A murdered prostitute. A rash of neighborhood break-ins. A ransom call from a child’s kidnapper. A thwarted robbery and assault in the subway. That’s a lot of crime for one movie — unless that movie is an anthology.
Meet Mania, a gem of a suspense omnibus from the Great White North. Its opening-credits sequence suggests something special and very, very ‘80s. You get both from all four of its unhosted, unconnected stories.
With the majority directed by Prom Night’s Paul Lynch, each segment concludes with a twist. If the near four decades since have rendered those conclusions guessable, you still must acknowledge and admire the cleverness in their construction. They’re not gimmicky in the M. Night Shyamalan way where you’re so focused on parsing them out rather than enjoying the journey to get there.
Mania might be accurately called Canada’s version of Alfred Hitchcock Presents; it’s certainly more narratively successful than NBC’s short-lived revival of that time. Most of all, the Maniaical pieces remind me of the ingenious shorts HBO used to play in its infancy as between-movies filler seemingly beamed in from nowhere. —Rod Lott
Clearly,Don’t Look Now is a brilliant film in the annals of mind-bending suspense, but also one that is very bizarre and outré, something that sets it apart. Even more so, this giallo precursor was the type of film you could release in the ’70s and win all the awards while being a critical darling. The last movie Nicolas Roeg directed that was a tasteful piece of erotic art was Mimi Rogers’ Full Body Massage. While it doesn’t reach the highs of Don’t Look Now, it’s a classic in its own way.
The older I get, the more Don’t Look Now confounds me and astounds me, leaving me internally terrified that the dreamlike atmosphere and disjointed pieces are so broken, similarly distorted by the sheer realism and tragic finale. And, of course, that ending is a total shocker, even by today’s exacting standards, both graphically and creepily.
Donald Sutherland and Julie Christie play John and Laura, a married couple dealing with their daughter’s recent fatal accident. A few months pass, we find them in Venice, restoring an old church. Suddenly, strange occurrences take place, with troubling doppelgangers, blind mediums and, of course, the horrific killer.
An extension of the traumatic loss of the emotionally stunted characters, it plays with the conventions of the stages of grief and mourning, given a paranormal twist by Roeg. With the natural movements in an alien culture, Roeg gives you that xenophobic feeling walking along the canals.
Adapted from the short story by Daphne du Maurier, the movie finds both Sutherland and Christie remarkable in their roles, although Donald struts around like he’s going to an Italian Doctor Who convention. And with a more than shocking sex scene that feels highly animalistic, Roeg brings back my Mimi Rogers fantasies.
Don’t Look Now needs to be viewed multiple times, because I always find another piece of the puzzle—even if it not supposed to be there. —Louis Fowler
Squealer positions itself as based on real-life crimes without stating whose. If they’re not Robert Pickton’s, then actor Ronnie Gene Blevins can chalk his visual similarity up to pure coincidence and be proud of the paycheck. Then again, how many greasy pig farmers have moonlighted as serial killers?
Maybe don’t answer that.
As “Squealer” in Squealer, Blevins (2018’s Death Wish remake) plays a pig farmer and butcher who kills prostitutes. Oink, boink. He makes literal meat of the slain hookers, which causes the odd nipple ring to make its way into the ground round.
The police investigate. One of the cops is Tyrese Gibson, needing to eat between Fast Xinstallments. The main man on the case, however, is Jack (Wes Chatham, 2014’s The Town That Dreaded Sundown remake). Because his estranged wife (Danielle Burgio, House of the Dead 2) happens to be a social worker whose heart looks out for the ladies of the night, whether Jack succeeds is a matter of when, not if.
Burgio also co-produced and co-wrote the film with director Andy Armstrong (Moonshine Highway), a fellow stuntperson. Originality may not be among the pages, but they wrote her a great showcase. She shines in the part.
Meanwhile, Kate Moennig (2012’s Gone) and Theo Rossi (Emily the Criminal) steal the movie out from everyone, Batman villain-style, as Squealer’s “business associates.” She’s a tweaker; he’s a purple-suited, crossbow-wielding drug dealer. Together or individually, they bring levity every time they show up, in a movie that plays things bone-dry.
If it sounds like Squealer gets squeezed out of Squealer, that’s because he does — a victim of his own supposed story. Part procedural, part slasher, part domestic drama and part social justice advocate, the unfocused film doesn’t amount to much, outside a few amusing turns. —Rod Lott
Through no real fault of his own, Michael Fassbender’s past decade hasn’t exactly been stellar. His standout performances in Steve McQueen’s Shame (2011) and 12 Years a Slave (2013) came close to making him a household name. That is, until he was unable to save a trilogy of lackluster misses in 2016 with X-Men: Apocalypse, The Snowman and the video-game adaptation no one asked for, Assassin’s Creed.
It’s enough to make anyone to step away from the limelight, become a Formula One racer, return for an abysmal X-Men sequel in 2019 before finally driving a Porsche into the sunset. So what could possibly bring Fassbender back into the cinematic fold? A lack of championships — and maybe a lead role in David Fincher’s most cerebral film yet, The Killer.
Fassbender plays a high-dollar hitman with a set of aliases for every country. He’s got his routine down to a science, but still, killin’ ain’t easy. After a rare botch in Paris, the assassin books it back to his secluded mansion in the Dominican Republic. He finds his girlfriend near death, the victim of a beating intended for him. Telling himself it’s strictly business, the killer goes on an international spree hunting down everyone involved — including his employer.
The Killer doesn’t quite reach the heights of Fincher’s best work (Seven, Zodiac), but that’s hardly a slight. Though the cold-blooded protagonist isn’t terribly relatable, his on-the-job frustrations scratch close to the same itch as Office Space’s first act. Weirdly, however, the revenge plot does little to endear the character. Of course, that’s not vital, but it raises some emotional hurdles that the film never really dodges.
Even so, fans of the opening scene from Nicolas Winding Refn’s Drive will appreciate this feature-length equivalent. Plus, the would-be insufferable voiceover narration shines thanks to a clever, intimate and misanthropic monologue. And where there’s Fincher, there’s masterful sound editing. Capping off the nihilistic voyage is an ideal score from the filmmaker’s frequent collaborators Trent Reznor and Atticus Ross — with a welcome sprinkling of The Smiths for good measure.
The film also excels with a rawness that escapes most blockbuster action choreography. It only has one fistfight, but it captures a visceral, desperate exchange where every blow clearly weighs on Fassbender’s character. It takes the house fight in the second season of HBO’s Barry up a few notches, without protecting the protagonist with some unrealistic invulnerability. He can’t shed the scars, and the hitman bears the bruises of the encounter until the credits roll.
The sum of The Killer’s parts doesn’t equal its whole, but it still mostly satisfies where it counts. No, you won’t find a relatable lead or a very satisfying conclusion. But if you’re in it for gunplay, beautiful brutality and sociopathic musings, this flick finds its target. —Daniel Bokemper
Although they share a smattering of DNA, estranged half-brothers Guillaume and Armand could not be more different. Guillaume (Arieh Worthalter, 2016’s The Take), Dad’s favorite, is a police detective; Armand (Achille Reggiani, Miss Impossible), Dad’s ignored bastard son, is homeless. When their father dies, you can guess which one gets nothing.
Inheriting the titular bowling alley, Guillaume offers his little brother a peace offering: a job to run it and a place to live above it. Armand happily accepts, on the condition Guillaume stay away. And that sets into motion an inadvertent cycle of codependence that marks their largest point of contrast: One devotes his nights putting women he picks up at the alley into the ground; the other, devoting his days to investigating who put them there.
This French-language film operates in the lane of crime thriller I’m drawn to most: intelligent and intentionally paced, like a novel that comfortably straddles the literary and the popular. As with many of those books, a formula sits directly beneath the fancy window dressing, meaning when particular elements kick in at particular points of the story, you instantly know the function each is set up to serve. With Saturn Bowling, when Guillaume gains a girlfriend in an animal rights activist (newcomer Y-Lan Lucas), any alarm of predictability isn’t falsely triggered.
That’s not nearly enough for disappointment to overthrow enjoyment; part of such plotting machinations are comfort food. I’m less enthused with the weighty hunter/prey analogy running through the third act — too much symbolism is a thing — but overall, Thick Skinned director Patricia Mazuy, writing with frequent collaborator Yves Thomas, knows what she’s doing. The little film that results is a solid, flawed gem. —Rod Lott
