Beneath the Fringe: CEREBRAL FIXATION: Shedding some light on the films for thought of Vincenzo Natali E-mail



 

 

It's a curious thing, this new movie Splice. It's a smaller picture with a sub-name cast working their way through familiar genre material that has been given new life care the injection of some potent ideas and the guiding hand of a director more concerned with honing his voice than slavishly adhering to formula.

This is the sort of thing I am well used to stumbling across at near random at the video store or via some off-the-cuff Netflix cross reference. I must confess to being slightly baffled and compelled to mull over the fact that I walked out of a local big screen showing (the flick unfolded at better than 2,400 joints across the nation), this thing just doesn't read as big summer material.

vicenzoBeing as it is another fat, yet largely empty summer buffet filled with meaty Iron Men, less than stupid kiddie distractions and TV-retro product placers, the advent of a tight and somewhat challenging slab of geek-fi triumph over conformity such as this one is a minor cause celebre. On the other hand, the fact that it will probably last as long at the box office as a woodpecker on a petrified tree should come as a surprise to no one (as of this writing, Splice bowed with just over $7 mil...nah, not a blockbuster).

The movie is just the fourth feature to spring from the skilled shepherding of Vincenzo Natali. You remember the name, come on...this is the guy behind that nifty lil' head twister from back in the day (1997) called Cube, the one with the group of disparate strangers who find themselves deposited inside an elaborate structure of unknown origin and/or purpose. That film played well with its Twilight Zone-worthy premise and worked the intellectual factor sharply between spots of gore-inflected mayhem.

Vincenzo promptly laid down his brand of David Cronenberg meets a technofied Hitchcock at a later 20th Century Rod Serling seminar for the logically absurd and rode the resulting piece all the way to chic underground adoration the world over (France and Japan draped it in extra heavy affection) and it eventually fathered two sequels (Hypercube and Zero).

I recall catching Cube at some point in close proximity to my initial exposure to PI  and its equally think-tank ready skipper, Darren Aronofsky. Yet, while that pi-guy went onward and upward with expected steadiness, bringing the drug-addled and wrestling ring-bound dregs of the human race to the level of Oscar acceptance, poor Vincenzo seemed to vanish into the maw of uncertainty and petty studio-head mood swinging that all too sadly permeates the commercial film-making engine more often than not. To me, this guy was someone who succeeded well enough on his debut effort to warrant some genuine anticipation in regard to any future output. Unfortunately, Natali's second and third films would arrive sans any true fanfare in this country and fade without protest into the back shelve archives of various rental and used media joints from here to whereever the hell else.

The first, Cypher (aka Brainstorm) follows a nebbish, Phillip K. Dick-inspired type (Jeremy Northam) who finds himself swept up in a mash-up of heavy handed corporate espionage and mental tampering that eventually leads him to a double agent schtick with the aide of an intriguing mystery woman (Lucy Lu). The narrative breaks into bleeding reality mode as the poor schlep finds himself with a blurred perspective and a drought of trustworthy peers. Several further twists and convolutions fill out the scenario, all of which are addressed with a sure enough hand as to keep the viewer fitfully off balance.

Cypher was completed in 2002 but would get sucked into the pack-rat clutches of the Weinstein Brothers while still in their (Disney backed) Miramax prime. As they loved to do with so many unsuspecting cinematic endeavors, the 'steins (Harvey and Bob) placed Natali's sophomore picture on the shelf, thus delaying it time and again while allowing several lesser yet likeminded, post-Matrix also-rans like Impostor and Equilibrium see the light of day (albeit briefly). Shame, this film deserved to be noticed at more than a few scattered festivals.

To follow this less than reassuring forced failure, Natali decided to take a stab at something a tad more light-hearted and comic, while not entirely forsaking his given skills at stimulating the brainwaves. Paring things back to indie terms (and, as such, greatly lessening that chance of some studio charge barging into the mix with any negative vibes), Nothing marks a thematic return of sorts to the hapless protagonist(s) wandering at odds in unfamiliar territories outline that set the basic stage of Cube.

This time out the cast count is reduced to a pair of socially rejected roomies who retaliate against the onslaught of epic misfortune their daily grind rains down upon them by simply wishing it all away for good. What they are granted as a result of their deep-rooted pleas is, well, a whole lot of what the title of this film indicates...NOTHING. You see, the pair (realized to disaffected perfection by co-writer Andrew Miller and Natali's childhood chum and repeat collaborator, David Hewlett) find themselves backed into a metaphoric corner as various nemesis (both legal and social) close in on their ramshackle abode, banging in violent fashion at the front door when abruptly, everything drops dead silent. The guys take a hesitant peek outside to discover the stressful hellhole of real life as they so long knew it replaced by a totally blank, white nothingness bearing no discernible traits apart from a surface composed of some type of invisible rubber (the guys are shown bouncing around a lot).

The remainder of Nothing involves the methods by which these lads acclimate to and occupy this newfound world of vacancy. As he did with Cube, Natali once again shows how the advent of an alien surrounding can take its toll, both morally and psychologically, on the most unsuspecting and naive of every-men. Natali's recurring tendencies to portray a smaller collective (or pairing) of flawed yet complex characters at stark odds with a less definable, all encompassing menace (be it a nefarious mathematical structure, shady multi-national conglomerates or an utter lack of anything) provide the primary fuel for the branching off of ideas and tangents touching on the cause/effect syndrome inherent in the actions of realistically developed human participants. He fruitfully explores as deeply as he can the possibilities that arise when minds (from brilliant to otherwise) are put to the challenge of dissecting the unknown factors inherent when dealing with technologies and principals that sometimes stretch the perceived boundaries of what is commonly excepted as real.

This agenda continues to work its way through Vincenzo's return to the genuine theatrical market. That Splice has edged its way into the commercial cinema is (as I stated at the opening of this piece), a genuine and truly pleasant surprise. The word is that this baby very nearly suffered the same fate of Cypher and Nothing in that it sat for a spell following completion and only made an appearance or two at some fests (Sitges and Sundance) before it became the surprise object of affection of Dark Castle Entertainment's main man, Joel Silver, who offered up the summer distribution blessing that the pic is presently enjoying (paltry box office aside).

The plot line for this number covers the genetic tinkering of two brainiac scientists (Adrien Brody and Sarah Polley) that results in the freak creation of Dren (nerd reversed, GET IT?) a blending of human and animal genes that grows to resemble a sort of cross-hatching of a lanky super model (it's actually played by one) and an alien Nosferatu. The drama proper takes hold once the couple have to flee from the confines of their laboratory (and its strict, business-minded backers) to a secluded farm setting.

Here, events get a might bent as the trio clash with awkward differences arising from their makeshift take on the whole family unit thing. Tensions give way to acts ranging from childish outbursts on the part of the rapidly growing and overly curious Dren to even a dash of coital, er, release for two rather incompatible participants. The closing points of the film delves into a less excessive variant on the horror standard of the final effects-laced showdown and twist to wrap it all up nice and sequel friendly.

While no one can rightly proclaim Splice as a groundbreaking cinematic event, it must be said that films like this don't get made quite as often as they should and even when they do they're not likely to get the kind of push this one surprisingly did.

Vincenzo Natali may not be a house hold name, but give him a shot, he makes the most of what he has at his disposal, no matter the limits. He may not yet be a grand visionary like the names he has been compared (in whole or part) to, but he's well on his way. He has been attached to or associated with multiple upcoming projects such as an adaptation of cyber-punk super-author William Gibson's seminal tome Neuromancer and a 3-D reworking of the DC comics staple Swamp Thing (first realized as total ’80s cheese by Wes Craven).

So remember the name, I think it will be around for a long time to come.  

And seek out the films mentioned above. Most video joints carry them (as do the online services).

Plus, Splice might still be lingering at a theater near you...though most likely at the cheap seats by the time this sees print.

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Wooooo!

Thinking of too many things at once, and coming away with far too little.

This is horse poop! I've been watching way too many movies not to have a single, standalone topic to banter on about. I blame a dearth of significant home vid material (I need to dig even deeper it seems ), sub-par film fest itineraries (why did the Wisconsin F.F. not pick up on Trash Humpers?) and a Hollywood think-tank more concerned with reheating tired old Freddy Krueger and the stale bloated corpse of Robin Hood than anything even fractionally resembling originality.

To help liven my options, I turned to a pair of films by once master-class directors who had all but wandered off into oblivion.

Back in the day (the 1990s), I had one of my biggest movie nerd crushes ever on the films of John Woo. This was around the time when he had reached the apex of his status as the go-to man for frenetic action and was about to cross over to America from his native Hong Kong to make it big with the aid of the Tinsel Town A-List.

Woo's A Better Tomorrow, The Killer and especially Hard Boiled stand tall among the finest examples of grand, operatic violence and hyper-stylized action epic filmmaking ever created. The slight bummer of it is when Woo made the conversion to Hollywood, his voice became largely lost (or muffled) in translation. His overpriced vehicles for egocentric stars such as John Travolta, Tom Cruise and Jean-Claude Van Damme (!) lacked much of the soul one could derive so easily from his homeland projects. This had as much to do with big studio and star interference (aka tinkering) as anything else.

 

johnwooAfter coming as close as he was ever likely going to get to a true Woo-esque film here in America (Face/Off), the director's pictures would rapidly diminish in quality and urgency, culminating in the utterly forgettable Phillip K. Dick adapt-Paycheck (I'm thinking Ben Affleck when I think of an action hero, are you?). With this phase of his career apparently exhausted, Woo returned home to further develop and set to fruition a project he has claimed to be mulling over for decades.

Red Cliff details a facet of Chinese history known commonly to locals as The Battle of Red Cliffs, which involved an alliance of smaller, southern-based forces matching wits and wills with a bigger, bolder northern regiment in early 3rd century China.

The film is a mucho-mega scale super-opus that reportedly ate up more money ($80 mil) and principal production time (more than a year) than any other film in Asian cinematic history (it also boasts the highest margin of return in terms of local box office turnout, usurping Titanic). Woo's lavish reenactment clocks in at close to FIVE HOURS and uses a breathtaking wealth of production design and involved technical prowess to maximum effect. The picture is sumptuous and richly rewarding to the eye. However, the downside of all this mass of everything is that, at least from my standpoint, the whole thing grows exhaustive and a might tedious too quickly to make the excessive length feasible (there is a much more forgiving 150-minute domestic cut available as well for far less patient viewers).

Red Cliff is also in dire need of a bit stronger sense of distinction. Coming, as it does, in the wake of such majestic Asian action-packed history lesson/period pieces as Hero, House of the Flying Daggers, Curse of the Golden Flowers and so on, this film really feels like a whole lot more of the same. There's even the customary mid-battle shot of a multitude of arrows raining down in poetic fashion.

I'm quite certain that this story and its place in national history bares a strong measure of significance to a Chinese audience (hence the high ticket sales), yet to my very foreign perspective (where the film exists to suit fan-boy criteria) I really only see the most current mark of evidence that John Woo's greatest achievements are still well behind him.

All the above mentioned aside, it's still a damn sight better than that lame ass Mission Impossible sequel he did.

Another member of the cinematic old guard making a bid for reemergence is Francis Ford Coppola.

Gone from the director's chair for a good decade in which he concerned himself more with creating wine over capturing images, Coppola now seems out to reinvent himself via hi-definition technology and adroit, experimental storytelling.

Youth Without Youth marks the first of the director's attempts, in this fresh century, at the art form he once helped redraft for the better many, many moons ago. The story (such as it were) follows the fractured and slightly surreal side effects experienced by a fragile old linguist (Tim Roth) who has been hit by a violent bolt of lightning. He recovers from the incident at a shocking rate and proceeds to Benjamin Button his way back in age from 70 to 40, along the way developing and improving upon his desire to explore the art of language down to its origins and scoring an odd case of split personality disorder on the side.

His whole strange life is entwined in European-based WW II melodramatics and Nazi schemers. There's a love story, schizophrenic tangents, overwrought acting, stylish over-indulgence and even some dabbling in the possibility of reincarnation and the linear nature of time.

On the surface this may all seem like a potentially compelling cocktail of ideas and themes worthy of such a proven master filmmaker. Alas, it is not to be. Youth Without Youth is nice to look at and technically competent (it had better be with the likes of Coppola and veteran soundman/editor Walter Murch on board) but the words “convoluted” and “pretentious” can barely scrape the surface of what's wrong here.

One can only hope that Francis Ford is only warming up with this thing. A second HD ditty, Tetro, has already been completed and awaits your friendly Fringe fellow's digestion on DVD as we speak (I shall attend to that). This is not to say that I expect the golden era Coppola of The Godfather(s), The Conversation and Apocalypse Now fame, but I sure do hope it only gets better from this point onward. It really only can.


Elsewhere...Because it has been sitting atop my DVD player for some time now and I keep on forgetting to pass along any notation of its existence to my adoring public, I must now post a word or several in favor of a little DIY thing called Pagan Metal: A Documentary.

Cobbled together on the no-budget tip by a guy outta Clifton, New Jersey, named Bill Zebub, this here is a down home collection of interview and performance footage intended to shed deep-reaching insight into the self-contained, yet rapidly expanding musical sub-sub genre of Folk Metal. In the span of nearly two hours, artists such as Primordial, Finntroll and Korpiklaani detail in their own, heavily accented words their place in this tight little community, one that seems to embrace culture and heritage with a deeper reverence then most.

The subjects are engaging for the most part and they never make the tragic misstep of taking themselves too seriously and becoming forgettable, humorless drones. There is a kind of sweaty, rugged charm throughout, and some of the music becomes infectious to the ears as the piece forges on. Ultimately, the whole thing is a bit raw and more than a tad bootleg, but these factors mostly work in its underground-leaning favor.

No polished studio turd here, this is a pure heavy metal lesson begging to be learned.

Enroll now: billzebub.com.

I shall continue to throw fits. Please join me at This e-mail address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it