White Water Summer (1987)

My attraction to outdoor adventure films is in the scenery. The story plays second fiddle to the cinematography for me. Sure, I need a good story to anchor the film, lest I get bored halfway through, but I’m coming for the scenery. I take to it as a cinematic vacation, where I can be one with nature from the comfort of civilian life. It’s a cheat for sure, but I can’t always be out in the wilderness. Film acts as a welcome avatar.

Mind you, I’m not much of a camper. I enjoy going on hikes, but I’d prefer not to stay in a tent afterward, acting as a human burrito for wildlife. Add in years of growing up in fear of both a bear attack and/or a crazed serial killer on the loose and you’ve got a hesitation toward the camping lifestyle (think of the Jim Gaffigan camping bit and you’ve got my similar feelings). And yet, I’m fascinated by films dealing with camping and the wildlife. It’s so picturesque and comforting even in the face of danger!

I grew up similar to the protagonist in “White Water Summer,” Alan (Sean Astin). I was an introvert who would’ve been much happier spending my summer indoors than out (though I enjoyed the safety of my neighborhood once I moved out of the dangerous city). My parents tried to convince me to try camping and becoming a boy scout, but were never pushy when they noticed my hesitation. Alan’s parents, his father specifically, are the opposite: seeing the chance to spend a few weeks camping as a lesson in survival and growth. They’ve enlisted the aid of Vic (Kevin Bacon), a skilled survivalist, to take him into the wilderness and become one with nature.

The first half of the film is as expected. Vic is the polar opposite of Alan, a lover of the outdoors. The two share similarities, such as in their intelligence, but utilize their traits differently. Alan catches fish by crafting a makeshift trap out of supplies and natural resources; Vic does it the old-fashioned way, by hand, and scoffs at Alan for cheating. He punishes the poor boy on numerous occasions, forcing him to stay behind until a task is finished. He challenges his natural instincts such as in abandoning him to travel a rickety bridge over a hundred feet above water and sharp rocks and leaving him dangling atop a mountain. We can understand Vic’s reasoning, to teach the young teenager to survive, but also challenge his responsibility. Is it really sane for a man to leave a child hanging for his life (literally)? Think of the lawsuit and jail time he were to face had the children in his care were to perish?

Director Jeff Bleckner plays with that throughout, especially in the second half. He struggles in adapting the screenplay, written by Manya Starr & Ernest Kinoy, resulting in Vic’s abrasiveness coming across as sociopathic. There’s one instance where he nearly shoves a camper over the edge of a mountain after a verbal dispute. Considering the film’s overall pleasant tone, and the generally happy ending, this comes off as a conflict of interest. One I found somewhat amusing seeing as how the atmosphere was reminiscent of a campground slasher at times, made more palatable by the inclusion of “Friday the 13th” alum Kevin Bacon. I
didn’t expect it to nearly come to fruition in the final act.

It’s not that the sudden change in tone is a kneejerk reaction. Bleckner builds to it well, hinting at Vic’s questionable tactics. He’s never made out to be the bad guy, just a man with a firm belief in building a person up by challenging their senses. It’s no different than when someone tosses their child into the deep end to teach them how to swim. He’s always presiding over them, even when visibly absent, to ensure their safety if need be. The issue is in when it’s cranked up too much to service the drama, where we must suspend disbelief that the guide would allow his campers to catch pneumonia in a harrowing storm with no tent or, even worse, a wildlife attack.

Does Vic prove his point? Certainly, even if Alan’s cheesy narration (filmed two years later to give credence to his reminiscing) dilutes it. It’s just done so in such a heavy-handed way, with a fatal accident changing the course of direction, that it can cause friction. The connective tissue is there, as is the message, so it’s not a lost cause; just a shaky one, as rickety as the bridge Alan must cross.

I came for the scenery and “White Water Summer” didn’t disappoint in that front. The cinematography by the legendary John Alcott (one of his final films) is gorgeous and atmospheric! Starr & Kinoy’s script infuses the cinematography with a solid pillar. Bleckner keeps all of this in check with his direction, imbuing the film with the right amount of comradery, growth, and danger. It may be too heavy-handed at times, but it’s a pleasant trip nonetheless.

MVT: John Alcott’s cinematography. Sure, it’s the reason I was drawn to the film, but that’s not why it’s my MVT. That’d be because it lent much-needed atmosphere to the proceedings. The wilderness and, more importantly, camerawork, are just as much of a character as the campers are.

Make or Break: The rickety bridge sequence. It breaks up the soothing tone of the film, which at this point came packaged with numerous soft montages. It sets the stage for the forthcoming drama without going too over the top like some of the later predicaments.

Final Score: 7/10

The Case of the Scorpion's Tail (1971)

Scorpio is my favorite sign of the Zodiac, and not just because it’s my sign.  It’s not something silly like a fish or a crab or a scale.  Scorpions can sting you, and, in some cases, those stings can be fatal (my understanding is that they’re typically closer to a bee sting unless you’re particularly sensitive to their venom).  Real men get tattoos of things like scorpions with daggers and skulls and banners with sayings like “kill ‘em all” or “death before dishonor” or “Mom” on them.  Even outside of the appeal of its immediate, monstrous symbolism (but very much because of it), Scorpio is a favorite of hardasses and villains alike (and often both).  The psychopath in Dirty Harry is called Scorpio.  Nick Fury’s archenemy is called Scorpio (he even leads a team of supervillains based on the Zodiac, thus proving that Scorpios are tops).  Albert Brooks’ brilliant Hank Scorpio from The Simpsons is a pure James Bond supervillain with a go-get-‘em charm.  Robert Scorpio from the soap opera General Hospital is a smoldering pile of masculinity (okay, I might be stretching it with that one, though I’m sure there are plenty of folks who would vehemently disagree with me).  I’ve never heard of a character named Phil Pisces or Danny Sagittarius (and by the way, those names are now copyrighted by me, so back off).  Nevertheless, it’s with a much more un-macho perspective that Sergio Martino’s The Case of the Scorpion’s Tail (aka La Coda Dello Scorpione) approaches my beloved arachnid archetype.

As Lisa Baumer (Ida Galli) is busy making sweet, sweet love to her back door man, her husband’s plane is busy exploding in midair.  Turns out, hubby left Lisa with a one-million-dollar insurance benefit, but she has to travel to Greece in order to cash it out.  Enter Peter Lynch (George Hilton), the insurance investigator sent to keep tabs on her.  But a mysterious killer may soon put a stop to Lisa’s (or anybody’s) enjoyment of all that cold, hard cash.

Like so very, very many gialli, The Case of the Scorpion’s Tail deals with things like infidelity, and it does so with an air of suspicion (because these films are entirely predicated on the notion that everyone, including the protagonist, is a suspect).  Did Lisa have her husband killed, and if so, why take out so many innocent people to accomplish this?  Did she do it to spend time with her lover (who, coincidentally, is a flight steward)?  Does her former lover, a junkie who, bizarrely, only wants a pittance from the inheritance to feed his habit, have enough goods on Lisa to bring this gravy train to a complete halt?  Lisa and her husband haven’t been close for some time, and this emotional distance is the same thing that allows these types of characters to do the things they do.  These movies aren’t about love in a traditional sense.  Yes, sometimes the characters actually care about each other, but by and large, they are primal beings desperate to feed their carnal desires.  They are also the type of people who will have sex with someone just to get ahead or to place someone in their thrall.  Indeed, sex is a rather large cornerstone in all gialli, both as an exploitable element and as a plot device, and here it’s no different.  Every woman in the film is in a state of dishabille at some point or another, and the camera always accentuates and/or ogles them, bringing the audience into the mindset of the male (and sometimes female) characters.  But casual sex in gialli is also many times dangerous, luring murderers to their victims like the scent of pollen to bees (or a better analogy would be like the bait of a Venus flytrap to, well, flies).

Similarly, this film is heavy with the motif of following and being followed.  The opening credits roll over various shots of Lisa strolling through London in her bright red hat.  Sometimes the camera follows behind her, sometimes it observes her from afar (and this is a shot type repeated several times in the movie).  Likewise, Peter follows Lisa, journalist Cleo (the gloriously bountiful Anita Strindberg) follows Peter and Lisa, and the killer follows them all.  This concept works (and different gialli play it up to different degrees, though I can’t think of one off the top of my head that doesn’t have it to some extent) for two reasons.  First (and most obvious), from a narrative perspective, it produces some level of tension.  The character being followed may or may not know they are being followed.  The character following them may or may not intend them harm, but we don’t discover this until these sequences resolve themselves (and, okay, they’re often red herring style, jump scare payoffs, but not always, and therein lies the suspense [like Hitchcock’s time bomb setup, we know there’s going to be an explosion, we just don’t know whether or not the characters will be caught in it]).  Second, they allow the audience to become a purer strain of voyeur (something very prevalent in this film).  Frequently, these sequences wind up in a  character’s (99.99% of the time a female character’s) home, where said character simply must disrobe.  Meanwhile, the camera watches, unbeknownst to the character.  It satisfies the prurient interest of the audience in the same way that it enflames the libido of the spying character (otherwise, why not simply kill them the instant they walk through the door?).  It links sex and death with the anxiety of being caught doing something you shouldn’t be doing (in a What Happened to the Inquisitive Janitor kind of way; notice how often these scenes involve a peephole POV or keyhole-shaped matte).  And if nothing else, gialli are all about doing something you shouldn’t be doing.

These genre requirements, however, are just that in this film: requirements.  There is nothing particularly outstanding about the film’s plot, nothing all that compelling about the characters.  It satisfies the generic necessities and nothing else.  In fact, both plot and characters simply maunder along, as these things can have a tendency to do, until they hit the moment of “the big reveal” and then finish after some pat exposition labors to connect all the dots for us (though I’m of the opinion that the better ones are those that leave us just a little stupefied).  Unfortunately, in a genre where garishness is preferred, just hitting the beats in four/four time isn’t enough, and that’s all this film does.  Martino does bring a strong sense of style to the murder set pieces, but otherwise the film doesn’t make any attempt to distinguish itself from the pack.  The effort brought to the table in The Case of the Scorpion’s Tail is largely workmanlike, and sometimes that’s enough, but when you’re appearing onstage with Bootsy Collins, you may want to wear something a bit more striking than a sweatsuit.    

MVT:  Martino does manage to shine here and there with some nifty flourishes, but it’s kind of like spangling a day-old mackerel.

Make or Break:  There’s a murder that comes a bit later than would normally be expected, and it entices the audience with a hint of a “no rules” attitude that doesn’t materialize.

Score:  6/10

Final Girl (2015)

Good friend of the GGTMC, Stephen Scarlata, helped with the story of “Final Girl,” alongside Johnny T. Silver & Alejandro Seri. Seeing as how they weren’t credited for the screenplay (that honor goes to Adam Prince), I was unsure of how much of their vision made it to screen. I contacted Stephen and he informed me he pitched the idea of a female “First Blood.” That seeps through a bit in the film’s opening act, but Prince’s script drifts into another direction after.

Just because “Final Girl” isn’t the full-blown female “First Blood” that Stephen pitched doesn’t mean that it isn’t good. On the contrary, it’s a fun slice of genre mayhem once it gets past the clunkier elements. Knowing Stephen didn’t pen the script makes it easier for me to criticize it, mainly the characterizations. Some of the lesser characters speak in clichés and contrivances, which may read better than it’s executed. Prince is indebted to on-the-nose dialogue that cripples the drama at points.

Those lesser characters belong to a gang of spoiled rich children who live out their darkest fantasies by abducting women and hunting them in the woods. The gang is led by Jameson (Alexander Ludwig, who was in the similarly titled “The Final Girls” that same year), an 80s teen villain of the highest order: he’s blonde, pompous, good-looking, charming, and a complete asshole. His partners in crime are Shane (Cameron Bright), a stoic near mute whose girlfriend, Gwen (Francesca Eastwood), knows nothing of his murderous hobby; Nelson (Reece Thompson), more of the same sans a weird incestuous attraction to his mother; and Danny (Logan Huffman), an annoyingly over-the-top horndog who can’t keep his mouth shut if his life depended on it (and it will at one point). The four stalk a local diner and pick up women to take into the woods and hunt for sport.

Hot on their trails is William (Wes Bentley), a secret agent so secretive we don’t know who he works for. What we do know is he’s been training Veronica (Abigail Breslin) ever since she was a child to be a cold-blooded assassin. Her first mission is to go undercover as one of the gang’s victims and pick them off one by one. Think of her as a modern La Femme Nikita, right down to the casting of the youthful-looking Abigail Breslin.

Abigail is quite the beguiling actress. While a full-fledged adult, her appearance is still slightly reminiscent of a young teenager, making her perfect for this role! The character of Veronica needs a sense of youthful innocence to combat her icy demeanor, especially when she is to be charming and captivating (which she is in spades). Her attraction to William is meant to be uneasy and is because of the two actors’ performances, not because of the on-the-nose dialogue.

The only real issue I had with Veronica is in her characterization and not Breslin’s rather strong performance. She is set up from the start to be devoid of emotion, having been trained to be an emotionless killer from adolescence. And yet, she is shown to be a compassionate soul who struggles to shoot William on command. By this point, she has been trained for a decade, yet still shows signs of a novice (too much compassion, rusty fighting skills, etc.). Of course, once she’s dropped into her first mission, she’s a certifiable killing machine who only slips up on occasion.

Both Prince’s script and Tyler Shields’ direction suffer from a wonky first act. The setup is flimsy because both men seemingly want to get to the core of the story as quickly as possible. Character and world building comes across as a necessary evil for them. Shields is able to direct his actors with precision, which helps in alleviating some of the weaker mechanics.

Once the core of the story, the hunting of the rich snob murderers, takes center stage, the film runs smoothly. The gang’s pre-hunt ritual, an unsettling variation on Truth or Dare, goes a long way in defining their characters (albeit forcibly so) and setting the mood. Veronica plays a terrific damsel in distress to feed into the gang’s desires, only to turn the tables on them almost immediately. The inclusion of a serum that shows one’s darkest fears seems corny at first, but is quite effective in execution.

The real meat of the hunt is in the showdown between Veronica and Jameson. Breslin and Ludwig work off of each other tremendously, with his cocky attitude and her confident demeanor gelling well. While the other members of the gang play their roles too cheesily and over-the-top, Alexander finds the happy medium between obnoxiousness and contempt. We wanted the others to get their comeuppance solely to extinguish their annoyance. With Jameson, we want to see him get his comeuppance because he deserves it. Breslin plays the perfect foil to his madness.

“Final Girl” may be rough around the edges, but once it finds its footing, it’s a solid little thriller bolstered by strong performances!

MVT: Both Abigail Breslin & Alexander Ludwig. The two complement each other well and make the final showdown, what the film was building towards, satisfying.

Make or Break: The Truth or Dare game. Sets the mood for things to come, easing us into the hunt. Also acts as a turning point for the film, from shaky introduction to sturdy exploitation.

Final Score: 7/10

Don't Panic (1988)

I honestly have no idea why Ruben Galindo Jr’s film is titled Don’t Panic (aka Dimensiones Ocultas, which sounds suspiciously more accurate to me) outside of the fact that it’s also the title of the steadfastly Eighties song sung by the film’s lead, Jon Michael Bischof.  When Michael’s (Bischof) jerkwad pals show up after his seventeenth birthday party is already over, he panics.  His drunk mother might hear them.  When his helmet-haired bestie Tony (Juan Ignacio Aranda) starts playing with the Ouija board that he and the rest of the gang gifted to Michael, he panics.  Don’t they believe in the Devil?!  When Michael starts having visions of a demonic killer picking off his buddies and his eyes turn red (not bloodshot, but red), he panics.  That last one, at least, I can understand.

It can certainly be argued that just about any (if not every) film involving teenagers being either stalked by monsters/slashers or turning into monsters/slashers is actually a film dealing with sexual frustration/awakening (I suppose the argument could be made to encompass all films involving teens, period).  Don’t Panic is no different.  Michael, we are lead to believe, is a virgin.  He has a “golly gee” sense of puppy love, and this is directed toward Alexandra (Gabriela Hassel).  The two play hooky from school and enjoy a light, pleasant dating montage that’s as syrupy as it is superficial.  Alexandra is also a virgin, but she seems to handle it better than Michael (even though she expresses her vast love for him after knowing him for one day).  Michael is coded as so nascently pubescent (despite his actual age), he wears children’s pajamas (they have little, colorful dinosaurs on them; everything but the footies), he doesn’t bat an eye about wearing them out in public, and strangest of all, no one ever comments on this.  He has no car, riding a bike everywhere.  He gives Alexandra a “Magic Rose” that will never wither “as long as love exists between [the] two.”  Michael is a child doing childish things, and the concept of love in this film is just as simplistic.  Pretty in Pink this ain’t.  

All of Michael’s sexual frustrations start after messing with the Ouija board, which is also the night he is introduced to Alexandra.  Many times, his visions happen at night when he’s sleeping, and they typically end with him springing out of bed, a reference to the dreaded wet dreams of teenaged boys everywhere (with blood being dripped on his face, a substitute for ejaculate).  The blood red eyes that he gets at the most inopportune times is the equivalent of the erections boys get when sitting in class, idly considering sex with all of the women in their lives, or bouncing around on just the right seat on the school bus (or, let’s be honest, for absolutely no reason at all other than for their dicks to make them aware that they’re awake and have had a full pot of coffee).  The visions of Virgil (did I forget to mention that, according to this film, the Devil uses the alias of Virgil?) slaying other young teens (with a giant dagger; get it?) is the peristaltic contraction of Michael’s sexual vexation.  Even after Michael and Alexandra have sex, Michael can’t deal with the relationship maturely, because the whole of his being is subsumed by hormones, and the killings and visions continue.  He has a hard time even facing Alexandra, perhaps embarrassed by the intimacy they shared.  Michael’s maturity (or what maturity this film will allow any of its characters to attain) is shown in a scene where he throws his toys around his room and tears down the car posters from his walls (the act itself is still immature, however; it’s the realization that maturity needs to happen, whether Michael likes it or not).  Virgil continues to stalk Michael and his friends, an omnipresent avatar of the sexual spark that has been ignited in Michael, one over which he still has no control.

Similarly, Virgil is a metaphor for the domestic stress in Michael’s life.  His mother is an alcoholic.  We assume that this addiction kicked in after her husband left her or was part of the reason why he did.  Michael’s dad is absent from his life, sending money on occasion, never having time to see his son.  Naturally, these are the things Michael’s folks argue about whenever they speak.  In this sense, the murders are a means for Michael to vent about the tensions at home.  Note that Virgil doesn’t stalk adults, because they hold authority over Michael.  His targeted victims are Michael’s peers, a means of becoming king of the heap, as it were, to mirror the beastliness of the adults in Michael’s life and gain control over some aspect of his life.  In other words, to become an adult.  This also ties in with Michael’s sense of sexual frustration, because his mother is the only woman he has had in his life for some time.  She saunters around the house in silky robes and negligees, constantly trying to touch and comfort him, while still convinced he’s going crazy.  Since sex with his mother would be transgressive, Virgil gives Michael an equally satisfying (and somehow less transgressive) outlet for the Oedipal feelings he may be harboring.

Let me be clear; this film is a mess.  Its story is as vanilla as a bean, the characters are, by turns, stultifyingly bland and obnoxious, and the effects work floats along at about sea level.  And yet, there is an otherworldly dementia at play that makes it kind of enjoyable.  This is the sort of cinematic world where a character stops to buy smokes while he’s supposed to be sitting watch over an intended victim, where a character thinks that a Ouija board is THE FUNNIEST THING EVER, where a character shoots up his girlfriend’s house after being the most dreadful, uninvited dinner guest in the history of cinema (and that’s okay in the end).  The film can’t really decide if it wants to be more of a domestic melodrama or a supernatural slasher (and in either capacity it’s a fairly rote, drab affair), so it splits the difference and gifts the audience with these surreal bits and character traits.  It’s essential viewing in the same way that P.T. Barnum’s “Feejee Mermaid” is: you don’t believe a lick of it, but you’re drawn in by its horrific mishmash of oddball pieces.

MVT:  Michael’s petulant man-child persona is truly one for the ages.

Make or Break:  The opening birthday/post-birthday party sequence cements the full flavor of this particular dish: simultaneously mundane and arch.

Score: 6.5/10