Snow White & Russian Red - Film Review

Based on the bestselling novel White and Red by Dorota Maslowska, Xawerego Zulawski's fearless outing here is an often confusing, occasionally funny and always surreal ball of furious, ironic energy wrapped in social commentary.

Shaven headed Silny (Borys Szyc) is a deadbeat slacker, unemployed and living out of his mother's empty house and always on the chase for girls and lines of speed with which to embelish his pseudo-political rants. After his equally messed up girlfriend Magda (Roma Gasiorowska) breaks up with him, Silny openly broods and mopes about his situation, aimlessly wandering into a bizzare, reality breaking series of events, all the while with the backdrop of a strange anti-Russian festival and buildings painted with the colours of the Polish flag.

Like Maslowska's novel, Snow White and Russian Red takes some pretty unorthodox steps to reach it's goal, but unlike the source material that point is almost missed completely. Buried deep in the film's near dreamlike state of over the top set pieces and exaggerated actions is a rueful contemplation on Polish culture post-Warsaw Pact, with a generation of younger souls left fretting and wandering without a cause to fight, choosing to indulge their addictive personalities and talk to death about the wrongs of the past. However, in a shorter time frame and sharing space with more conventional story arcs, it is brought up, forgotten, brought back, ignored and then tossed out in the end as a form of metaphor. One of the glaring problems with Zulawski's film, particularly notable for those unfamiliar with the book, is that it seems to lack a point.

Whether this dooms the film to a post mortem assessment, or merely changes the way it can be enjoyed, is entirely up the viewer. Its politics aside, Snow White and Russian Red is still a fairly entertaining and oddball film, and can be seen as a statement on a soulless enivornment as perceived by those without a commitment or a fight to take on. However, this interpretation does fail to address certain amounts of symbolism and sledgehammer subtlety present in the foreground.

Themes aside, Zulawski has a visual flair that really comes to the fore in the film, delivering some memorable sequences and never shooting a shot that isn't interesting in its own right. Cartoony silliness, such as characters being thrown through the air in slapstick or blatantly impossible physical stunts like a goth girl vomiting rocks, are liberally scattered across the film, along with a crazed, drug fuelled filming style that goes some way to being method in approach.

And the story is bizzare but not uncontrolled, as we constantly dodge around continuity and linear time by rocking backwards and forwards, with some scenes scratched by admission of being false moments later. The author Maslowska appears, playing herself as a young woman writing the story that the disenchanted and baffled Silny is trapped in, manipulating events and even confronting him with the fact in one mind bending, ambiguous scene. That Silny reacts by verbally attacking her is perfectly in keeping with the tone.

Carrying the film on his not inconsequential shoulders, Borys Szyc never fails to deliver appropriate energy, but doesn't quite match up to the image of Silny (or Nails, as in English) readers will have conjured up, perhaps too old and too clown-like, though he does succeed in making Silny almost likeable, something the original, written character never achieved. He isn't helped by the writing, however, with Zulawski only making him a political ranter when it's convenient. Roma Gasiorowska shines, while Maria Strzelecka (as Angela) and Sonia Bohosiewicz (as Natasza) underact and overact respictively, in parts that are little more than extended cameos. Maslowska, fourth wall breaking, clearly isn't an actress.

While Snow White & Russian Red strays from the path of it's origins and loses much of it's subtext and indictment as a result, it does perhaps take White & Red and make it a more enjoyable, more fun slice of weird and endearing entertainment, a reality bending exercise in unconventional storytelling, bringing some interest to a plot that, at its bones, is hardly worth telling. Flawed for sure, and oft incoherent, it none the less is daft enough to work, stupid enough to be smart in a contradictory manner. When all is said and done, a watchable, chaotic film.


6/10

The Woman Who Dreamed of a Man - Film Review

Kvinden Der Dromte Om En Mand, aka The Woman Who Dreamed of a Man, is the salacious and risque latest offering from Danish director Per Fly, social drama meets erotic adventure in a cross-European journey of obssession and fantasy.

The story follows Karen (Sonja Richter), a Danish fashion photographer working in Paris, who in a hotel restaraunt happens upon a man who she recognises from a recurring dream. After being caught following him, she finds that he is Maciek (Marcin Dorocinski), a teacher at a local Polish school. Though both are married (she to Michael Nyqvist's Johan) with children, they embark on a sex based affair while sharing the same living space, a part time romance.

Things fall apart when Karen becomes more and more infatuated with Maciek, to the point she begins hurting her work and risking her family, and as she presses further and futher into his life, he finds himself having to fight back against her intrusions, as their lives are threatened by imminent collapse.

Though Fly is better known for more kitchen sink based realism of the Mike Leigh vareity, The Woman Who Dreamed of a Man leans far more towards proto-fantasist self destructiveness, with a long winded and generally unlikely story lacking in content that sets its course and symbolic venture and manages to fall half way, winding up as a winding and quiet drama without the visuals to make it anything more than ponderous. This, perhaps, is my way of saying that it's very dull in a manner a little more kind. Though only an hour and a half in length, it feels much longer for the wrong reasons.

For much of the film, it is unclear what exactly Fly is going for. Though the initial dalliance between Karen and Maciek would appear to be the "adventure to escape mundane reality" scenario, it never really convinces as such. Though Richter and Dorocinski are capable actors, they are given little of substance to work with, and a visible lack of chemistry makes their escapades feel flat and pointless. It is unclear in particular what Karen's motivations are, since for all intensive appearances her homelife is settled and comfortable, with Johan a patient and amiable figure highly supportive of his wife's career while caring alone for their young daughter. If there is supposed to be some unhappiness on Karen's side, it is never shown or discussed, not even hinted towards. In fact, he lack of care towards her child is one various reasons why she can never hope to gain any sympathy.

Similarly, Maciek is far from likeable, though at the same time certainly not the film's villain. In fact, at times he seems to be burdened by the relationship he has undertaken, and later when Karen's actions become more unhinged he is left to pensively walk through a mine field to keep things on the down low. The fact he shows no emotion until the final stages contributes to the image that he is a drip.

There is barely anything else at all to add to this, other than the bewildering 'dream' aspect which explains the couple meeting and takes its place in the film's title. No explanation is ever given for the significance of this other than conveniance, and certaintly the awkward attempt to bookend the conclusion with a role reversal is frankly lazy and in keeping with the idea that it was only ever an excuse in the first place.

It says much for a film as unfocussed and unclear as this one that, in the climax, the leading lady is left to wander aimlessly and hopelessly in a foreign land, alone and vulnerable, all while delivering absolutely no impact as far as the audience is concerned. If we are supposed to feel for Karen at this point, it is a failing because she never garners such empathy or understanding. Instead, we are left to marvel at her irrationality and naiveity, traits which don't come across as tragic so much as stupid and irritating.

While The Woman Who Dreamed of a Man may have been an attempt at psychologically refined character study by way of sexual games and Last Tango in Paris style pseudo-romance, it falls desperately flat and instead becomes a meaningless story about two unlikeable people with no connection who have an affair for no clear reason then go feral because the script says so. Not so much loathsome cinema as distinctly forgetable and disposable.

4/10

Tyrannosaur - Film Review

Having cautiously tested the waters of directing with his impressive short film Dog Altogether, actor turned auteur Paddy Considine here adapts the brief but memorable slice into an even more distinctive, rivetting and haunting full film.

Bringing back Peter Mullan and Olivia Colman to reprise their roles, Considine expands on the story of self destructive rage and loneliness, tapping into a very dark, very despairing but ultimately authentic glimpse at those lost in the mire of their lives.

Mullan is Joseph, an angry and alcoholic widower who lives alone and picks up benefit cheques, his only companionship represented by his loyal dog Bluey and his friends, the bed ridden, dying James (Robin Butler), and the dispirate, manky Irishman Tommy (Ned Dennehy). After one of his borderline psychotic episodes, Joseph kicks Bluey to death, an uncontrolled attack that depresses him further. After a further moment of madness, where he sets upon a group of young men in a pub, he runs off and hides in a clothes shop owned and run by a kind and patient, God fearing woman named Hannah (Colman), who houses him and even prays for him.

With his existence otherwise aimless, Joseph begins visiting Hannah for company, despite his reservations about her good nature. However, while he begins to see her as respresenting a form of good in the world, her life is just as miserable. Her husband James (Eddie Marsan) abuses her, culminating in beatings and worse, feeding off and exploiting her patience and inability to defend herself, and soon it is she who is seeking comfort from Joseph, far from a stable pillar to lean upon, as she tries to find escape and he tries to control and quell the anger that is destroying him, just when he seemingly needs it the most.

Given that Tyrannosaur represents Considine's first foray into directing (though he is no stranger to scipting, having written Dead Man's Shoes), it makes sense to start by taking a look at his chops behind the camera. And, by God, he has some and a half. A masterful actor, Considine displays just how much he was paying attention during filming by delivering one of the most impressive and confident debut efforts in recent memory. Aside from the poignant, powerful and convincing screenplay, what Considine brings to Tyrannosaur is an astute focus on small details, significant and almost subconscious touches, as well as excellent pacing and some superb filmmaking choices. Such care is put into every scene, of establishing facts before revelation through subtle reaction shots, use of sound and framing of shots.

And of course, his work brings out the best in some truly gifted actors, with the two leads dominating proceedings. Already an undoubtedly brilliant actor, particularly in roles suited towards aggression and unpredictability, Peter Mullan is sizzling on screen here, a menacing ball of fury who evokes fear in the audience, but also summons a puzzling, paradoxical sympathy from the same viewer. As convincing and downright terrifying each psychological break is, more troubling and emotive is the comedown afterwards, the sight of his face slowly dropping as he realises what he has just done. Any kind of positive energy stems from the actor, and each and every drop of regret and heartbreak from his aggression is a construct of the finesses, careful performance.

While Mullan is wonderful, the real revelation of the film is Olivia Colman, an actress previously known primarily for comedic roles. As the good natured but emotionally crumbling Hannah, she is simply unforgetable, provoking protective instincts in any right minded soul who watches her suffering, and longs for her victory, to get away from the horror of her home and the soul destroying work by her worse half. One pivotal scene in particular, the climax of her story, is earth shattering in it's primal, desperate and horrifically tempered honesty.

While the story may sound like a perfect remedy for undue optimism, there is an inexplicable sense of hope within it, with the focus more on how we can find a degree of happiness in the most unlikely of places, and how things can work out for the better in a manner far from obvious at first glance. A subplot about the film, involving Joseph's semi-friendship with neighbourhood kid Samuel (Sam Bottomley) and the reign of terror of Sam's mother's boyfriend's vicious attack dog has a full arc, with a disturbing and stark conclusion that, for all it's questionable ethics, has a satisfaction about it. Though at times we yearn to see Joseph turn the full force of his rage against certain people, at the same time we hope he doesn't because of the self-destructive force such action would have on him. All his instincts are stemmed and tempered by his friendship with Hannah, and we want to see him become a better person through her.

Like most efforts of this kind, there is a hint of semi-autobiography about Tyrannosaur, and the soulfulness of Considine's work is clear to see. But for all the clear endeavour and heart he pours into every frame of film, there is a technical mastery and genius understanding of the process that is sure to put him in very good stead for the future. Since he has stated his desire to go the long haul behind the camera, and begin packing in the acting altogether, this opinion will be sternly tested and, in my opinion, validated. If his first effort is anything to go by, we have potential beyond measure on our hands.

Brought to the screen in gritty but beautiful manner, realistic yet optimistic at the same time, Tyrannosaur is a world class effort and a triumph for a first time director, an established screen master and a novice dramatic actress who has similarly found a new, hugely impressive talent. For all the murky depression and despair, it is a moving and inspiring film, one that will linger on the mind for a long time, and not unwelcome at that.

However, be warned, there are no dinosaurs to be seen.


9/10

The Skin I Live In - Film Review

Bold, daring, brave and maverick, there's very little that reknowned Director Pedro Almodovar is afraid to touch, and as things go there's very little his fingers brush that doesn't turn to gold. Case in point, The Skin I Live In, very loosely based on Thierry Jonquet's novelella 'Tarantula'.

Plaudited as one of the films of last year, and winner of the Best Foreign Language Film Bafta, Almodovar's tale of revenge, conflicted souls, surreal normality and instability is quiet possibly one of the most shocking and powerfully thought provoking of the new decade.

Robert Ledgard (Antonio Banderas) is a highly successful, hugely rich plastic surgeon inhabiting a rolling estate outside of Toledo, one part his home and one part the clinic where he conducts his experiments into transgenesis (manipulating human tissue). Also sharing the house are a team of servants, led by old family friend and confidante Marilia (Marisa Paredes), who tend to the needs of the other inhabitant, a mysterious and beautiful young woman, Vera (Elena Anaya), who lives a strange life as a semi-prisoner, part captive and part treasured guinea pig of Robert.

A pall of ugly secrets and unspoken truths surround the house, and around Robert himself, especially after his most recent, ethically suspect ventures are shot down by his superiors. A widower, Robert's feelings towards Vera become complicated after his work on her is complete, at which point she is supposedly 'perfect'. It seems she cannot be allowed to leave, and faces life in a state of limbo in her master's possession.

This entanglement of emotion is thrown into chaos upon the arrival of Marilia's long lost son, Zeca 'The Tiger' (Robert Alamo), who forces his way into the home demanding treatment from the doctor, and becomes instantly enraptured by Vera, who he is convinced is somebody else...somebody that everybody concerned knows except Vera herself. After things come to a violent climax, Vera finds solace in Robert's arms, and as they share a bed, they think back to the chain of events which led them to that point, and the astonishing, devastating truth is revealed about just who the pristine girl truly is, and was.

It's best to note as early as possible that, although it's not a gimmicky twists and turns film, and certainly isn't presented as such, the plot revelation, which is a total game changer (and head spinner) that occurs over halfway through is what The Skin I Live In is fated to be best known for, and the implications of the shock moment are such that it's very difficult to fuly describe the film without revealing it, intentionally or otherwise. But, rest assured, the story this twist is tied into thrives because of it, rather than it being a boost of attention.

The plot itself, which deviates heavily from Joquet's source material but retains its basic traits, is a slow winding and human story, a dual character study for Robert and Vera, both of whom are fleshed out heavily but with subtlety. There is little judgement from Almodovar, despite the moral complexities and philosophical rigmarole, who like Mallick in Badlands instead chooses to employ a detached, objective focus on the two people at the centre of a windy, dreamlike tale.

We are introduced to both through Vera's dysfunctional existence, cut off from all but Robert in an isolated wing of the house, receiving food and clothes through a dumb waiter, while the questionable surgeon is giving talks about the power of reconstructive surgery. Her suicide attempts are not seen as out of the ordinary, and nor is her strangely loyal behaviour and utter dependance, the lack of resistance or fighting back. We learn small amounts through these dribs and drabs, though never quite as much as we'd like.

It's not until the flashbacks occur that we begin to understand the background of the pair, grasping the substance of their relationship and the origins, that clarity begins to make sense. It's here that the is a shocking, shuddering halt, a mind boggling event passed off as matter of factly as all that has preceded it, which completely changes the complexion of the film, drastically alters our perceptions and opinions, and adds nightmare fuel to the final stages when resolution comes a'knockin.

The way in which this is handled by Almodovar is extraordinary, with such natural storytelling poise that is lacking in modern day Directors. What would be pushed as the M.Night moment, or the Crying Game moment, by some is just treated as par to the course for the veteran with a sense of logical bluntness, as if he is saying to the viewer "What? You didn't know this already?".
Similarly, the scripting leading up to this event is so well paced and set that the whole transition is seamless, pressuring the audience to confront their own morality.

As the centre pieces, Banderas and Anaya are extraordinary, emoting such wide ranging thoughts and feelings, wildly differentiating states of mind with mastery, painting pictures of human beings that are physically sound but are fractured souls. It doesn't take long to establish that Banderas is something of an anti-villain, yet he is no preening megalomaniacal scalpel wielding monster, everything he does seems to make sense, simply because he is so assured and convinced. His true motives are buried deep, and the tears in his mind and heart are well concealed. He seems in total control, even when his actions suggest he is insane. Meanwhile Anaya, an actress sure to be talent spotted for big, big things in the near future, inbues deep, uncertain vulnerabilty, seemingly submissive but harbouring both doubts and agendas, holding back questions and hiding notions.

There's further support from Marisa Paredes as Marila, a character who's significance is unclear at first, but bears heavy burdens of her own, and certainly is part of the swirling, sinister emotion and ideals. Robert Alamo is highly effective and menacing in his brief but memorable and important role, while there is also excellent story building work from Blanca Suarez and Jan Cornet in the flashbacks. Alberto Iglesias's soundtrack veers from soothing and melacholy to dark and brooding at perfectly placed moments, in tandem with the story, while the cinematography is flawless, beautiful in places. There isn't a technical flaw to be found within the piece.

Ultimately, The Skin I Live In is one of those rare films that raise many questions that don't concern the plot. The unthinkable subtext the film brings up forces the audience to look within themselves further, as well as stunning them to the core. A perfectly plotted and placed psychological character study of two messed up people with one hell of a dark, sordid past, The Skin I Live In serves as a thoughtful, benign yet chilling and haunting horror film without the scares. Thundering in impact, yet quiet and musing in execution. And featuring one of the most loaded final scenes ever. Truly questionable, intoxicating, unmissable viewing.


9/10

Rant - [REC], Unseen Cameramen and the Fall of Horror Films

RANT TIME!

Huge balls. Yes, that is the preface for this article, but not in the literal terms you may well have imagined. Not genuine big balls. An expression of frustration and a indicment of something generally shit.

It's been a while since I've gone into rant mode, something which should really be a regular occurence considering the way this blog is titled. And, since I'm pretty much permanently logged into 'film-mode', it would make sense to make a start there. My medication has been thrown at the wall from Yonkers, the blocks have been removed, time to spit-wax lyircum.

The subject of my ire this time has been brought up by my weekly movie night being ruined by a hugely disappointing, infuriating 'critically acclaimed' slice of timewasting, teasing mediocrity and crowd pandering money making. Namely the Spanish horror film '[REC]', yet another 'found footage' type thrill ride, this time with a difference.
The 'difference' is that there isn't a difference, and frankly it's as thrilling as a prostate exam sans rubber glove and lube.

And It Sucks Because...?

In order to make the point a little clearer, and also help alleviate my condition (supposedly a civilian version of PTSD), I shall briefly review said film just now.

The 2007 film by Jaume Balaguero and Paco Plaza is the story of a bunch of people stuck in a building with zombies and stuff. Except fast zombies. And some kind of disease and quarantine and all that. This TV reporter (a young woman who strips down to her undervest at the earliest opportunity, you know....because of sex) and her cameraman are making a documentary about firefighters in the unnamed Spanish city, and tag along when two of the guys are sent to an apartment building because an old woman is screaming. Here, they find all of the building's inhabitants hanging around in the lobby because....um...because an old woman is screaming. Oh, and she's weird and lives with her cats. As if that matters (or is fresh or something...clear red herring territory...you can almost smell the salmonella).

Anyway, despite pissing off everyone and generally getting away, the reporter and the cameraman are allowed to go upstairs as they break into the flat and find the old woman covered in blood and gibbering inanely. As soon as one of the present cops turns round (a veteran police officer leaving himself exposed to a potentially dangerous and unstable member of the public ALREADY covered in somebody else's blood), crazy old hag lunges in and cranks up the gore factor to parody levels to bite out his throat. Everyone panics, shouting and all that jazz. Then they rush near dead officer downstairs, leaving the second police officer to arrest the woman, handcuff her and bring her down....

Oh wait, no they don't. The other cop helps take dying guy away, leaving the youngest and most inexperienced fireman alone to guard the unrestrained woman who has just tried to kill an agent of the law. Hmm...guess what happens to him.
Then it turns out that the law has sealed up the building, citing that it's a quarantine against a potential contagion, trapping everyone inside. Pretty bad right? So the colourful characters who live in this nice looking building all start shouting and freaking out, the cop pulls his gun on everyone, and then the second fireman (who was left conspicously unarmed and unprepared to guard an attempted murderer on his lonesome, in an unsecured and unsearched darkened apartment) shows up by screaming and taking a plunge down the stairwell. Ok, credit where it's due, I almost shat myself when this happened.

Right, I'm veering dangerously close to simply describing the film's plot here, which will more or less waste word space, so I'll summarise the situation and then dissect the bullshit with the aid of appropriate SPOILER tags as surgical bay curtains. Alrighty?

So, everything is set up and established nicely. There's plenty of mystery, some in-film rules have been established, everything is boiling nicely (aside from the flaws in logic, but these things can be passed off...possibly). They can't leave the building, because they're stuck inside. They can't go back upstairs, because that's where the crazy is. You have two dying men who need to go to hospital, strange noises and real potential for creepiness and scares. So what goes wrong? I'll tell you.

[SPOILERS]

The film messes it up by basically following tropes and cliches present in every other similar film. It chooses frights over genuine horror, screams over tension, and monsters over fear. For every good step it takes, such as building up animosity and conflict between the characters, it takes a wrong one by going down the B-Movie route of trailer fodder thrills over plot based substance.

Where it could have been original, it rehashes. The monsters are basically the infected from 28 Days Later, following the same ground rules and breaking parameters. These 'undead' style victims are stronger than regular humans, as well as extremely aggressive. They only bite the necks of potential victims....for some reason. When they could easily rip into somebody's hand or leg, they instead try to go for the jugular. Like vampires. Hmm...yup, vampire-zombie-infected...s.

But it's not just in these stakes that it gets fucked. The main character, the reporter Angela, becomes an action girl from the moment stuff gets weird, yet has a bi-polar personality. One moment she's cynical and selfish, determined to get footage and to scream blue murder at the cop for being as equally screwed as the rest of them, the next she's overly compassionate and empathetic, the moral core. Of course, she's more proactive than anyone else. The cop, incidentally, goes from Blue Screen of Death moment to general wannabe leader and then into some rapidly changing amalgam of heroism and terrified out of his depth amateur. The fireman, Manu, equally flickers between cowardly to heroic. There's a preening, racist apartment dweller, and Asian family, a conveniently placed interm who is overqualified, a creepy little girl...yup.

And, oh wow, we never see the cameraman (What a wonderful plot device! Because this way, we are the cameraman. We're Pablo!...um, except not all of us are called Pablo, and most of us probably don't have his voice...). No, nothing gimmicky about that. This leads us to one of the film's biggest flaws.

[END SPOILERS]

Where similar fare, notably The Blair Witch Project, get it absolutely right is this: when the film is atmospheric and taut, you are so caught up in events and the action that you actively forget the format you're watching. Is it handheld? Are the characters filming? I was too distracted by the dementia causing tension to notice. Add to that an in-universe explanation (in BWP, Heather films because it makes it easier for her to distance herself from the terrifying situation).

But [REC], like the equally inferior Paranormal Activity, makes you painfully and acutely aware of the fact that some autistic asshole is still swinging the camera around, causing more harm than good. You wonder why he doesn't ditch the heavy, incumbersome piece of machinery so he can run away faster. Even when it is useful as a torch, it is not used in this manner.

Even when the camera itself can prove itself useful, this opportunity is ditched. In one scene, some of the characters need information they cannot remember, and are faced with having to put themselves in harm's way in order to obtain it. This is despite the fact that the number they need is in the footage, they can recover it by simply playing back the video. You could argue that they would be too scared to think of this...and I would agree if they hadn't done it earlier, at a no less traumatic moment. This inconsistency, setting up and foreshadowing but then forgetting, is simply lazy plotting, unfocussed writing.

But this is just a symptom of a bigger problem.

Bad Horror isn't Horrifying

The issue here is the loss of discipline in making horror films, supposedly scary movies that are meant to prove a visceral, shocking and terrifying experience for the viewer. Ridley Scott recently commented, as part of his promotion of Prometheus, that it is harder to scare people now. This isn't exactly true.

The problem is that it in tried and tested fashion, it has been found that selling cinema tickets is far easier when you focus on scares, on those moments that make people jump. However, the horrific mutated offspring of this fact is that modern day horror films are simply a series of these events stapled together with a half baked plot (and that's putting it mildly). Yes, it may frighten people, make their heart race, but it's unsatisying and has minimal repeat value. And of course, 'found footage' format is perfect for these tactics, because you can have monsters jumping out at the camera and other such cliches. Do they work? Yes. Are they predicatable? Absa-fucking-exactly.

This isn't true to the genre. Films such as Blair Witch, The Excorcist, Alien, The Shining and The Haunting (more on this later) are damn effective and memorable because of the tone and mood, the palpable sense of dread that they build up, so claustraphobic. Where does this stem from? It comes from discipline, from patience, and from good storytelling, good characterisation and excellent subtext. In each of these films, there's an underlying theme, something which drives the plot and makes for great anaylsis. Dross such as [REC] and Paranormal Activity lack any kind of depth, or intelligence, so have no substance, only style.

With this in mind, here are a list of rules for making excellent horror:

1. STORY: Come up with a great story first, from start to finish, make sure it all makes sense and works in it's own confines. The film must make sense, and just because it's horror doesn't mean it can ignore basic storytelling principles.
2. CHARACTERS: Introduce us to the people, get to known them, FORCE the audience to like them and understand them, to empathise and relate to them. When shit goes down, it's more scary if we care about what happens to them.
3. LESS IS MORE: Not showing the evil is oh so much better. Remember, the imagination of the audience is infinitely more effective than whatever CGI or make up designs you can come up with. An apocalyptic log entry is creepier than a special effect zombie, and goes much further in terms of tension. The aftermath is scarier than spoonfeeding.
4. PURPOSE: No matter how messed up the film, it must have purpose, and follow its own strand of logic. If a nympho vampire wolf hybrid jumps out of a cupboard, there has to be a reason. Why was he in the cupboard? Why is he attacking? How did he become this way?
5. STORY!!!: I can't stress this enough. You must have the outline, the blueprint first, not the scares. Act One, Act Two, Act Three, Act Four, Act Five. They must ALL be there, corresponding perfectly.

A great example of the significance of these cornerstones is, how such a horror film ends. Again going back to a Mr Moneybags scenario, more recent fare are more interested in a twist ending, or a Hollywood killer shot. This is when the final image is supposed to be a shocker, something which sends you out on a freaky, terrifying note. Basically a scary equivalent of a cumshot.

But these usually fail because they ignore everything that came before (no pun intended). So, in Paranormal Activity, the girl lunges at the stationary unmanned camera with her bloodied teeth. Why? Why does she do that? Does she intend to eat it? Somehow I doubt a demon possessing a young woman would have the foresight to leave a 'fuck you' for whoever had to watch the footage back to find out what the hell happened. On a different note, [REC] ceases the main character being dragged into the darkness, out of sight. Why? Um...because it's...chilling? Not really, it's no worse than anything we've already seen. It doesn't add to what we've found out.

And before the 'final shot', both films pile on half arsed exposition in an attempt to provide an explanation. In Paranormal Activity, the guy (annoying, inappropriate cameraman) randomly finds information on an identical demonic haunting which ended up killing some woman. How is this useful? It doesn't provide any explanation as to why this is happening, why it is happening to them, or what the source of this demon thing is.

In [REC], it's the revelation that the uninhabited penthouse is actually some crazy shit lab for finding a cure for a supposedly possessed girl, that went awry. But there isn't enough facts to suggest how the chain of events came about. So the infection started with the girl? How did she give it to the dog?

The door was locked shut, nobody else has been in the apartment for ages. How did the dog come into contact with the possessed girl?

Because....Just Because

Answer: No answer.

Alternate Answer: Laziness (see right).

Simple. Why bother going to all that effort to make sure it makes sense? Because, who cares after all? The people that line up to shit their pants "aren't there to think about it, they want to be scared". But what if it's not scary? "Well, the box office says it is..."

Hence the problem, and once again we're back on to the subject of human stupidity, of general ignorance and borderline attention-defecit disorder. It's so easy to be provided these days, because of the internet and because of technology. Everything's so simple and easy, and people don't care about going the whole haul. Why spend two hours getting ingrossed in an evil story when you can just have fright and fright for an hour and a half? Building up a strong plot and good character development, working up tension and atmosphere, is boring.

Compare the original 1963 The Haunting, with Claire Bloom, to the 1999 remake. The first is subtle and tense, unebearably taut, and underplayed to the max. We barely see a thing, and get wrapped in the dread and the atmosphere, to the point a vase being knocked over is the most terrifying thing that could possibly happen.

The second is worse than runny dog shit, an utter disservice to the classic original and a disgrace it of itself. It can best be summed up with one sentence: "Owen Wilson gets his head bitten off by a fireplace".

So what does this mean? Has there just been a massive slide in quality over the course of the years since Robert Wise's master class? Well, CGI got better, which hurts the genre since it's inability to show convincing visuals forced it to be subversive for so long. They couldn't show a convincing ghost before, and now they can. Imagine how much Jaws would lose if we saw the shark more often.

But the cause is ultimately the masses, and everything feeds from that. It's much easier to make a rollercoaster ride movie than a film, and more profitable to be stupid and predictable than original and thoughtful. Overkill and gorn (gore porn) is easier to sell than tension, violence is more popular when it loses its impact and is just thrown into the mix for the sake of making an adolscent scream. Time would be wasted writing a good story, because these people don't care about the story. They care about somebody jumping out from behind a door, or something throwing itself at an underwritten character.

And THAT, ladies and gentlemen, is the why. For worse or for worse, the horror genre is going down the shitter faster than my latest Chicken Korma. And that makes me sad.

And mad, and angry, and furious, and murderous...

RANT OVER