Going to Hell in WV

19th January Episode 50 [yes; I didn't wait for post #50 to do 'Episode 50'; bite me, it's fun!]

Things I now know about West Virginia:

• Lots of Mines of one type or another
• Brad Dourif (born in Huntington, WV; son of a paint and dye factory owner)
• Large numbers of hardscrabble miners unaccountably voted for sleek, privileged East-Coaster John F Kennedy rather than for Hubert Humphrey in the 1960 Democratic Party Primary. With NO SUGGESTION of corruption or anything.
• The Blue Ridge Mountains of (cf: Lonesome Pine, The; On The Trail Of)
• It contains the literal gate to Hell.

Yes, the Hellmouth is not based in Sunnydale; or Louisiana; or New York, or New Jersey, or even Milton Keynes; it's below a museum and former Sate Prison in WV; thanks for clearing THAT up, Episode 50! (Though I'm not certain I wish to base any major theological decisions on a film that has its born-again character reference The Exorcist as the origin of its 'Call us Legion for we are many' reference, rather than the, you know, BIBLE. Crack a book once in a while, movie, eh?).

What we've got is a remake of Legend of Hell House, with the idiots going to an obviously haunted location at the behest of sinister wealthy person, with vaguely debunk-y notions, then are harshly disabused of them as BAD THINGS commence to happen.  Except here we have two competing groups of idiots (one not-Ghosthunters 'skeptic' lot with their cute little EMF meters and their leader with a TRAGIC BACKSTORY, and one set of deliverence-ministerers led by a floppy-haired humourless dick and his floaty Deanna-Troi-lite 'psychic'), rather than one.

Hell House's queasy sexuality has been purged, and replaced here with a rather toothless 'yay Jesus' small-r religious subtext.  Since the TRAGIC BACKSTORY involved a dead sister resulting in a LOSS OF FAITH which has driven debunker-boy away from the big JC and into the soiled arms of rationality, and which he must OVERCOME in order to RECONNECT WITH HIS FAITH, to have the spiritual strength to fling a crucifix, drive off the one demon rather boredly cavorting in the gateway, like a stripper covering someone else's Wednesday afternoon shift and seal the cheap-CG Hellgate. Clearly a victory for the angels... I guess...?  Though not for Mr Sinisterwealthyperson from the beginning, who was rather hoping they'd disprove the existence of Hell, since he's dying, and is sure to be headed there for his many sins in life; the last shot of the film is him viewing the idiots' conclusions, and weeping profusely.  Or perhaps he was PZ Myers, and he'd just finished reading the script.

The Lovefilm thumbnail and DVD cover is a filthy. filthy lie, by the way; though there is some footage shot from the cameras the idiots bring in with them, this is NOT by any definition a 'Found Footage' film. Sufferers from motion sickness can rest easy; as for the rest of us...

After all this...THIS, I decided to watch a Miramax film.  No, really! Come back later, and see.

Ill-Advised Remake Monday: The Omen

Scene:

INT, daytime. 20th Century Fox's boardroom, sometime in the mid 2000's:

CORPORATE SCUM #1

...So, we're agreed, gentlemen? Another Alien Tril...Quad...Quintilogy Boxset on DVD? Only this time, the box will be in the shape of an entire lifesize Alien Queen, and the discs themselves will be excreted from its anus? Genius!

Any more business?

CORPORATE SCUM #2

Ah, yes...My Random Remake Suggest-o-tron came up with The Omen the other day, and I couldn't help but notice that it'll be June 2006 soon, so, you know: 06/06/06, so...

CORPORATE SCUM #1

Well, I suppose...Isn't it a bit, you know, old?

CORPORATE SCUM #2

No, it'll be great, honestly; we'll get some slumming actors, like the original did, toss in some in-jokes for the fanboys, and some of that CG blood that the kids love! It'll be awesomes!

CORPORATE SCUM #1

All right...make the leads much younger and duller, chuck in some flashy and pointless dream sequences for shocks, oh, and a gratuitous 9/11 reference and we've got a deal! Now, lunch? [buzz] Marcy, could you send us in the usual six live puppies, garnished with the crushed hopes and aspirations of a generation of film students? And a Pellegrino? Thanks!

END

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Yes, your correspondent is extemporising somewhat, but it doesn't take a huge imaginative leap to visualise the thinking process behind this film: Exploitable property+built-in marketing opportunity+more blood=PROFIT!! They really only forgot one thing; to actually make it any good. So, what did they stupidly change, what should they have let go, and is that REALLY HIM under that awful plasticky burn makeup? [Short answers: too much, those blasted dream sequences, and yes; hooray!]

To start with the plot...If you need me to describe it, then go away and punch yourself, hard. In the stomach. While you're getting your breath back, read on: Diplomat's wife loses her child at birth, diplomat is persuaded to unofficially 'adopt' an adorable orphan baby, feels no need to inform wife of change. Adorable baby grows up to be adorable tow-headed little boy, acquires insane nannies, Rottweiler; is surrounded by mysterious 'accidents' that plague those who attempt to inform Daddy Diplomat that Dimples may in fact be Satan Jr. (Spoiler! He is.). Everybody dies!

[While the 1976 original didn't start the Evil Child genre (Paging Rhoda Penmark!), it was an early example of the (still popular) Evil Solemn-Faced Little Kid subtype, and was almost-singlehandedly responsible for turning the name Damien (or Damian) from a Saint-that-worked-with-lepers-and-therefore-perfect-for-Catholic-familes baby name, to shorthand-for-Lucifer in within a generation. You think I'm joking? According to the Office for National Statistics, in the UK in 1974 the name Damien (or Damian) was the 64th most popular; by 1984, it was 97th, and by 1994 not even in the top 100.]

This remake doesn't fiddle about with the basic plot points TOO much (baby death - nanny death - new nanny - ominous priest - priest death - mum off balcony - dead mum - gratuitous archaeology - headless photographer - angst dad - nanny fight - dead dad), and is as successful as the original in chucking a splashy death at the audience just when things are getting too fidget-inducingly Bible-y, but it's what they ADDED that's my main problem with it.

The film starts with some priest-y enclave in the (heavily-implied) Vatican, viewing a short film on all of the newsworthy disasters of the last 20-odd years, and doom-and-glooming it about the imminent return of the Antichrist...This is necessary, why? Your writer was raised Methodist, and knows about as much of Catholic priests as I do of Quantum Theory but refuses to believe that none of them have read a newspaper since 1970. Unless the film is assuming that the audience haven't either? Or need to see footage of the Boxing Day Tsunami, 9/11, etc, which they had surely FORGOTTEN ALL ABOUT UP TO THAT MOMENT? It's an arbitrary selection of footage too; oh, so it's natural disasters, because God is angry, but no...here's 9/11 and a civil war. So, it's the evil of people, but...ah, that was an earthquake. NVM then.

The film promptly cuts from this amazingly point-filled opening like it never happened (I'd like to pretend the same thing), and we start the plot proper. It trots along from point to point like a good pony until...well, you see Lee Remick (the mother in the original) could convey her growing paranoia and dread of the little bugger just with facial expression, body posture...you know, ACTING. The new girl...can't. So nuts to subtlety and let's have her dream-sequence some goatskullfaced robed jumpscares (that look nothing like they came off a Dennis Wheatley paperback cover from 1968 or anything)! Yes, let's do THAT!

As for the cast, well...I'm sure Liev Schreiber is a perfectly nice chap, but...charismatic? No. To the extent that...I actually forgot he was in the film while he was off screen. Yes; I'm embarrassed, but I want you to know that never happened with Gregory Peck. The supporting cast of Reliable British Thesps swaps wavering-Irish-accented Patrick Troughton for Pete Postlethwaite, whose accent bounces back and forth across the Irish Sea like the Fishguard ferry in a Force 9-er, and offers us scruffy David Thewlis in lieu of mod David Warner; I do not consider this an acceptable substitute. I suspect the casting of Mia Farrow as the 'nanny from the agency' is a bit of wink-wink gimmick casting for Rosemary's Baby fans, since she's no Billie Whitelaw, and far too mimsy to be convincing as a threat to the large stolid tree that is Liev Schreiber; and is there really any reason except someone's game of Weird Character Name Bingo to have Michael Gambon follow Dumbledore with Bugenhagen?

Still, in each dungheap a diamond, and there's an unexpected treat for all the watching House On the Edge of the Park fans (so, me and Brad Jones, then); yes, it's Giovanni Lombardi Radice, aka John Morgen, as Father Spiletto! Oh Ricky, you can even make a Roman Collar suspect! Don't ever, ever change! While I'm on this positive trend, I should take time to praise the Damien; I have no maternal instinct whatsoever, but this is an adorable, solemn small boy. I definitely felt a small hollow thump in the place where normal women have a biological clock. If I could somehow guarantee that my loins would yield forth something like that (and not, as I secretly fear, some squawking money-sink with a Hannah Montana fixation) then even I might be persuaded to breed.

So, on balance: worth a peek as a curiosity, but don't expect it to be anywhere near as good as the original, and brace yourself for random goatskulls, and the odd crashing misstep of taste, amongst all the lumbering solemness.

If the mousse tastes chalky, don't eat it

Here at the Bloody Chamber Finishing School for Fallen Young Ladies of Delicate Constitution, we have a varied curriculum. Between handicrafts lessons from Professor Hewitt, and poetry classes with Dr Poelzig, it's a wonder the little darlings find the time to misbehave. We try to equip our girls with invaluable life lessons drawn from the most reliable souce imaginable; horror films, because films never lie.

Today's lesson is drawn from the late Sixties/God is Dead/puerperal psychosis classic Rosemary's Baby:

Don't put your daughter on the stage, Mrs Worthington? Well, don't let her MARRY an actor, either. Rosemary's husband, Guy Woodhouse (John Cassavetes) may seem cool and hip, he may be about to go off and make a load of films with Peter Falk and accidentally invent Steve Buscemi's directing career, but all he really wants is to rent out your reproductive system to the creepy old neighbourhood Satanists for their glowing-eyed anti-Messiah in exchange for a part on Broadway. Never a flicker of guilt, either; at least the geek in Stepford Wives who's part-exchanging his wife for a big-tittied housekeeper/fuckbot has a moment of sitting-in-the-dark-nursing a Scotch angst, but Mr Method can't wait to escape motor oil tv adverts for a showy part in one of those worthy sub-Whose Life Is It Anyway 'issues' plays that never get to Broadway anymore for all the Producers revivals, and so much the better for it if you want my opinion. And, if some rival actor has to get blinded, a few people killed, and your emotionally fragile wife to gestate Lucifer, well...too bad all around.

Men; pfft.