All posts by Louis Fowler

Sukiyaki Western Django (2007)

Takashi Miike (Audition) has always been an extremely divisive filmmaker, so it makes sense this ramen Western’s opening scene features Quentin Tarantino — America’s own cinematically disruptive director — gutting a raw egg fresh out of the belly of a snake before gunning down a few overacting varmints.

And even though this whole introduction does little for the rest of the film, it does provide a red-stained and sin-staged sense of Japanese theatrical weirdness that anyone with the drawn-out wherewithal will experience over the next 98 or so minutes, Gatling gun and all.

A cynical homage to Sergio Corbucci’s Django — and the many nameless spaghetti flicks that came before it, as well as their Japanese originals — Sukiyaki Western Django stars Hideaki Ito as the nameless gunman who wanders into a small Nevada town ruled by two gangs: the white-clad Genji and the red-emblazoned Heike, both obsessed with the area’s gold and the power it brings.

Both sides want the expert marksman for their own purposes, but he’s playing them for his own vengeful needs and purposes, with Miike borrowing from the best of Western flicks and samurai films to tell his head wound of a tale. As you could guess, it all explodes in an extended final battle that practically tears the town to bloody shreds, save for a little boy who becomes … Django.

The only thing about this film is you have to have a bit of cooled patience to get to that bombastic ending. At times, Sukiyaki can drag itself down under the pitch-black weight of its own gory self-importance, but for me at least, that’s somewhat typical of many — and I do mean many — of Miike’s films. But here, it really seems more deserved than others. —Louis Fowler

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Ozone (1995)

As a teenager, while most of my peers thought that George Lucas or Steven Spielberg were the end-all, be-all of filmmaking, I instead spent most of my free time repeatedly renting and always watching the shot-on-video flicks of Todd Sheets, Tim Ritter and, my personal favorite, Ohio’s J.R. Bookwalter.

Perhaps best known for the zombie epic The Dead Next Door, it was the 1995 movie Ozone where I believe he came into his own, crafting a hallucinogenic tale of clean cops and dirty mutants in their own war for the titular designer drug Ozone and its nightmarish effects.

During an ambush with some drugged-out creeps, plainclothes policeman Eddie (former Cleveland Brown James Black) is injected with the mysterious narcotic. As he tries to track down the manufacturer, he begins to experience horrific drifts in and out of reality, including that of an underground fight club filled with Ozone-addicted monsters.

Designed by a grotesque blob in a basement with vague worldwide ambitions, the real reason why the drug has become so popular with maniacally obsessive users is more nefarious than expected, edging into dark religious territories I wasn’t anticipating.

While many of these backyard horror movies sitting on rental shelves were often more laughable than anything else, Bookwalter always seemed to strive for a look and feel that suited the very low budget instead of hindering it, oftentimes coming up with audacious films that played better than they really had any right to; Ozone exemplifies that.

In addition to Bookwalter’s direction, much of the film sets on Black’s broad football-player shoulders, forging an unheralded action hero plagued by demons, both literal and figurative. And while the film just exudes a ’90s sense of camcorder-based nostalgia, I realized it’s something that is sorely missed in these heady days of high-definition flicks shot and edited on a computer. —Louis Fowler

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Bacurau (2019)

The transcendentally violent spirit of Chilean visionary Alejandro Jodorowsky lives on in the bloody Brazilian film Bacurau, a modern-day Western of uncompromised violence and unfiltered vengeance that, if I had seen it last year, would have definitely made the top of my 2019 list.

A few years in the future, the small village of Bacurau is slowly dying, both literally and metaphorically. As an addictive pharmaceutical continues to numb much of the Brazilian populace, the denizens of this town live on, constantly in need of food, water and medicine. Eventually, the town disappears off the map and cellphone service is suddenly disrupted.

As locals are found brutally murdered — including a few children — a group of white Americans and Europeans, led by German-born Michael (Udo Kier), use the town as a form of murder tourism, hunting the people in the street like stray dogs. But the people of Bacurau aren’t ones to run from a fight, unleashing psychedelic hell on the intruders.

A hell of a slow burn, as compact UFOs hover in the sky and dark hallucinations are a fact of life, directors Kleber Mendonca Filho and Juliano Dornelles are rightfully distrustful of gringo influences on their way of life; the white hunters’ jingoistic bravado usually turning to xenophobic tears when confronted with their evil is by no means subtle or unearned.

There’s a beautifully caustic artistry to their storytelling, an acidic Western (Southern?) that’s more influenced by the people’s own native-born resiliency and willingness to preserve at any cost than any two-bit John Wayne flick ever could. —Louis Fowler

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Sixteen Candles (1984)

I hadn’t seen John Hughes’ Sixteen Candles in about 16 years. With changes to the culture happening so fast these days, I’d recently been wondering how this teen film has held up, especially with many accusations of Asian-based racism, possible date rape and so on.

The answer is “not great.”

I’m pretty sure we’re all familiar with the setup by now: Samantha’s (Molly Ringwald) family forgets her “fucking birthday” on the account of her sister’s upcoming nuptials, which sets into motion a series of event that includes giving her panties to a geek (Anthony Michael Hall) at a high school dance while, eventually, ending up with the quintessential hunk (Michael Schoeffling) of her dreams.

While the film is still riotously hilarious, some of these laughs come with pangs of guilt. One of the most troubling is foreign exchange student Long Duk Dong (Gedde Watanabe); while Dong has many of the film’s most memorable lines, his stereotyped character seems more like a one-note joke from one of Hughes’ equally troublesome National Lampoon pieces.

And while Samantha is a realistically relatable character at a time when some of the worst-written ones were often female, her dream guy — even more than ever — comes off more like the Patrick Bateman of date rapists. At one point, he brags how he could “violate” his drunk girlfriend “10 different ways” if he wanted to, and then gives the passed-out prom queen to the geek Farmer Ted, ostensibly to drive home.

Like her when she awakens, we’re not sure if anything happened between her and Ted, but she ultimately forgives him with a chance at a wholly unrealistic relationship. When I was a geeky youth myself, I thought it was the perfect situation; now I’m not so sure. He may be forgiven in and by the film, but it’s kind of hard for the audience, at least by today’s standards, to do the same.

I guess we can play it off with the trite “it was the ’80s” cliché, a different time with strangely lax mores when compared to today. Watched through that retrofitted eye, Sixteen Candles does stand up as one of the most memorable comedies of the time, but ultimately one you couldn’t get away with today and, honestly, why would you want to? —Louis Fowler

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Elvira, Mistress of the Dark (1988)

From Coors Light commercials to Saturday afternoon horror flicks, the constant bosomy presence of Elvira on television did a real erotic number on me growing up, implanting a lifelong lust for buxom Gothic females fully loaded with a heart-ripping skill for double entendre and a heartbreaking like for me in their arsenal.

While those dark and stormy romances never turned out the way I devilishly hoped they would, when Elvira went to the big screen in 1988’s Elvira, Mistress of the Dark, it gave me an ironic glimmer of hope that someday a black-clad beauty would cross my path in her ever-lovin’ fight against demonic forces, real or imagined.

Working as a late-night horror hostess, Elvira (Cassandra Peterson) leaves her terrible job to collect an inheritance from a recently deceased aunt. Landing in the conservative town of Fallwell, Massachusetts, she soon learns her mother was the original Mistress of the Dark, which comes in handy when she also learns her Uncle Vincent (W. Morgan Sheppard) is an evil warlock with sights set on world domination.

But the real threat here is the small town, led by the stereotypical busybody Chastity Pariah (Edie McClurg), who, after eating a magical casserole, gets so aroused she sits on some guy’s face in a public park. With the help of the area’s equally horny teens, however, Elvira is able to win the town over and defeat her evil lineage.

With so many Mae West-ian jokes about breasts, fellatio and other sexually explicit acts, it’s amazing this film escaped with a PG-13 rating. But it was a different time, I guess — one where people could burn witches at the stake for surefire laughs. Elvira, Mistress of the Dark is a satanically overlooked comedy that should be rescued from the pyre. —Louis Fowler

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