Census Bloodbath: Toronto Is Burning

Year: 1987
Director: Robert Bouvier
Cast: David Adamson, Lee Ann Nestegard, Edward Chester
Run Time: 1 hour 25 minutes
MPAA Rating: R

In my non-blogging time, I’ve been doing a bit of a unit on LGBT horror films, for my own personal edification. But as you may have noticed with my Cruising review, sometimes this marathon collides with Census Bloodbath in a delightful and surprising way. This entry was particularly unexpected: on a birthday trip to Amoeba Records in Los Angeles I picked up a copy of the hard-to-find City in Panic because I knew I’d never see it anywhere else. It wasn’t until I read the back cover that I discovered just how thematically appropriate the movie was.

You see, the film’s original title was The AIDS Murders. It’s not something that inspires much confidence in the subject matter, but it’s the first contemporary horror movie I’ve seen that directly and explicitly referenced the AIDS epidemic of the early 80’s that claimed the lives of many members of the gay community. It certainly wasn’t a sensitive document, but it was a document nonetheless, so I was eager to see what it had to offer.

Being a forgotten 80’s slasher, the answer was – as usual – not much.

City in Panic takes on a format we’ve seen in many a slasher before and since. Just like the protagonists in Don’t Answer the Phone, The Texas Chainsaw Massacre 2, and Psycho IV, Dave Miller (David Adamson) is a radio host. His controversial talk show, Speak Up, has mostly been used to criticize alarmist journalist Alex Ramsey (Peter Roberts), as he details the exploits of a serial killer who has been terrorizing the city and putting it in the aforementioned panic.

While Dave and his guests endlessly discuss the killer’s motivation and society’s role in fostering it, gay men around the city are being stabbed to death. The murderer, known only as M (named after the Fritz Lang film from which they draw inspiration, an unusually deep cut for a sleazy slasher) seems to be targeting people suffering from AIDS. While these killings go on, we also follow Dave through his depressing bachelor life. Of the three or four interchangeable blonde women he interacts with, the one we spend the most time on is Liz (Lee Ann Nestegard), an ex who is now Alex Ramsey’s assistant.

Will that cause friction between them? And does anybody care?

The foremost takeaway from City in Panic is that they have no clue how AIDS worked or how to properly represent it. To be fair, I’m not certain if the difference between HIV and AIDS was widely known in 1986, but City in Panic certainly is not aware of the distinction, characterizing the disease as a sort of cough that makes you a little pale. The only remarkable thing about this representation is that it acknowledges that women can suffer from AIDS as well, and other than a cop who flies off the handle in literally every second of every scene he’s in, the characters aren’t particularly homophobic. So that’s a start.

Unfortunately, in spite of its Canadian pedigree, City in Panic doesn’t boast much that separates it from the pack of low-rent, mid-80’s cheapies. And what little there is quickly falls away after the first couple of scenes. The first murder is literally a shot-for-shot recreation of the Psycho shower scene only with a male victim, which is a pretty brass-balled way to open a film, and the killer is reasonably giallo-esque, cutting a sleek silhouette with a face-obscuring black hat and matching cloak. But the more plot-oriented the film gets, the further it falls into the gutter.

It’s not like the semi-stylish murder sequences are the work of a master (they’re ineptly cut, keeping the gore offscreen so demurely that the geography is completely inscrutable), but I’d much rather rewatch the scene where a man is slashed to death while doing upside-down situps on a pull-up bar than slog through a single one of the film’s copious, dire dialogue scenes. For one thing, the sound designer is trying this fun experiment to see how long a viewer can physically keep paying attention while every line of dialogue is drowned out by keening music, background sirens, or even just some particularly robust white noise. For another thing, the script is incredibly repetitive and tedious to begin with.

I really feel like I should earn some sort of medal when I complete this project.

Occasionally, the ineptitude of the cinematography accidentally stumbles across something strange and exciting, like the way the camera will suddenly take on a character’s POV, bursting into motion with an impressively fluid dexterity. But mostly we end up with eyesores like the impressively ugly extended close-up of Dave’s mouth during a recording or the reeeeeally slooooooow sex scene that moves practically one frame at a time like a slide show.

Considering the sociopolitical context City in Panic is taking the time to explore, its poor construction wouldn’t necessarily be a dealbreaker. Unfortunately, it just seems to be an inept cash-in on a tremendously important social issue. It’s not deeply offensive like it easily could have been, but it’s still a misinformed waste of time. The occasional bursts of creativity (or at least absurdly brave plagiarism) are beaten down by every other element, which work in tandem to make City in Panic a deeply disappointing experience, even if it’s not quite as execrable as some of the worst entries in the genre.

Killer: M [Liz (Lee Ann Nestegard)]
Final Girl: Dave Miller (David Adamson)
Best Kill: A security guard gets stabbed in the dick through a  glory hole.
Sign of the Times: At one point, Dave plays with one of those remote control 80’s robots that I wasn’t certain actually existed.
Scariest Moment: The killer envisions Dave as an AIDS-riddled monstrosity clutching a skeletal baby.
Weirdest Moment: A hamfisted attempt at comic relief sees Dave’s producer write “M” on a piece of paper, but wackily hold it upside-down so it says “W.”
Champion Dialogue: “Haven’t I got enough problems with alimony, the cops, and now you?”
Body Count: 6; not including two victims killed offscreen and mentioned in a news report.

1. Random Guy is stabbed to death.
2. He-Man is stabbed to death.
3. Thomas is stabbed to death upside-down.
4. Security Guard is stabbed to death.
5. Alex Ramsey is stabbed to death offscreen.
6. Liz dies of AIDS.

TL;DR: City in Panic isn't as crude and offensive as the concept promises, but it's also not much of anything.
Rating: 3/10
Word Count: 1095

Popcorn Kernels: Queers For Fears

In which we catch up with two delightfully queer films I watched an embarrassingly long time ago.

To Wong Foo, Thanks For Everything! Julie Newmar

Year: 1995

Director: Beeban Kidron

Cast: Wesley Snipes, Patrick Swayze, John Leguizamo 

Run Time: 1 hour 49 minutes

MPAA Rating: PG-13

Three drag queens on a road trip break down in a small Southern town and befriend the local ladyfolk.

It is an absolute miracle that To Wong Foo, Thanks for Everything! Julie Newmar got made in the first place. Obviously it owes its existence to that other drag queen road comedy with an overwhelming title The Adventures of Priscilla, Queen of the Desert, but the fact that this movie got made in late 90’s America with this caliber of onscreen talent and that it didn't turn out to be an unholy mess is something that makes me ant to fall to my knees and weep in gratitude.

First and foremost, To Wong Foo doesn’t treat its drag queen protagonists with kid gloves. It takes the fact that they’re gay men who dress up like women for granted, and though it’s a bit of an indulgent fantasy in terms of how often they’re in drag during their daily lives, their personalities and conflicts aren’t defined by their proclivities: Patrick Swayze’s Vida is a bit too prim and controlling, but has a warm, gregarious nature as a shield against her cold upbringing. John Leguizamo’s standout character Chi-Chi just wants to be loved, but her fierce stubborn nature gets her in hot water. And Wesley Snipes’ Noxeema needs to learn to open her heart after sending so long closing it off from the world.

Its depiction of the inhabitants of a small Southern town as hopeless yokels who need to be save by urban sophisticates probably isn’t quite so tender and realistic, but really: who needed the representation more? And they’re treated with just enough respect and autonomy that it’s easy to ignore their more cartoonish nature. Regardless, To Wong Foo is a cartoonish comedy, dazzling audiences with gleeful, glitzy camp magic.

It’s uncompromising in its queerness, and that leads it down a road to letting comedy develop naturally from its characters. Is it the best comedy in the world? No, probably not. But a charming and character-driven rote comedy is nothing to thumb your nose at, especially when those characters are so far outside the usual sphere.

The best thing To Wong Foo has to offer is its cast, who justify every predictable beat in the plot and ground their tomfoolery in something real and true. That goes for the Southerners as well, though Leguizamo, Snipes, and Swayze are doing most of the heavy lifting. With or without its prematurely progressive values, To Wong Foo is a delightful romp, and I am supremely glad it got made.

Rating: 8/10

The Skin I Live In

Year: 2011

Director: Pedro Almodóvar

Cast: Antonio Banderas, Elena Anaya, Jan Cornet 

Run Time: 2 hours

MPAA Rating: R

A respected doctor who’s developing a new synthetic skin keeps a mysterious woman captive in his mansion.

Pedro Almodóvar’s filmography has been aggressively, transgressively queer from square one. Hell, his debut film Pepi, Luci, Bom features a housewife casually getting peed on by a punk rock teenager. He’s not afraid to bring radical ideas into his filmmaking, and The Skin I Live In is the first time he has brought his unique sense of melodrama to the horror realm, or at least as close as any of his amorphous films have ever gotten to inhabiting a single genre.

The Skin I Live In is basically a decades-later progression of his earlier film Tie Me Up! Tie Me Down!, in which Antonio Banderas also played a captor hopelessly in love with his victim. Where that film may have been even more transgressive by giving the characters a sweet ending, The Skin I Live In leans into the more terrifying aspects of the thing, doubling down on full-tilt body horror.

Although it’s tremendously effective at creating a sense of creeping unease, The Skin I Live In is probably Almodóvar’s least visually stimulating film to date. He still retains his effervescent attention to detail in his production design but the stark, sterile color palette mutes his personality a little too much. It’s a very cold film, which works for its storyline, but also makes it just a little less accessible. And accessibility has never really been the man’s strong suit.

It’s very European, frankly, which is has every right to be. But if you’re not ready to approach it with your brain turned on at full power, you’re probably not going to like it quite as much. However, that can hardly count as a criticism. The Skin I Live In will chill you to the bone if you let it, and I certainly have.

Rating: 7/10

Word Count: 810

Reviewing

Year: 2016

Director: Andrew Haigh

Cast: Jonathan Groff, Frankie J. Alvarez, Murray Bartlett

Run Time: 1 hour 30 minutes

I have a love-hate relationship with Looking, HBO’s gay slice-of-life dramedy series. While the low key atmosphere of the show has provided some of the network’s best material (season 1’s episode-long date focusing on just two cast members and season 2’s funeral are two masterpiece-level half hours), the ensemble is plagued by obnoxious characters (Agustín passed the torch to Patrick after season 1, but he’s still such a Samantha) and long stretches of aimlessness. And then I actually got paid to recap the second season on The Backlot, which tipped the scales a little more toward love.

Anyway, Looking conked its head on its low ratings and swiftly perished, but here’s the thing. HBO actually made good on its promise to conclude the series with a movie, which was greenlit in record time. This may or may not have something to do with the fact that the show’s executive producer who signed on to direct was indie darling Andrew Haigh, of the iconic gay film Weekend and last year’s Oscar-nominated 45 Years. At any rate, we got our movie.

I’ve seen it with my own two eyes, and I’m still not convinced that it really exists.

In Looking: The Movie, our lead character Patrick Murray (Jonathan Groff) returns to San Francisco after nine months. He left abruptly because he decided he needed some space to grow up a little (read: a lot) following a disastrous romantic entanglement with his taken boss Kevin (Russell Tovey) that threw a wrench into his blossoming relationship with the long-suffering Richie (Raúl Castillo), a perfect angel cursed to walk this blasted Earth. He’s in town for his friend Agustín’s wedding to Eddie (Daniel Franzese of f**king Mean Girls), which reunites him with friends Dom (Murray Bartlett), now running a successful chicken window, and Doris (Lauren Weedman), the sassy token straight lady, as well as… Richie and his alcoholic Social Justice Boyfriend, Brady (Chris Perfetti).

Cue lots of contemplative staring as Patrick navigates the weekend, having conversations about life, love, and how not to end up like your parents with a revolving door of old friends and new people he meets along the way. He claims to have learned a lot during his time away, and that he’s no longer such a self-centered neurotic.

But, who are we kidding, we know this is what’s going through his head any time somebody else talks about themselves.

Let’s get one thing out of the way real quick. This is hardly a movie. It’s a triple length season finale, and it does nothing to hide that fact. It would be impossible for a new viewer to zap this onto their screen from HBO Go and understand a single shred of what’s happening. It would be like starting Lost in the middle of that season where the island started time traveling for some reason. But is it a solid series finale? Of course it is.

Appropriately sending off this show that shied away from hyperbole at every turn, Looking: The Movie is neither the best of what the series had to offer nor the worst, though it skews firmly toward the “best” side. Typically plot-lite, it makes the most of its brief resurrection in terms of once again depicting the human experience in all its messy, sexy, disgusting glory. This could easily have been just another drab mumblecore movie about finding oneself and celebrating Doing My Own Thing in a vague, self-satisfied way. I mean, it IS about that, but it finds the human characters trapped in the amber of that particular subgenre.

Like Jack Nicholson in The Bucket List, Looking does a lot of things before it passes on, hitting the wall with every strand of philosophical spaghetti in the pot. It covers such a vast array of thoughts and feelings from a thirtysomething gay man that it’s almost dizzying, but from its immense specificity is born a universal truth. Every single person watching it, be they gay, straight, bi, old, young, drunk, whatever, will find something to latch onto in Looking. It’s a film that holds up a mirror to a black part of life that we’d rather not think about, but treats it with immense warmth and tenderness.

And all this is tucked inside a story with a protagonist so unstable, the film could literally at any moment smash cut to him having sex with whatever man, woman, plant, etc. he’s sharing the frame with at the time.

This movie would be nothing without its cast, though the side characters make much more impression than our main three friends. Patrick is still a bland cypher, Dom is given next to nothing to work with, and Agustín pulls something good out of his wedding jitters, but he’s stuck with the unenviable task of being the focal point for his friends’ hang-ups about relationships. The show has always had problems balancing its leads, and while they’re played well, this plot belongs to whiny ol’ Patrick as he greedily guzzles up the run time.

The true MVP here is, as always, the massively undervalued Lauren Weedman. Typically ignored because her character is only there to flavor a stew with too many carrots, Weedman once again effortlessly delivers an irresistible prickly charm that’s almost Bill Murray-ish while letting her stunted emotions and deep fear of happiness peep through the cracks. She’s marvelous, and while I wish she was given more chance to explore the range I know she’s capable of, she’s a satisfying, grounding presence here. Newcomer Tyne Daly (of Hello, My Name is Doris) is also superb, transforming a stock character (a city hall wedding officiant who bestows some Old Person Relationship Wisdom) into a three-dimensional, thoroughly relatable presence.

This deep understanding of what makes people tick courses through the film in even the smallest characters (save Brady, who contorts into a leering, one-note villain so we can root for Patrick, who proved in season 2 that he’s far from a worthy choice for Richie). This is perhaps best exemplified by Russell Tovey. He returns for only one scene, but it’s a doozy. The most unequivocal “bad person” in the series, here he throws everything out of whack with a subtly emotional performance that’s by far his best Looking work, bar none.

It’s telling that this part of the review is only discussing character, because that’s pretty much all Looking: The Movie has to offer as a piece of cinema. It’s still shackled to the small scale of television, even with a feature length run time. That’s not to say it’s not well put together. Quite the opposite. A scene in a club set to Perfume Genius’ melancholy ode to doomed romance “Hood” is one of the most indelible images Andrew Haigh has ever crafted. But Looking’s low budget and lower expectations hobble it a bit, preventing it from being more than just a very good TV farewell.

TL;DR: Looking: The Movie is a decent, satisfying finale for a show that had its share of problems.

Rating: 7/10

Word Count: 1187