jürgen fauth’s muckworld

I’ve said it before, I’ll say it again: the Alien is my favorite movie monster of all time, and I’ll go see the insectoid, double-jawed acid-for-blood chestbursting spawn of H.R. Giger in any incarnation — even this budget-bin junk, which wasn’t screened for critics and cost me $11 at the Queens midnight screening. I thought I was ready for anything, but you know you’re in trouble if you find yourself holding up the “original” AvP as any kind of standard.

AvP:R picks up at the exact moment the previous film ended: a “predalien,” product of gooey space miscegenation, causes a Predator UFO to crash in the Colorado woods, and a few exploding rib cages later, all of Gunnison is under Alien attack. What should have been a fanboy’s wet fantasy — Aliens on Main Street! — turns into a piss-poor attempt at the kind of 50s horror we’ve seen plundered, satirized, and bowdlerized a million times, from The Blob to Slither.

Instead of showing us the creatures battling it out in bright sunlight (which would have required a few fresh ideas), the entire movie takes place over the course of one rainy, moonless night, which means that you can’t see the monsters you came for. Instead, the “talent” behind this film (”the Brothers Strause”) cranked up the gore: victims usually considered taboo all become Alien fodder, including children, pregnant women (”I think my water just broke. Ahhhhhh!”), and the hot high school chick (Kristen Hager) who takes the pizza boy skinny dipping. The ostensible heroine — a poor man’s Ripley indeed — is a returning Iraq vet (Reiko Aylesworth) who brings her daughter — get this — a pair of infra red goggles as a homecoming present. Gee, I wonder if those will come in handy!

On a downward spiral ever since Fincher’s failed Alien 3, the series has now hit rock bottom. This is the Return of the Son of Dracula meets Jesse James vs. Frankenstein’s Daughter Unbound of Alien films, or whatever the classic equivalent would be. It’s been a long way down from the polished horror by Ridley Scott and James Cameron. Bad as it was, AvP was savvy enough to slyly quote from the original movies, but AvP:R doesn’t even bother with genre conventions like the pithy catchphrase. (The wittiest thing these people can think to say after killing an Alien is “Fuck you.”)

Too underlit to qualify as splatter, too bloodless to qualify as fun, too unaware of its own idiocy to be enjoyed Grindhouse-style, AvP:R is a real education in the finer stratifications of badness. A straight-out parody may be the only move left for the franchise, and then, perhaps, in another few years, the Gods governing the cycles of genre may just smile upon us again with another high-minded attempt at returning the monster to its former glories. Where there are sequels, there is hope.

Aliens vs. Predator: Requiem. Colin Strause and Greg Strause, 2007. *

• Rotten Tomatoes: 16%
• Official Site
• The trailer
• Alien vs. Predator

It’s one of the profound mysteries of the movie year 2007: why, exactly, did critics embrace Quentin Tarantino’s Death Proof the way they did while dismissing the far superior Robert Rodriguez half of Grindhouse out of hand? I could go on about this, but instead of expounding on the comparative joys of Planet Terror yet again, I’ve decided to join the Close-Up Blog-a-thon underway at The House Next Door and post a number of dramatic close-ups that perfectly illustrate just how much fun Rodriguez is having with the Grindhouse concept. The DVD of Planet Terror, severed from its insufferably pretentious twin, is available tomorrow.

Planet Terror. Robert Rodriguez, 2007. ****

The grandchildren of Mengele and Coca-Cola run amok in old Heidelberg. I used to think I was too squeamish for this German horror flick that promises “terror, violence, gore, sexuality and language” on the warning label, but after Taxidermia, I was ready for anything. Franka Potente plays a medical student who uncovers nefarious goings-on in the anatomy department. Corpses on metal slabs, deadly hypodermic needles, slashing scalpels, and real-life Visible Men abound, but Anatomy isn’t nearly as bloody as the title suggests, and a lot more entertaining than you’d expect from a German slasher movie.

Anatomie. Stefan Ruzowitzky, 2000. ***

It’s rare that a TV show ends before it has outstayed its welcome. Rome, which offered equal parts history, soap opera intrigue, gore, and soft porn, has run its course now, and the adventures of Vorenus and Pullo will be missed. The series covered the events of Joseph L. Mankiewicz’ Cleopatra — one half per season — and, with the ascent of Augustus, segues nicely into I, Claudius. The vibe of Rome, of course, was often more Caligula than Robert Graves. I’m sad it’s over. ****

Previously.

From Cleopatra, Liz Taylor’s arrival in Rome:

From Rome, Mark Antony’s arrival in Egypt:

From Caligula, Helen Mirren’s dance:

Shaun of the Dead meets Saw. Employees of an international weapons manufacturer are off to Eastern Europe for a “team building weekend.” When the bus is stopped by logs blocking the road, their jerk of a boss (Tim McInnerny) has everybody walk to the lodge where they’re supposed to play some paintball. The ass-kissing nerd (Andy Nyman) can’t wait to get there, Posh Guy (Toby Stephens) lets everybody know he thinks it’s a terrible idea, and the cute American chick (Laura Harris) is busy keeping the stoner who just ate a bag of ’shrooms (Danny Dyer) from chewing the bark off the trees and seeing strangers in the woods.

Of course, our drug-addled hero is right: there are strangers in the woods; you can tell by the subjective camera. Hiding in the underbrush are murderers driven mad by the wars that ravaged their country, Yugoslavian or Transylvanian ninjas toting machetes, flamethrowers, and other weaponry manufactured by — aha! — the corporate pansies about to be butchered.

Unlike Boon Joon-ho’s polished variations on genre, this hybrid doesn’t feel all that controlled. Severance is pleasantly shoddy, and the movie knocks about like a jerky haunted house ride with a few detours to the fun house. A mildly surreal dream sequence gives way to a gross-out joke about a disgusting pie, a swinging sixties “sex lodge” fantasia follows a black-and-white Nosferatu parody — and while you’re still trying to figure out how it all fits together, well-meaning Billy (Baabou Ceesay) gets gutted, earnest Jill (Claudie Blakley) is beheaded (or was it the other way around?), somebody is burnt alive and a leg gets amputated in one of the more gruesomely hilarious scenes I’ve seen in a while.

The most outrageous and exhilarating moments of Severance zip by like Apocalypto on whippets, gory but oh so hilarious. But in the last third, the movie leans too heavily on the horror conventions it’s not quite mocking. If you’re not a fan of slasher flicks, the endless frenzied running about through leafy hillsides spiked with booby traps is bound to get a wee bit tiresome — and if you’re squeamish about crotches stabbed by Rambo knives, feet stuffed in refrigerators and human organs pierced by sharp utensils, you might not be around anymore anyway. For those who can take it, Severance packs some bloody good laughs. Severance opens in May.

Severance. Christopher Smith, 2006. ***