The Ward

This weekend I watched The Ward -- John Carpenter's first film in a decade -- on a thoroughly gloomy drizzling day and I really wanted to love it, but there were just too many cumulative weaknesses, mainly in the script (well, and some of the perfs, too) for me to honestly say he drove this one home. Still, there's a subtle magic to The Ward, mostly in its B-movie cheapie goodness; it comes off as grindingly low-budget, something that could have come out of Val Lewton's RKO production unit in the 1940s, a feature I value highly in a horror film. That Carpenter manages to squeeze scares out of three sets and five actors is admirable indeed. The main problem I had with The Ward was its shoddy script.

This whole "review" is really just going to be one great big spoiler, because I can't really discuss what I see as the main story pitfalls without it. So if you haven't seen the film, take note that I really, really liked the opening credits, and come back in 88 minutes.

Ah, there you are. Nice to see you again. OK, we can continue.

Didn't you like the opening credits? Come on, medieval woodcuts, Horgarth etchings, circa-1950s stock photos of shock treatment? In chronological order? How could you not? As an archival photo researcher, I was especially thrilled by that credit sequence. (Yes, I work as an archival photo researcher for documentaries when not writing. And yes, I am available for hire.)

Unfortunately, things start to sputter as soon as the narrative kicks in. The film progresses in fits and starts, with occasional moments of suspense strung among much atmosphere-y mood-setting. The action picks up when the ghost of murdered mental patient Alice Hudson starts aggressively pursuing the heroine in addition to all the other girls in the ward, and we are treated to some truly fun running-around-being-scared sequences. That all the characters are stock cutouts bothered me until the final twist was revealed -- then it somewhat made sense.

But -- and here come the spoilers --I was slightly disappointed by the multiple personality disorder explanation. I'm not sure why, since I particularly like any narrative of dissociative amnesia or dissociative fugue. Fractured identities are always awesome (story-wise). Perhaps it was because so little was done with diagnosis of MPD once we got to that exposition-heavy portion of the script. The whole third act felt verrrry hastily slapped together, and I'm not sure but that the final twist couldn't have been handled better. Putting aside all my other problems with act three, I'd even be happy with just a revised version of that final twist.

If I had a world of my own, this is how I would have ended it: the scene plays out just as it is now, with Alice looking into the mirror. But instead of Kristen's demon-ghost arm grabbing at her, she'd just be staring back at her placidly from her reflection. And then Alice could say something like, "I'd never let them kill you, Kristen," and smile at her. You know, indicating she's still crazy. Or maybe not say anything at all. Lately I've been of a mind that being crazy is scarier than actual supernatural beings. Maybe it's just a phase I'm going through and in six weeks the pendulum will swing and I'll be bored by psychological horror again. But right now I find myself unmoved by Kristen's demon-ghost arm.

Which leads me to another thing: is Alice Hudson a ghost, a demon, or what? I mean, obviously it ends up with her just being a hallucination, but for most of the movie -- when we think she's a supernatural creature -- we're not sure what she is. She seems to be a ghost, but then Kristen is able to injure her with the axe. I kind of like that, though, that she doesn't fit into a clearly identifiable taxonomy of baddie.

I also have to say I like the way each personality was killed off. The death of each girl was actually a sign Alice was getting cured. What we non-crazies would see as an unequivocally positive event was represented as a horrible trauma on screen (it clearly hurt Alice to give up her safety personalities). This is indeed a twisted way to look at becoming healthy, as well as a fresh approach to the possible meanings of murder.

Although The Ward is not unflawed, it certainly takes its place alongside Shutter Island and Bedlam (1946) as an interesting foray into the dark side of the cure.

Insidious (2011)

Insidious is a tautly-crafted, old-school, genuinely terrifying movie.

Some of the crappier reviews of Insidious throw around the word "cliche" but don't you believe it. Don't believe the inept and condescending critics who say things like "you'll like it if you've never seen a horror movie before." Genre is wasted on these dorks, who prissily sit there and tick off the things they recognize from other movies. Yes, the film references other movies in a fan-boy kind of way. Deal with it.

As for those who complain the scares are lame, well -- ! The much-derided baby-monitor scene spooked the hell out of me. I don't know, I guess I find simple things like demon voices on baby monitors frightening. I'm a simple woman, I guess. But the scene I really, really, REALLY loved more than anything else in the movie was the one in which the weird midget guy starts playing "Tiptoe through the Tulips" on the record player while Renai (Rose Byrne) is outside putting out the garbage. I love the way it's shot, with her hearing the record before glimpsing him through the window. I love the use of sound in both these scenes. (One critic said the film relied too much on sound. Say what?) And what about the scary old lady in the photos, getting closer in each picture? How on earth can anyone not find these concepts, these images, scary as hell? And don't say it's because you've seen a lot of scary movies before. If a 19th century newsie ghost started fucking around with your record player, you wouldn't act so cool.

Things do break down a little in the third act, I will concede that. I can see the necessity of the father fighting for his son, I liked the romp through the haunted house, I even liked the twist. (Again, as with the whole genre-versus-cliché argument, there's something satisfying about a twist that you see coming.) And oh how I loved all the ghosts crowding into the house. I don't know that I would have given up that pleasure, even though I sort of wish the story had diverged after the seance scene. (How I would have done it? Let the demon posses the boy, kill the boy. Maybe I would not have gotten a PG rating.) The break-down, as I see it, only stems from the necessity of tying up the story. In other words, there's less of that amorphous creepiness I so enjoy, and more plot strands dutifully tied up. It doesn't feel like a climax so much as a chore duly executed.

Luckily for me, the rest of the film more than makes up for the imperfect third act. The true genre pleasures are all present and to those who decry them as clichés, I have to ask them: "How would you have done it? What totally original spin on the concept of haunting would you have come up with?" Or, more theoretically, "Does it make you happier to deny yourself the pleasures of genre than to immerse yourself in them?" Likely I would be greeted with silence. But not an ominous silence because, you know, that's totally been done before.

Frissons

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In the past couple of weeks I've been treated to some shivery movies (just now getting their long overdue post-Halloween roundup) one 1934 musical that the other Big October Event put me in a mind to watch (that's the 79th anniversary of the crash, y'all), and a Jimmy Cagney gem at the MoMA.

Interestingly enough, two of the shivery films -- Dead Ringers and Let The Right One In -- made me surprisingly sentimental.

I know Dead Ringers is supposed to be creepy as hell, and admittedly the wonderful credit sequence gave me a frisson, but ultimately I found it to be essentially a tragic tale of two men with one soul. Witty, yes, macabre, yes -- and hell, yes, Jeremy's indeed iron* -- but more than anything just profoundly sad. Maybe gynecological stuff doesn't really creep me out cause I've got all the bits, but whatever the case, I wasn't bothered by it. The imagery was amazing and those freaky instruments were great, and yes it was quite mad. Oh, Chang and Eng, Chang and Eng! And the final shot, a sort of fraternal pieta -- so sad! Well, anyway, I was genuinely touched.

So obviously I'm crazy because Dead Ringers made me sentimental, but Let The Right One In is actually meant to make you weepish, so cue appropriate emotional reaction right there. (Phew!) And while the film had some sweet-ish moments (oh god, I've just made a terrible pun) I don't think it will stay with me, honestly. Visually I didn't find it gave good snow, or anything else for that matter, and the story was just meh. A standard coming of age tale doesn't becomg magic simply by adding a few vampires, though I did like certain little touches, like the Morse code, the Rubick's cube, and when the little vampiress scampers up the wall, Dracula style. Not a masterpiece, and certainly don't go out of your way to see it unless you're a Twilight fan, but it's a sweet film nonetheless. Plus it manages to fit genuine horror-movie moments into its diegesis quite neatly without ever breaking the fragility of the young boy's story. Oh, and I did have one crazy moment -- when you see a shot of the vampette's pudenda, I swear I thought her girly bits were sewn shut. That's hoenstly what I saw -- no one else saw it so I can only conclude it was a hallucination. Interesting.

The last film in my personal fright-fest was José Mojica Marins's At Midnight I'll Take Your Soul. I was prepared to hate it after Mister Spinster referred to it as a "hipster horror movie" but I actually thought it was a pretty good straight-ahead ghost story. No more, no less.

* Here's a Simpsons reference!