2 posts tagged “vincent price”

Battle For Haditha (Nick Broomfield, 2007)
Hoo boy. Nick Broomfield's ironically titled docudrama about the 2005 Haditha killings follows that fateful day in the lives of the soldiers, the insurgents, and of course, the innocents who were slaughtered by US forces. And it's about as intense as it sounds like it would be. There are problems with the film, like a kind of pathological need to humanize, which leads to certain beats that feel a little rote (like the insurgents casually talking about how if only the US hadn't disbanded the army, they wouldn't be doing this, or the repetition of just how fried the US soldiers are). It's not a great film, but as head into year five of this clusterfuck, it's a necessary one.

The Mist (Frank Darabont, 2007)
The Mist isn't just bad. It's wrong. From Thomas Jane's earnest delivery of the line, "This is no ordinary mist," to the laughably overwrought ending, the movie could not be worse. Seriously. It's like Crash with giant CGI tentacle monsters. Also, if you're going to name your movie The Mist, and try to elicit fear from the uncertainty that comes from not being able to see more than a few feet in front of you, then you might want to hold off for longer than twenty minutes to show the giant CGI tentacle monster. Just a tip.

The Pleasure of Being Robbed (Joshua Safdie, 2008)
Goddammit, this movie is gorgeous. Think Bujalski meets Vivre Sa Vie. I can't believe I just wrote that. Ugh. Who am I? Maybe it's more accurately described as Quiet City's evil twin. No, that's reductive. They are wholly different films. Anyway, all I'm saying is that if you have a chance, please go. I love this movie.

Sleuth (Kenneth Branagh, 2007)
Three words. Gay train wreck.

The New Year Parade (Tom Quinn, 2008)
Divorce, Philly style! Set against the backdrop of the annual Mummers Parade, The New Year Parade chronicles the lives of a couple of South Philadelphia kids whose parents have separated. This is a really sweet movie, and it's homegrown, so they certainly got the Philadelphia accent right.

Lake of Fire (Tony Kaye, 2007)
Doesn't a two-and-a-half hour documentary on the abortion wars of the 90s sound like a good time? What's that? It's also in black-and-white? And there are scenes in which doctors sift through bloody post-abortion detritus? HOLLA!

The Assassination of Jesse James By the Coward Robert Ford (Andrew Dominik, 2007)
There's a lot to like about this movie, but man is it on-the-nose. We get it. We understand. When it's not hitting us over the head with Casey Affleck's mumbly hero-worship, it's a great movie that evokes the kind of sweaty slow burn of The Deer Hunter. But, as I said, it's all just a little too obvious.

I Am Legend (Francis Lawrence, 2007)
Will Smith really gives his all to this pile. Seriously, he acts the fuck out of it. Unfortunately for him, the movie doesn't hold a candle to previous adaptation The Last Man on Earth... or The Omega Man for that matter. And that movie is terrible.

Iron Man (Jon Favreau, 2008)
Robert Downey Jr. is a casting coup, yes. And Jeff Bridges is hilarious, if only because his skull is allowed to come out and play. And Jon Favreau is a director who cares about the overuse of CGI (love those Elf practicals). So hooray. But even with all of that going for it, I had a hard time getting into the gadgety-metalhead porn of it all because I was distracted by the way it non-tackled the Iraq war. If only we all had a metal suit that could tell us who the hostiles were and who the civilians were. I get that it's a superhero movie, and that we can't expect a movie about a guy who constructs a super-suit to do anything but be "kick-ass" or to solve our Iraq problem (that's for the guy with the super ears). So let's just chalk it up to the fact that I can't enjoy anything anymore, and that'll be that. Kudos for trying to make a movie about the here and now, I guess (as opposed to say, Superman Returns). And let's face it, this is probably as good as a movie about Iron Man was going to be.

Another day to live through. Better get started.

There's a weird realism going on in The Last Man On Earth, a simultaneously highbrow and low-fi adaptation of Richard Matheson's seminal I Am Legend, in which a man fills the post-apocalyptic days by combating the legions of vampiric proto-zombies that serve as the last echoes of the race. Four years before Romero captured the zeitgeist and set out to make a career out of the unending metaphorical resonance of zombies, The Last Man On Earth adapts Matheson's novel as a gothic zombie extravaganza in which Vincent Price, America's creepy uncle, is supposed to be our proxy, our witness to a world now gone.

Price is Robert Morgan, the scientist who thinks himself to be the last remaining human. Searching for purpose, he makes it his mission to find the plague's vampires during their daily rest and destroy them while they sleep. As in the novel, their vampirism is absent supernatural forces, a shift that becomes vital for Romero's films to have the power they do years later. The idea of the coming plague, the inadequacy of our preparation, and the subsequent and inevitable fascism that would arise are all handled broadly but effectively in The Last Man On Earth. While the film's zombie attacks are laughable, the flashback that stops the film's momentum and constitutes the center third is rife with terrifying moments of familial decline, as when Morgan's daughter goes blind or his wife finally succumbs to the plague.

In the end, though, the film is as and clunky and shambling as its undead hordes. As with Steve Buscemi, I will never buy Vincent Price as a stand-in for the everyday guy. There's just too much wrong there. And in Last Man On Earth, instead of his usual uber-creep, Price is working with a mundanity that reads as exhaustion. Whether he's distractedly staking a vampire, ignoring his dying daughter, or shuffling idly after a woman who may or may not humanity's last hope, Price seems as though he can't really be bothered.

Having seen The Omega Man, the funky 1970s adaptation starring Charlton Heston as a groovy badass mowing zombies down with a submachine gun before having sex with them (I'm almost positive that happens, or maybe it just felt like that), I expected The Last Man On Earth to similarly avoid tackling the final question of Matheson's novel: What is it that makes a monster? I was pleasantly surprised to find that the adaptation, while awkward, is intact, and though Matheson requested that his name be removed from his screenplay, a lot of his ideas are still given their proper weight. The muddiness of the last third that serves as the novel's greatest strength is rendered accurately and with a little wry irony, something the nation wouldn't discover properly until Romero's Dawn of the Dead. Always remember, zombies are funny.