All posts by Louis Fowler

Comedy

A Madea Family Funeral (2019)

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White nerds like to loudly announce that the Marvel Cinematic Universe is the greatest self-contained film series in movie history, but, you know, I’ve always found Tyler Perry’s Madea-verse to be a far richer tableau of real-life heroes and villains, with plenty of Christian-based dramedy-heavy life lessons sprinkled throughout the course of these 11 films, as well as plenty of stage plays set in the same continuity.

In A Madea Family Funeral, the supposed final film, Madea (Tyler Perry) and elderly friends Aunt Bam (Cassi Davis) and Hattie Mae (Patrice Lovely), as well as pervy Uncle Joe (Perry again), in between bragging about smoking weed and whoring around, walk in on the dead body of a family friend in the middle of coitus, leading to many, many jokes about the deceased’s engorged member.

But, really, that’s only the initial premise for this relatable morality play about familial deception and brotherly jealously, alternating between lowbrow comedy and high-heavens preaching which, in Perry’s films, always works well, even if the movies have continued on with diminishing returns, at least plot-wise — I mean, have you seen Boo 2! A Madea Halloween 2?

Probably not.

For me, though, Madea is still in top comedic form here, fucking with everything in her way from racist white cops high on pulling the trigger to the stereotypical length of most black funerals; it’s a self-made formula that has commercially pleased audiences for about 15 years now, except for white nerds, of course.

To paraphrase a once-popular saying, make mine Madea! —Louis Fowler

Get it at Amazon.

Thriller

The Passion of Darkly Noon (1995)

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Philip Ridley’s momentarily vampiric The Reflecting Skin was a monumentally eerie film, deftly mixing homespun Americana ideals with surreal horror tropes, to beautifully cultish effect. Not nearly as known — and that’s really saying something — is the follow-up, The Passion of Darkly Noon, an even stranger film that, it seems, is still delightfully enigmatic some 25 years later.

A daring Brendan Fraser is the devoutly doctrinal Darkly Noon, the remaining survivor of a religious cult that apparently (off-screen) has just been shot all to hell by the FBI. Running through the woods and knockin’ on heaven’s door himself, Darkly is found and taken to the house of excitable sexpot Callie (Ashley Judd).

Married to a volatile mute (Viggo Mortensen), Callie’s provocative demeanor (but unwavering loyalty) is a bit too much sin and skin for Darkly, who, by the way, is as incel as they come; after numerous sessions of masturbation and flagellation, when he reckons there is no love in the world for him, he paints his body red and exacts unearned revenge.

Full of faux-poetic symbolism and heavy-handed allegories, Darkly Noon doesn’t really deliver on the promise of Skin, but with standout performances from the usually lunkheaded Fraser and dreamlike Judd, combined with the David Lynch-lite flourishes, Ridley does craft a watchable movie that is … well, still delightfully enigmatic. —Louis Fowler

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Documentary

Mystify: Michael Hutchence (2019)

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Growing up in the late ’80s, it was impossible to turn on the radio without hearing the voice of Michael Hutchence cooing an unseen paramour in tunes like “Need You Tonight” and “Devil Inside.”

It was a power that I, even as a 10-year-old, wanted desperately to possess, so much so that I even dressed up as Hutchence when my rural Texas school had a “come as your favorite celebrity” day. It was almost as good as the previous year’s George Michael costume.

A longtime INXS fan, I’ll admit that I have always had trouble reckoning the final years of Hutchence’s life, when he seemingly transformed from a likable cipher to a pretentious buffoon, more interesting for his problematic personal life than the music that had made him a vaunted superstar the world over.

It’s something that director Richard Lowenstein explores in-depth in the seductive documentary Mystify: Michael Hutchence; while the hits with his Australian band are casually mentioned, the film primarily seeks to explore the life of Hutchence outside of music, to great effect. Although it skips output like Dogs in Space for a bit too much about side project Max Q, for example, it’s a film of marked choices, most of which adds a surprising layer of humanity to the long-locked frontman.

What truly shocked me, however, was learning about Hutchence’s head injury in the early ’90s that apparently severed nerves and left him a different person, wildly erratic and often depressed. It’s this injury that is believed to have led to his 1997 suicide.

As mortifying as it all sounds, it’s really not all doom and gloom, as ultimately, Mystify is more a celebration of Hutchence as his family and friends remember him and want him to be remembered. It’s the way I want to remember him, too. —Louis Fowler

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Comedy

Jay and Silent Bob Reboot (2019)

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A couple of years ago, director Kevin Smith had a heart attack that nearly killed him. Around that same time, I had a hemorrhagic stroke that nearly killed me. Since then, we both have attempted to get healthier to varying degrees, both physically and creatively.

Even though we don’t know each other and probably never will, I’ve felt a tenuous connection, creatively at least, to the man for over 20 years now. But while my creative wins and losses were kept mostly close to the chest, Smith’s highs and lows have been judiciously celebrated and gratuitously mocked by the same fair-weather fans who grew up with him.

But, as his latest flick, Jay and Silent Bob Reboot, and the subsequent roadshow tour proves, many longtime patrons still support his comedic arts and other ventures — especially the over-40 crowd, of which I am dutifully a part of — and still appreciate a thoroughly entertaining Kevin Smith film. They do exist.

As funny and fresh as the spiritual prequel, Jay and Silent Bob Strike Back, was back in 2001, Smith ably mocks the current trends of Hollywood while defiantly taking part in them; having grown much older and forced to face life, Reboot finds a much older Jay (Jason Mewes) and Silent Bob (Smith) still hanging out in front of the Quick Stop and, even among them, it’s obvious the man-child bit is getting a bit tiresome.

While retracing the steps of Strike Back by having the duo shut down a reboot of the Bluntman and Chronic franchise, Smith throws a spanner in the works by introducing Jay’s daughter, Milly (Harley Quinn Smith, Holidays). As foul-mouthed as her dad, she and a few troubled friends tag along to California to Chronic-Con, with various pitfalls along the way, such as vengeful Uber drivers, the Ku Klux Klan and the American legal system.

Mewes carries most of the film on his back, delivering a performance that delicately teeters from pornographically hilarious to philosophically heartfelt. And I know that people like to give Smith shit for casting his own daughter, but as a proud father, it’s the same thing that any of us do if we had the capabilities and, to be honest, she not that bad as Jay’s child.

Of course, the fan-friendly film ties into a world of meta-criticism as Smith also stars as himself, jorts and all, poking fun at his persona, as well as the View Askewniverse he created and, thankfully, never forgotten about. It allows him — and me, too, honestly — a chance to look back in absolute appreciation while acknowledging the fact that sometimes we all have to grow up or die trying.  —Louis Fowler

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Sex

Night of Open Sex (1983)

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The Jess Franco film Night of Open Sex is purported to be an adaptation of Edgar Allan Poe’s “The Gold-Bug.” While I’ve always found that short story to be quite boring, the nonstop parade of black rugs in this movie does enliven the tale, even if it’s a bit much after the third or fourth erotic dance scene.

As you could probably imagine, performing said nude numbers is Franco’s longtime gal pal, Lina Romay (Cries of Pleasure), as stripper Moira; she and her sleazy boyfriend manage to get mixed up with a criminal syndicate looking for some badly foil-wrapped Nazi gold, presumably from a fake mustached general who uses nudie pics as generalized maps to said fortune.

To get this information, by the way, she shockingly uses a curling iron as a red-hot tool of vaginal extraction. And as psychotically titillating as that is, let’s be honest, cult fans: You’re really here for the continual sex and skin, the only thing the film’s really got going for it.

With many explicit scenes of depraved fornication out the hairy hoo-ha, the sex truly is open on this night, from fetish-based frenching to fruit-based rape; softcore fans will have to watch the film in five-minute increments, skipping through very little plot to get to elongated scenes of Romay rolling around on the floor, licking a porno mag and masturbating.

Still, director Franco manages to cameo as a rich dude offering up some social commentary, far more than I honestly expected from a film where I just watched a man straight up punch a woman in the gut. —Louis Fowler

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