it was in the classroom and the man is as much a failure of an adult as Hayashida was. He's a bitter, capricious man, but also a pitiable one: a child trapped in a man's body.

Kitano, like the other figures of authority in the film, are emasculated, not so much by the insurgent youth who they place the blame, but by the denigration of their material conditions under their own watch (Significant, then, that the film shows us no female figures of authority). The film's opening exposition tells us as much, tapping into cultural concerns regarding the transition from capitalist boom into a new era of economic uncertainty, Japan's 'Lost Decade':

At the dawn of the millennium, the nation collapsed. At 15% unemployment, 10 million were out of work. 800,000 students boycotted the schools. The adults lost confidence and, fearing the youth, eventually passed the Millennium Educational Reform Act, AKA the BR Act...

It is not the children who have failed the adults, but instead the adults, their generational masculinity and their institutions who have failed their children. The addition of new backstory regarding Nanahara's father is testament to this: his self-loathing and masculine anxiety simmer in the precarious economy, until they bubble over and Nanahara comes upon the site of his father's undignified suicide.

On the other side of their shared dream, Kitano fails to reciprocate Nakagawa's truthful sight: provided with this rare moment of connection, he instead fetishises his student as an angelic emblem of perfect youth, the exception who justifies his hatred for the rest of her generation. She could perhaps play the role of surrogate daughter, considering how frayed his relationship is with his own: she repeatedly calls him up throughout the film to undermine him and remind him what a failure he is, both as adult and man, specifically. Alternatively, given how concerned the film is with its depictions of young love, at times playing out like a send up of school-based dramedy, their relationship could be seen as an addition to that: the unrequited love of one youthful spirit to another.

By the film's climax, Kitano has realised that merely killing the children that he despises will never grant him the satisfaction he seeks. He is consumed by bitterness, by hatred and by his own masculine failings, eventually giving himself up to suicide by cop. He threatens to shoot Nakagawa, getting himself shot down before the gun he was holding was shown to only fire water and, in his dying moments, he tells his daughter: "If you hate someone then you have to live with the consequences." He, of course, has no intention of living at all.

Exhausted from his own implacable rage, incapable of living with his own ineptitude, Kitano's involvement with the Program, his relationship with his students and his death mirrors the suicide of Nanahara's father: both are faced with challenges to their generational authority which each refuse to take responsibility for, instead shunting said responsibility onto the shoulders of the young. Here, Fukusaka's final film provides a critique of the elders, the entrenched and the empowered, who demand that their children either act out an idyllic fantasy of youth, or die. They who perform this masquerade to obscure their own failings. And are these not the same people today who, lording over economic decline and a nigh-terminal housing crisis condemn that excessive luxury, avocado toast? Twenty years on, no film screams 'OK Boomer' like this one.

If the film has staying power, it is in how much it lends itself to rewatchability. Only once you get past that first encounter with its camp violence and black humour can you begin to embrace its rich tapestry of meaning and the deep humanity at its core. On my latest rewatch, combined with the Making of Battle Royale feature accompanying the Arrow Film release, I noticed something threaded throughout the film that I had previously missed: an ongoing critique on the romanticising power of distance. There is a puzzling moment at the end of the film, where Nakagawa looks back on the island she's escaped saying, "It's beautiful... Even though it's where everyone died". It is the encapsulation of a subplot well hidden in the film's fabric, one mostly told through the language of the film. Shots are taken from across the island, with locations that saw scenes of tragedy and death (such as the infamous Lighthouse) rendered as picturesque snapshots of an island in serene peace.

The most telling instance of this occurs when a slow zoom out transforms a death scene into what could easily pass for a romantic one. That the preceding deathbed conversation left one participant disappointed at the platonic nature of their relationship marks ever more clearly a dissonance between action and meaning.

Chigusa dies beside Sugimura.

After his biting critique of the older generation, here, it would seem, is Fukusaka's message to the youth: Be wary of memory, and how easily repression can transform the harrowing and unimaginable into something effable, even desirable. Rather than a patronising commentary to denigrate those who have not lived through war, it is instead a warning against how a glamourising, romanticisation of violence belies the true nature of living through it; a sentiment made all the more pertinent in the age difference between the director and his cast.

Twenty years later, the cult film's legacy has endured: Quentin Tarantino considers it the best movie he's seen since he began making films and the one he most wishes he was responsible for; casting one of the film's actresses, Chiaki Kuriyama, in Kill Bill.  Of its litany of imitators, there's the obvious, and aforementioned, Hunger Games franchise and a wave of multiplayer video game experiences, but also a surprisingly pleasing run of superhero comics in Dennis "Hopeless" Hallum's Avengers Arena.  Arena, admittedly, has a far lower bodycount than Battle Royale, instead honing in on what makes its predecessor an enduring triumph: not the indulgence in violence, but the exploration of character and the failure of generational masculinity.

On a personal note, I have to say that favourite films are always hard to pin down, since we often have preferred films for a variety of different moods and purposes. Whilst I don't know whether Battle Royale is my favourite film, it is also never not my favourite film.

Film Review: Weathering With You

Spoilers Follow.

Weathering With You (Original Title: Tenki no ko), Makoto Shinkai's 2019 follow-up to his preceding mega-hit Your Name (Original Title: Kimi no Na wa), is much more effective as spectacle and viewing experience than it ever is as a film. It should come as little surprise to those familiar with Shinkai's previous work that the production values are stellar, but fans of Your Name may find this new story to be an overall less affecting affair.

Your Name was, of course, such a sweeping, international phenomenon that Weathering With You begs comparison to its predecessor. The film itself does little to dissuade this. It is clearly set-up as a spiritual successor to Your Name (and, as eagle-eyed fans have noticed, as a pseudo-sequel as well), and similarities between the two frequent: they are both bildungsroman, coming-of-age stories, both depict characters moving from the country into Tokyo, both feature light fantasy elements, stunning animation and music by Radwimps. There is a tragic loss, that is promptly undone in time for a happy ending. Weathering With You goes through these motions by way of a romance between Hodoka, a runaway, and Hina, a young orphan girl with the fantastical power of atmokinesis, of weather manipulation. Hijinks ensue.

Shinkai's films are often praised as timeless, or ageless, or whatever superfluous adjective confers his work rewatchability, yet I think they are rather the opposite. Whilst there is a universal romance to them, both Your Name and Weathering With You are expressly concerned with contemporary youth anxiety. This film, in particular, addresses the relationship between Generation Z and the environment- more specifically, the lack of any such relationship. Reflecting Japanese youth apathy to ecological disaster, the anthropocene takes a backseat in the lives of our focal young protagonists. Instead, for much of the film, it is the police, perhaps repressive society at large, who are depicted as the antagonistic force and enemy of young people. The police are repeatedly shown as inadequate, foolish and incompetent; frequently harassing the undeserved, at one point prioritising the pursuit of runaway children over the prosecution of a paedophile; incapable of performing their jobs, as they are repeatedly outwitted and outran by children; and, as you would expect, are proven wholly ignorant of the grander, fantastical elements at play. It is in resistance to the police that the core family of runaways is both formed and lost, and it is the abdication of ecological responsibility that allows the family's return at the film's climax.

For the majority of the film, nature is quite playful: it affects mood, rain makes people miserable and the clearing of the sky alleviates it. Hina can bring temporary relief from the rain, at the cost of a later, heavier downpour, something which the entrepreneurial youths utilise to charm the Tokyo citizenry out of their cash. Only in the film's epilogue is nature's destructive potential played out. Offscreen, in a time-skip. Refusing to sacrifice Hina to restore typical weather behaviour, rain continues to fall until half of Tokyo is submerged entirely in water. Typing it out makes it sound like such an obviously disastrous outcome, but this is presented to us as a happy ending. With half the city drowned, the film's resolution is one of its biggest curiosities.

If we perhaps view the character of Hina as representative of the anthropocene, as it is her atmokinetic powers which incur the calamitous weather conditions and her sacrifice which abates them, her decision to prioritise herself is pseudo-Randian; with the world pushing down on her shoulders, she shrugs. It's unexpectedly provocative material from Shinkai, considering the film is a mostly lightweight affair. One particular piece of dialogue resonates: "Who cares if we can't see any sunshine? I want you more than any blue sky." Hodoka confesses this to Hina at the film's climax, declaring defiantly that human will and human love should be prioritised over the relationship between people and nature.

Were the ending played differently, it would seem that the film is condemning a selfish, lackadaisical youth. But, in the film, there is no tragedy or horror to the ending. Life in Underwater Tokyo is presented as an undeniable improvement, as businesses expand, city infrastructure adapts and hopeful optimism abounds in the populace. For a film that starts off seemingly sympathetic to the vagabond, this ending shows little to no curiosity as to the wider effects of the lovers decision on the poorest of the city. Real world climate change, of course, will not affect us all in the same way: whilst the older, richer citizen is able to move out of her drowned house into high-rise apartments, many poorer people would be unable to do so. The mass displacement of people in the event of such a calamity would be a humanitarian crisis, not to mention the potential loss of life that may well have occurred in the transformation of Tokyo into Atlantis. The notion that the film's ecological disaster can be accepted as a return to the natural order actually serves as little comfort in this light. The anthropocene eventually rolling back is hardly something to look forward to, so long as the 'anthropo' still walks the Earth.

As such, it is a very strange film to view in 2020. It presents us a narrative wholly concerned with ecological calamity, but not with its prevention; the total antithesis of the messages of Extinction Rebellion, the Climate Strike and likely many of this year's Oscar acceptance speeches. In an otherwise easily consumed, whimsical fantasy, the ending proves a bitter pill to swallow. It must be said that, for all my gripes, it has certainly been the point where I've been most forced to grapple with the film, and its wider meaning. I do wonder if my failure to enjoy the ending is rooted in the void between Japanese youth sentiments towards ecological disaster and my own, Westernised perspective. As defeatist as it is, the suggestion that we (and young people, specifically) are actually powerless in the face of climate disaster may be closer to the truth than we'd like to admit. And maybe, if that is the case, then narratives of hope in the aftermath of climate calamity are a necessary, if unfortunate, tonic, to the rhetoric that suggests that our failure to prevent climate change signals the end of our species and planet.

Nevertheless, where I found the story unwieldy and alienating compared to Your Name's triumphant melodrama, I felt the animation and music were clearly of the same, if not higher, calibre. When Shinkai said that he found himself disappointed with Your Name, feeling that the studio hadn't managed to push the potential of the animation far enough and deeming the film "incomplete", I was shocked. My puny, prosaic brain couldn't imagine something surpassing Your Name, at the time. Weathering With You must have been what he was envisioning. How many films can you think of where one of the most startling sequences features someone eating a Big Mac? Where you will gladly watch long sequences of just rain, because each and every drop is stunning? Everything from sequences of food preparation to the sequences of Hina's atmokinesis are rendered with a level of care and dedication that makes nearly every frame desktop wallpaper material. The score and J-Rock musical accompaniments from Radwimps are of similar quality. It imbues the film with kinetic energy when it needs to, whilst never missing an emotional beat. Whilst some of the deployment of the J-Rock songs may be questionable, particularly with regards to the aforementioned offbeat ending, the songs themselves are a lot of fun.

Roger Ebert once referred to animation, particularly Japanese anime, as a form which "releases the imagination so fully that it can enhance any story, and it can show sights that cannot possibly exist in the real world." Weathering With You lives up to that potential and embodies spectacle-film in its purest. As the screening ended, I felt a sensation that this is what cinemas are still here for. Now, wide-release of international cartoons are not going to solve the woes of every dwindling multiplex or just-holding-on indie venue, but if you want an example of a film experience that cannot be simulated outside of a cinema, look no further.

I'm interested in seeing this film again! It just also seems like a crime to see it on any smaller screen. I don't want to watch it on my laptop screen, which I've never been able to get fully clean for very long, nor do I want to watch it on my TV, with its cluster of dead pixels in the bottom right. I want to see every detail of the animation blown to gargantuan proportions. I may be satisfied if we could screen it on the White Cliffs of Dover, but nothing less than that. That the film has received such a limited UK release is a deep shame. Everyone deserves to be able to see films like this on the biggest screen possible.

Argento Against Andre: Surrealism as Anti-Neorealism

Both emerging from the Italian film industry, albeit at different epochal contexts, the neorealist movement and the cinema of horror/giallo auteur Dario Argento begs comparison. Whilst they ostensibly seem worlds apart, these two distinct perspectives on film exist in dialectical conversation with one another, with Argento clearly decrying the foundational ethos of the preceding generation of Italian cinema.

Where film critic and theorist Andre Bazin saw realism and immersion as film's ultimate goal (1967a), Argento is far more interested in providing a cinema of spectacle and whilst Argento's early films in the giallo sub-genre (the proto-slasher films that often invoke the works of Agatha Christie) are certainly more tame than his later experimentation with technicolor intensity and supernatural storytelling, they possess a disregard for stern realism all the same. For example, the passage of time, which in Bazin's formulation should be continuous and naturalistic (1967a), is played with particularly in Tenebre (1982). Scenes play out of order as flashbacks disguised as dream sequences slowly unveil the film's secret.

The flashback-qua-dream sequence in Tenebre (1982).

This is perhaps the most transgressive instance of that giallo trope which emerges perennially throughout Argento's films, wherein which an element shown early in the narrative becomes pivotal to solving the core mystery. This is more obvious elsewhere in the film, particularly when the young Gianni attempts to remember the telling detail he had repressed from viewing one of the murders, but in the flashback-qua-dream sequence particularly the flow of naturalistic time is disrupted.
This echoes similar moments in Argento's directorial debut, The Bird With The Crystal Plumage (Argento, 1970), and his wider oeuvre, even playing a role in the supernatural gialli Suspiria (Argento, 1977) and Inferno (Argento, 1980). In Suspiria though, Argento disrupts normative time in another way: by utilising the soundtrack. Goblin's prog-rock accompaniment blares out "Witch" for the audience, long before the story the character's suspect the secret of the Tanzakademie, ensuring that Suspiria presents itself as a non-chronological experience. I think we can say that the use of music in Argento's cinema is also decidedly anti-realist in its implementation, as often the line is blurred between diegetic and non-diegetic sound (notably in Tenebre's use of classical music).

Rose is attacked in Inferno (1980).

Whilst Suspiria and Inferno are both anti-realist in their supernatural subject matter, I think that's less relevant to the Argento rejection of the neorealist tendency than a wholesale commitment to "simultaneous cohesion and incoherence" (Heller-Nicholas, 2015: 19) that permeates the giallo and its supernatural counterparts alike. That being said, the supernatural subject matter, and the intention to cultivate a Gothic fairytale aesthetic, accommodated a space for Argento to push against realism in fiercer ways, with Suspiria arguably being the zenith: "Every facet of Suspiria is laced with a knowing self-awareness that not only shuns but also aggressively mocks any attempt at realism" (Heller-Nicholas, 2015: 14).

Reflecting on the "pure" cinema of De Sica's Bicycle Thieves, Bazin highlighted that there was "[n]o more actors, no more story, no more sets, which is to say that in the perfect aesthetic illusion of reality there is no more cinema" (Bazin, 1967b: 60). Suspiria doesn't cast non-actors, in fact it casts actors with a subtextual specificity. Arguably bringing an audience out of the immersion, but operating in a sphere of recognisable consciousness and signifying meta-narrative traits, Argento cast Jessica Harper as Suzy Bannion, who has become known for presenting "characters that straddled innocence and experience" (Heller-Nicholas, 2015: 33), a relative neophyte to co-stars and cinematic icons Joan Bennett and Alida Valli. There is potentially something to be said about the resemblance between Harper and a young Joan Bennett, but both of the older women are utilised to play homage to the noir genre and their roles within it (Schulte-Sasse, 2002).

However, interestingly, Argento doesn't seem to reject the realist ethos with regards to location shooting so vehemently. He utilises some shots on location, notably Berlin's Königsplatz, but it's important to note that even here the reality we see is distorted and warped, akin to the meticulous set design that elsewhere invokes surreal, dreamlike qualities.

The iconic line in Suspiria, suggesting that "bad luck isn’t brought by broken mirrors, but by broken minds" (Argento, 1977), is considered by Heller-Nicholas to be rendered totally false by the subsequent discussion with an occult expert and the 'reality' of the film's witches (2015); I would disagree, as I think the line instead operates as one face of the film's duality, and a key component in the blurring of the fantastical realm and the real one. That the witch of Suspiria appears to be real belies how fundamentally unreal the rest of the film is designed and, from her first steps into Berlin, protagonist Suzy Bannion is confronted with a warped fairytale world of artifice. Meticulously designed sets and non-naturalistic lighting choices can be read as eschewing the idea that any of this is really happening.

Meticulously constructed set design delivering an eerie, dreamlike visage in Suspiria (1977).

As the film delivers an eerie effect of the nightmarish unconscious brought violently to the forefront, Professor Milius, who seeks to disprove his cynical colleague Mandel, does not go against the earlier statement, but rather aligns himself with the broken mirror, rather than the broken mind. Suzy is trapped in a nightmarish hellscape, caught in the battle between philosophies of the real and the fantastical; she is free from the nightmare only once she synthesises both viewpoints, that it may well be the case that nothing is real, but she must act as if it's real nonetheless.

If Argento's films are concerned with making sense of that which cannot be understood then they are in direct conflict with the neorealist desire to be immersive and its dealings with understandable, even universal, experiences. In fact, in Tenebre (Argento, 1982), Arthur Conan-Doyle is invoked to this effect: "Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth". This, perhaps, is Argento's manifesto, his guiding principle, in his surrealist approach. If the approaches differ, I think we should look to where the contexts converge, particularly with the politics of fascism. To the neorealists, fascism was pertinently present, always only slightly out of view. For Argento though, enough time had passed for a Europe in thrall to fascist fervour to transition into history and, then, into fantasy. Where neorealism sought to explore societal redefinitions in fascism's wake, Argento invokes fascistic (both Italian and German) historical context to blur the lines of the actual and the macabre. In the aforementioned Königsplatz, the fantastical invocation of history turns a blind man's dog upon him, murdering him brutally. Witchcraft is linked to the natural in Argento's two supernatural classics, with the possessed dog and maggot-infestation in Suspiria and murderous cats and rats in Inferno; it is the consigning of fascism to regrettable, but naturalised, history that is at the core of its re-emergence in violent form. This elucidates a key difference in the two cinematic portrayals of fascism: neorealism is concerned with the structural violence committed on the subject of (post-)fascism and the scars it leaves behind, where as Argento invokes it as a fearsome return of the repressed.

"[I]t is clear that if we wish to remain on the level of art, we must stay in the realm of imagination. I ought to be able to look upon what takes place on the screen as a simple story, an evocation which never touches the level of reality, at least unless I am to be made an accomplice after the fact of an action or at least of an emotion which demands secrecy for its realisation. This means that the cinema can say everything, but not show everything. There are no sex situations-moral or immoral, shocking or banal, normal or pathological-whose expression is a priori prohibited on the screen, but only on condition that one resorts to the capacity for abstraction in the language of cinema, so that the image never takes on a documentary quality."

(Bazin, 1967b: 174)

Berlin's Königsplatz in Suspiria (1977).

Bazin decried the making visual of sexuality and violence, if films were to possess the qualities of art. I'm sure Argento would disagree. The differences and divergent points continue: where the neorealists looked towards new, post-war configurations of masculinity, Argento seems more concerned with femininity. Neorealism took its inspiration from the streets, embodying documentary quality, and Argento took his inspiration from literary works and high art. "Argento's narrative universe is one where logic and reason are destabilised and subverted," (Heller-Nicholas, 2015: 32), where as neorealist filmmakers, such as Roberto Rossellini and Vittorio De Sica, had depicted the logical, sequential consequences to actions. Through all the minutia, Argento has placed primacy on the spectacle, an act that any neorealist would consider perverse.

Works Cited:

Bazin, A. (1967). What is Cinema? Volume 1. Berkeley: University of California Press.

Bazin, A. (1967). What is Cinema? Volume 2. Berkeley: University of California Press.

Heller-Nicholas, A. (2015) Devil's Advocates: Suspiria. Great Britain: Auteur.

Schulte-Sasse, L. (2002). The "mother" of all horror movies. [Online] kinoeye. Available at: http://www.kinoeye.org/02/11/schultesasse11.php [Accessed on: 07/04/2019]

Films Cited:

Suspiria (1977) [film] Directed by D. Argento. Italy: SEDA Spettacoli.

L'uccello dalle piume di cristallo (1970) [film] Directed by D. Argento. Italy: SEDA Spettacoli.

Inferno (1980) [film] Directed by D. Argento. Italy: Produzioni Intersound.

Tenebre (1982) [film] Directed by D. Argento. Italy: Sigma Cinematografica.

Final Monsters: Intergenerational Repression And Horror Cinema

Criticism of the slasher genre often emerges from feminist framework, which often sees them as little more than gratuitous displays of power over the bodies of women, culminating in the approval of a 'good' femininity in the unsullied Final Girl trope. I would argue that there is more to the portrayal of youth in these films than merely the opportunity for some fetishistic titillation. If horror films are truly concerned, at least primarily, with a psychological return of the repressed, then it is no wonder that their focus has come onto increasingly younger casts of characters.

This youth is a transgressive one; one which emerged in a bastard world of their parent's making and responded to it with disdain. The subsequent generation would eschew the normality of their parents Americana, with the war in Vietnam putting a clear conclusion to any post-war optimism left for that generation's youth.

"The seams of American identity began to give way. Growing numbers in the civil rights and antiwar movements began by rejecting American practices, went on to reject American ideals, and soon, since America was its ideals, rejected the conventional versions of American identity altogether." (Gitlin, 1995: 68)

Wes Craven's Last House On The Left (1972) provided a critical lens of the end of the preceding generation, but the genre's development past that (moving closer to, and into, the 1980s) set out a series of horrors that didn't just mediate the violence committed by one generation unto another, but gave that generation an opportunity to fight back. It is in light of this that I want to propose the Final Girl not as a misogynistic trapping, but a performance of the genre's moral ambiguities. Particularly, moral ambiguities in line with, not only the sociopolitical context around the production of these films, but those which also mediate particularly intergenerational anxieties.

"What the previous generation repressed in us, we, in turn, repress in our children, seeking to mold them into replicas of ourselves, perpetrators of a discredited tradition." (Wood, 2003: 66).

The horror films of the 80s are similarly concerned with the repression of previous generations, but they develop this towards its next logical step, by freeing the upcoming generation from the shackles of that repression and casting them as the leads, rather than as tragic victims. When John Carpenter defies readings of Halloween's (Carpenter, 1980) female victims as reaping what their sexuality has sewn, he is positioning them alongside his main character, not against her. Within this pantheon of youth. he even claims to not recognise the non-sexual, purely virginal Laurie Stode that critics have read her as:

"They [the critics] completely missed the boat there, I think. Because if you turn it around, the one girl who is the most sexually uptight just keeps stabbing this guy with a long knife. She's the most sexually frustrated. She's the one that killed him. Not because she's a virgin, but because all that repressed energy starts coming out. She uses all those phallic symbols on the guy... She and the killer have a certain link: sexual repression." (Carpenter qtd. in Clover, 1992: 48-49)

Laurie Strode from Halloween (1978).

Concurrent to this, Carol Clover also suggests that a shared masculinity also links the Monster with the Final Girl (1992: 49) and both these facets are instances of a repressed, returned. Outside of the parameters of a reactionary, judicial killing of sexual women, the Victims of the Monster express their own repression in taboo female sexuality and in refusing to perform their sexual femininity in the expectedly docile way. They do not fear men in a way they may have been expected to. This isn't a sign of youthful idiocies, of shallow, air-headed women whose lack of awareness of the danger around them signify them as ripe for retribution, but is rather a signifier for how these character's defy generational expectations. They no longer engage in acts of repression.

While the Monster seems to police the bodies of these transgressive women, the Monster himself fits into this formulation of the repressed, returned. This has tended to be the focus of writing on Horror cinema, discussions around how each Monster exists outside of normative hetero-patriarchy, how he is often a materialisation of that which we, the audience, have repressed, and so on. Repression of child sexuality, for example comes to the forefront in Halloween (1978). Repressed female sexual energy, or creativity, is positioned directly against the legitimated female labour in the film, as sex always seems to get in the way of babysitting. In the childlike perspective of Meyers, it is the abdication of babysitting duty that seems to be what antagonises the most.

What I'm interested in, however, is the convergence of these aspects. It is important to note that the Final Girl is similarly transgressive, insofar that her performances of masculinity (the tomboyish nature that the Final Girl's have in common, to varying degrees) and bisexuality, have been hitherto repressed. Once denied "drives culturally associated with masculinity" (Wood, 2003: 64), these are now brought to the forefront by the Monster. So the Victims, Monster and Final Girl all exist outside of conventional normality. The actions of the Monster, for example, are not merely those of an agent of the repressed arriving as arbiter of punishment, nor is it simply the revenge of a societal outcast. Instead, in these films, we see an entire sphere of societal transgressions played out against the previous generation's normative safe space: white suburbia. Heroes and villains alike are cast as separate from the normative order, which is presented as ignorant and ineffective.

The reveal at the end of Prom Night (1980) takes a meta approach to this, but delivers a flaccid, irresponsible parental order nonetheless. Engaged with our knowledge of Michael Meyers, escaped mental patient and horror villain, the film shows the police in search for the danger they (and the audience) expect. When he is found, not anywhere near the location of the titular high-school prom night, the police believe the danger to be averted and drop their guard. Of course, the threat is located elsewhere and the police have proved themselves to be no more adept at protecting the younger generation than that generation is at protecting itself. The identity of the killer, Kim's brother, further blurs the line between the Victims, Final Girl and Monster: in the slasher follow up to Halloween (1978) the Monster is no longer clearly Othered (the general plot of a covered up murder coming back to haunt people also fits nicely with the idea of the return of the repressed).

The killer attacks the prom in Prom Night (1980).

So it is particularly the police force and the nuclear family model which are shown incapable of providing moral authority or physical safety, with these two artefacts coalescing neatly in Nightmare on Elm Street's (1984) police family unit. Whilst Nancy's father cannot mobilise the police force to protect the street's youth, Nancy's mother's moral authority is stripped away by alcohol abuse and the part she played in her neighbourhood's original sin, in the creation of Freddy Krueger. In one reading, we can see the parental generation's failings as the reason that the film has no happy ending, when Freddy's final scare is to take his revenge on Nancy's mother, but I think the loss of the 'happy' ending actually occurs earlier- precisely, it happens when Nancy rejects any of the power and dominance that the nightmarish Freddy may have over her. Robin Wood describes the 'happy ending' as a "restoration of repression" (2003: 66). By sheer power of will, it is this which Nancy can not allow to happen. She takes her transgressive bisexuality out of the hands of an abusive force and restores, not repression, but transgression, by returning her youthful, sexual friends alongside her banishment of her harasser. The reneging of Horror films, since Night Of The Living Dead (1968), to provide such a 'Hollywood'-style, conventionally happy ending, is where I read a progressive tendency in the genre: the refusal to restore the repression transforms the film-viewing experience away from something fleeting and escapist, becoming a more tactile text.

Nancy turns her back on her abuser, denying him his power, in A Nightmare On Elm Street (1984).

That the Final Girl heroines rarely seem able to totally restore the normative, repressive status quo positions their role as transgressive characters as a progressive moment; in spite of their intent and desire towards a world where the repressed is restored, they can never go home again. It is here that I refer back to this post's title: The Final Monster. In my view, the Final Girl may be a heroic trope, but she should be read to be just as transgressive as any Monster she comes up against. The film language itself tells us this, when “we are linked, [with a first person camera perspective], with the killer in the early part of the film, usually before we have seen him directly and before we have come to know the Final Girl in any detail” (Clover, 1992: 45) and when our perspective switches over to the Final Girl entirely by the film's conclusion. She is inextricably linked to monster-hood. Not a bastion of purity and conservatism, she is seen rejecting the values and beliefs of previous generations and their halcyon views of youth. She also exists on the other side of trauma, often with no satisfying conclusion to her story, offering a nebulous fictional zone wherein which she can be doomed and liberated simultaneously.
And, of course, that's why I have no interest in watching any of the sequels to these films.

Works Cited:

Clover, C. (1992). Men women and chainsaws: Gender in the modern horror film. London: British Film Institute.

Gitlin, T. (1995). The Twilight of Common Dreams. New York: Henry Holt.

Wood, R. (2003). Hollywood from Vietnam to Reagan ...and beyond(Expanded and rev. ed.). New York: Columbia University Press.

Films Cited:

Halloween (1978) [film] Directed by J. Carpenter. United States: Compass International Pictures.

Last House On The Left (1972) [film] Directed by W. Craven. United States: Sean S. Cunningham Films.

Nightmare on Elm Street (1984) [film] Directed by W. Craven. United States: New Line Cinema.

Night Of The Living Dead (1968) [film] Directed by G. A. Romero. United States: Image Ten.

Prom Night (1980) [film] Directed by P. Lynch. Canada: AVCO Embassy Pictures.

Italian Neorealism in The Bicycle Thieves and Germany: Year Zero

Film theorist Andre Bazin distinguished between pseudorealism, that which is concerned with the aesthetic niceties associated with the conventionally 'realistic', and what he saw as actual realism. His formulation of such a realism concerns film's nature as reactionary and Italian neorealism was a movement that reacted to not only to the American film studio releases but to the world around it. The films of directors, such as Vittorio De Sica, Roberto Rossellini and Luchino Visconti, explored the renegotiations of class and societal roles in a Europe wracked by political upheaval and economic crises. They did so in such a style that reacted to material conditions and often invoked the documentary form, disinterested in the Hollywood theatrics like sets and movie stars. Vittorio De Sica's Bicycle Thieves and Roberto Rossellini's Germany: Year Zero were two films born out of the neorealist movement, released in 1945 and 1948 respectively. Notably concerning two of the Axis forces most enthralled to fascism during WWII, it is in the post-war renegotiation of societal roles and values that the worlds of both The Bicycle Thieves and Germany: Year Zero manifest.

In the tradition of Italian neorealism, Rossellini shot Germany: Year Zero on the streets of Berlin itself. Like in Bicycle Thieves's Italy, the post-war/post-fascist Germany is more than an aesthetic deployed for the film: it is a snapshot of reality. This perception of a true reality, one which absconds from theatrical, character examinations in favour of characters who cannot be detached from the worlds they inhabit and are only footnotes of the wider reality, is definitional of neorealism in Bazin's thinking. He wrote that "…neorealism by definition rejects analysis, whether political, moral, psychological, logical, or social, of the characters and their actions. It looks on reality as a whole, not incomprehensible, certainly, but inseparably one" (Bazin, 1967b: 97). The neorealist films, to this end, forewent actor-personalities driven by star power. The film's are instead populated by non-actors who detach the films further away from any kind of preconceived notion around character-actors and theatrics in cinema. The characters are very literally the products of the world around them, as the world around them is where their actors were found. That a film can be unrealistic, yet wholly realist, would seem to have been Bazin's point. Cinema then possesses a mummifying effect, where, if used in the neorealist way, it can produce an archival history in and of itself; a means of "the preservation of life by a representation of life" (Bazin, 1967a: 10).

Many of the Italian neorealist films focused in on the disruption of societal roles in the emerging post-war and post-fascist context of post-1945 Europe. Germany: Year Zero transplants the Italian style to the German locale, but it doesn't stop there. It also transplants the post-war/post-fascist concerns of neorealism to a new nationality; that the film was directed and written by Italian neorealist Roberto Rossellini suggests that there is not only the shadow of Hitler cast over the film, but the shadow of Mussolini as well. That the film is almost entirely in Germany's native tongue doesn't negate its Italian-ness. In light of this, I want to briefly talk about how these two films, set in two different countries and produced by two different directors, come together to provide a congruous, neorealist world.

One may be tempted to compare the characters Bruno and Edmund, who provide dual perspectives of the child in this movement of cinema, however, I think it would be more pertinent to compare Antonio to Edmund. Each are the closest each film has to a main character; the moral degradation and loss of innocence associated with living in an impoverished world hits these characters the hardest. Both Rome in Bicycle Thieves and Berlin in Germany: Year Zero are presented as cities that have more workers than work itself. The opening moments of these films are actually startlingly similar, in so far that they are both concerned with the possession (or lack thereof) of work permits. The 'truth' of Bicycle Thieves, that "in the world where this workman lives, the poor must steal from each other in order to survive" (Bazin, 1967b: 51), is the point of similarity between De Sica's Italy and Rossellini's Berlin. Like Antonio, Edmund has viable work taken from him (he is discovered to be too young and is fired). The loss of work, of a respectable way of navigating their impoverished cities and lives, precludes directly the moral compromises that will make both these characters social aberrations; Antonio the thief and Edmund the parricidal murderer.

Antonio and his son, Bruno, in Bicycle Thieves (1945).

That Antonio, on his mission to reclaim his bicycle, is let down by the supposed institutions of the working class- the police, the church and, finally, his own community- is preface to the isolation felt by Edmund before he is taken from proletariat to lumpenproletariat and experiences all the shame and social stigma attached therein. The exploration of post-fascist societies that is explored in Germany: Year Zero, but not in Bicycle Thieves, concerns how the supposedly defeated forces of fascism survive in downtrodden spaces. There's something prescient and valuable in this perspective. Edmund's socioeconomic miseries push him into a destructive relationship with a Nazi-sympathising ex-teacher and, when he sells an old record to some soldiers, Adolf Hitler's thunderous voice once again echoes throughout the ruins of Berlin.

Edmund walks through the ruins of Berlin in the conclusion of Germany: Year Zero (1948).

Germany: Year Zero may have been the final part of Rossellini's trilogy of neorealist war films, but I think the concerns of its characters, despite time and space, when placed alongside De Sica's Bicycle Thieves still can provide insight into the world the neorealist movement was reacting to.


Works Cited:
Bazin, A. (1967). What is Cinema? Volume 1. Berkeley: University of California Press.
Bazin, A. (1967). What is Cinema? Volume 2. Berkeley: University of California Press.

Films Cited:
Germania anno zero (1948) [film] Directed by R. Rossellini. Italy: Produzione Salvo D'Angelo and Tevere Film.

Ladri di biciclette (1945) [film] Directed by V. De Sica. Italy: Produzioni De Sica.

Teen Wolves, Teen Zombies And Reappraising My Boyfriend's Back

The Universal Monster version of the werewolf seen in The Wolfman (1941) may not have been the first cinematic werewolf, but it certainly remains one of our foremost visions of lycanthropy on the silver screen. Or it did, until Michael J. Fox taped hair to basketball shorts and changed our view of the horror mainstay forever.

Teen Wolf (1985) was not the first film to greet the horror icons with humour and flippancy, as it was with drive-in theatre B-movies that first brought those horror tropes into a recognisable teen movie formulation. AIP films, such as I Was A Teenage Werewolf (1957)/Frankenstein (1957) and Blood of Dracula (1957), were released to tap into the drive-in zeitgeist and brought the phenomenon of a monster hunting angsty teenagers to the exploitation scene.

The teenager, as a subculture, has been intrinsically tied to the development of modern capitalism, particularly being read as an emergent feature of America's post-war economic boom. These teen-horror films appealed to the newly economically liberated teenager subculture, sympathising particularly with the angst of their self-declaration. In I Was A Teenage Werewolf, it is the sentiments of teen peers which motivates the protagonist to seek psychiatric help, rather than any adult attempt in coercing him to 'adjust' (and it is the very adult institution of psychotherapy which inevitably betrays him). The film proved a success for this portrayal of teens who teens themselves could relate to, but the film was in a way quite cynical: it may have sympathised with the teenager, but it also saw the subculture as an unfortunate byproduct of the development of modernity.

In the conflict between the futurist scientist and the nostalgic suburbia that his experiment-gone-awry (the titular Werewolf) wreaks havoc on, the film professes a strong cautionary tale against progress: "It's not for man to interfere with the ways of God." The adolescence that the new teenager is exposed to is depicted as the unfortunate offspring of the modern society/depravity that emerged alongside America's new primacy as a global power.

This struggle with modernity and the conditions of hedonistic capitalism would persist for as long as viable alternatives made themselves clear: naturally, it was the era of Reaganism, neoliberalism and late capitalism that would transform I Was A Teenage Werewolf into Teen Wolf, a film where there is no longer an alternative, no deviant or subversive element left to be feared. As yesterday's fears dissipated, so too did yesterday's monsters.

Where I Was A Teenage Werewolf ends with its teen wolf shot dead, and a lament over man's hubris in interfering with the territory of God, Teen Wolf straight up transforms into a basketball film for its final fifteen minutes. This was the journey that the supernatural film had taken: from the indisputable, pre-modern fear of the supernatural in The Wolfman, to a more nebulous fear of a modern degenerative, delinquent tendency in I Was A Teenage Werewolf, culminating in Teen Wolf's post-modern absence of fear. The subversive element, the monster, is no longer to be feared, since it can so easily be subsumed into the normative order. Michael J. Fox's wolf form causes no existential crisis for his fellow students or for his community, rather they prefer the wolf to his human form. The wolf is cool, adorned on t-shirts and becomes the school's new mascot. Does this not perfectly mediate the way in which late-capitalism has proven to assimilate all counter-cultural forces into its hegemonic block?

And Teen Wolf was not the only Horror-Comedy to demonstrate this inefficacy of outdated myth. The unrepentantly silly and absurdist 1993 RomZomCom My Boyfriend's Back, fits nicely into this frame. This RomZomCom, a term attributed to and popularised by Edgar Wright's Shaun of the Dead (2004) simply meaning Romantic-Zombie-Comedy, is unlike much of its peers; there is no modicum of fear to be found in its depictions of zombieism. It rarely, if ever, feels like a film actually about zombies. There's no slow, intense walk of the newly awakened dead, nor the frenzy rush of infected runners, but rather a diffident, inoffensive teenager (who just so happens to have a craving for flesh, but who are we to judge?). As such, I find the film makes for much more interesting comparison when placed alongside a more optimistic film like Teen Wolf than to any other comedic zombie affair.

For one, it seems quaint and cheesy in the face of modern successes, like Warm Bodies (2013), which it seems to have much in common with, and Zombieland (2009), which deliver their humour without compromising their status as a clear zombie film. More than this though, My Boyfriend's Back, like Teen Wolf before it, utilises the classic genre trope as a universal sign of misunderstanding. Werewolves and zombies (and later, vampires and ogres) are the deviant sexuality, or the radical communist, who we used to fear before capitalism made it clear that it would not be toppled. We now instead freely embrace them as part of the cultural salad bowl.

The film is unique in just how deftly it delivers its absurd everyday as part of its eschewal of the classic horror trope. Johnny Dingle's return from the dead is only ever met with slight surprise, as if he had gotten out of school an hour early rather than emerged from the grave and each line of dialogue is lent a pitch perfect deadpan that stuns you into bewilderment; watch the film and tell me that it doesn't leave you speechless, mouth agape, as you wonder just how on earth this got made. It doesn't do this by being shocking, but by being so unshocking that you can't help but be bemused.

Whenever it seems like Johnny Dingle might face consequences for his cannibalistic tendencies, he is swiftly forgiven after a polite apology or a romantic declaration. As his longstanding crush falls increasingly and illogically further in love with a gradually decaying corpse, she fetishises his very undead quality to a point where you have to question whether their relationship as two living people could actually work out, since the living appear to be so much more dysfunctional than the dead.

Its dream sequences operate for the sake of a gag or two and little else, proving to us that there are no hidden, psychic demons haunting the film. Yet, the film itself nevertheless has an almost constant dreamlike quality- where the most peculiar of things may happen, yet they persist as if they are normal, everyday occurrences. For some inexplicable reason, the majority of the films exposition is done through comic book panel sequences. It is never made clear why! I have no idea why! But this film defies such mundane questions as 'why'?

Much like Teen Wolf, the horror trope is burrowed deep under quirk and a comedic, consumerist optimism; an optimism wherein which the features of the horror movie are neatly resolved by its conclusion. In the post-modern revisitation of horror icons and tropes, there is nothing to fear. The second chance at real life that Johnny Dingle receives in the film's happy Hollywood ending is a negation of any of the preceding zombie deviancy: not just in the film proper, but across the genre as a whole. Sorry for the misunderstanding, we used to be afraid of zombies, but we know better now.

My Boyfriend's Back may be an incredibly dated film, but it is also a film that seems strangely ahead of its time and in need of immediate reappraisal. Watching it is a genuine experience: it's vapid, yet deeply funny; it is speciously a black comedy, but without any blackness; it is plain and inoffensive, yet, at the same time, incredibly surreal. It's also perfect as a Halloween movie for people who are too easily spooked.

Panned at release and more or less forgotten by the majority of audiences, I can safely say that this is the only film I will be recommending to people for the foreseeable future.