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by Elena Mertus

1 Jun 2009

I was having a heated discussion with friends last night. One person would name a band, and we would stick the band in a genre. Sum 41. Punk. Something Corporate. Punk. I was getting mad, because to me, those bands are not punk. Maybe pop-punk/emo. In my world, punk equals Misfits. Flashback, to “Last Caress”.

by Bill Gibron

31 May 2009

Language is a virus. William Burroughs made that sentiment popular, and post-modern cultural has made it Gospel. We thrive on the communicable nature of words, drink in their poisonous purpose and pray that more people find your disease desirable - and more importantly, repeatable. Idiom infects us. Jingoism germinates and turns gangrenous within us. More so than at any other time in our civil lives, the message is purely the medium, the statement the status of how we irrevocably view the world. Now imagine a world where such viral verbalization is literally true - where what you say could turn someone from human to homicidal. That’s the basis for Bruce McDonald’s fascinating horror thriller Pontypool. While some may see it as a far too metaphysical monster movie, others will see - and more importantly, hear - the defining difference.

Disgraced shock jock Grant Mazzy finds himself exiled in the small Canadian town of Pontypool, a place where the most important news story of the day is a little old lady’s lost cat. Working with producers Laura Ann and Sydney, he tries to put on the best morning show possible while working within the confines of local special interests and rural concerns. On this particular winter’s day, traffic reporter Ken Loney creates quite a panic with his story of a riot at a doctor’s clinic. Soon, major news outlets are asking Grant if reports of government roadblocks and quarantine are true. Slowly, the situation starts to dawn on these isolated individuals. Something is turning the population into raving, insane killers - and they are headed to the radio station. Later, the trio learns an uncomfortable truth: their broadcast may be the reason for all the mob violence…not the signal, no. The actual words being spoken.

Pontypool is a sinister symphony told in three distinct and very diverse macabre movements. The first resembles a radio play, a War of the Worlds circa 2008 with actor Stephen McHattie stepping into the Orson Welles role as wisecracking DJ Grant Mazzy. Starting out his broadcast with a typical bravado born out of decades of “taking no prisoners”, the opening 15 minutes are more a primer on insular radio realities than a standard fright flick. Soon, we start to hear snippets of a supposed attack, facts so scarce that, several times, our hero’s producers pull the tall tale from the air. It’s all setup smoke and mirrors - is Grant making a media mountain out of a local journalist’s jive? Or is he missing the opportunity of a lifetime by mocking the invisible mob scene playing out over the speakers?

The second part offers up the typical living dead dimensions - reports of cannibalism and killing, victims trapped by the angry and uncontrollable throng, an eventual raid on the radio station - and it is here where director McDonald (with ample help from screenwriter Tony Burgess) introduces the real dread. The “zombies” in Pontypool are unlike any others you’ve seen before. They are not really undead creatures. They are, instead, bewildered people, chanting an individually unique mantra that makes them confused, crazy, and highly dangerous. We never really see the violence they symbolize - we just hear about the risk of same. Indeed, McDonald uses the main theme of words and their meaning to amplify the fear. The suspense here doesn’t come from what we witness, but from the unknown threat that is only spoken of in broken, hushed tones.

Yet it is the final sequence of Pontypool which is the most intriguing, a linguistically dense dissertation on the meaning of language and why we “understand” what we do. As part of the narrative, Grant determines that certain words trigger the homicidal urges within the populace. He believes that by undoing their typical interpretation, he can “cure” the ongoing plague. As the military uses a far more destructive means of dealing with the situation, Grant honestly believes he can ‘talk’ his way out of what appears to be the end of the world. One of the more beautiful things about this film is the desire on the part of McDonald and Burgess to keep the true essence of the danger at arms length. Just when we think we have a handle on how normal rural folk are turning into vicious, angry killers, the concept gets lost in a kind of logical gobbledygook which makes the situation all the more unsettling.

Indeed, there is a certain subtext to Pontypool which suggests that nothing we hear, nothing we know, is really the “truth”. Even the eyewitness reports from Ken Loney are suspect, and not because the ‘eye in the sky’ helicopter ace is actually driving around town in a broken down car, not a high tech flying machine. No, the core theme here is that we take so much of what the media offers us at face value that we tend not to use the common sense given to us to see the factual forest for the tabloid trees. Grant initially reacts badly to the mixed messages he’s given on the crisis. “I have to see it” he shouts, walking out of the booth and towards the exit in an attempt to be his own spectator. With the slightest confirmation, however, he goes full bore into panic mode, required by the rest of the film to tone down the rhetoric and come up with some plan of action.

Don’t get the wrong impression, though. Pontypool is still a very visceral horror film. There is a singular sequence where someone we know turns into a fiend, and her final bleed-out is shocking in its biological brutality. Similarly, there are false scares and intentional shocks in abundance. McDonald gets great performances out of McHattie and his wife, Lisa Houle (as a stunned Sydney). The singular setting may remind some of a stage play, and Pontypool often exposes its low budget roots in such a small in scope manner. But the material works much better within such a microcosm. It makes the messages and symbolism all the more potent. Indeed, this is the kind of film that reminds you of the typical 24 hours news response when something happens. The initial reaction of Grant and the crew sounds like the ill-prepared comeback to a growing crisis, the kind of guesswork and speculation that comes from people never, ever challenged in this manner.

In fact, it’s easy to see Pontypool as a direct response to the kind of post-9/11 predilection toward alarm and then retraction, of falsification for the sake of ratings. Grant clearly wants back in the big time. When we first see him, he is arguing with his agent over the realities of radio in this backwater Canadian burg. Later, when the publicity light goes on in his head, he’s all seriousness and sonorous tones. And yet, no real “news” is getting out. Instead, it’s all incomplete and conjecture - and there is nothing more frightening than realizing a threat exists, and not really knowing what it is. While most horror films spell out their scares in specific, genre terms, this is one time where the terror is vague, and as a result, all the more disquieting. Pontypool may not be everyone’s cup of creature feature tea, but this is one smart, heady brew - intoxicating, and all too telling.

by Mike Deane

31 May 2009

There’s just something about this guy that is so likeable, isn’t there? In this interview he discusses his appearances and possible regular feature on Red Eye (Pink Eyes on Red Eye, ha - how many times has that joke been made?), his new baby and blood sacrifice. For those who don’t know, this is on CBC radio with the guy who had that incredibly awkward Billy Bob interview.

by Rob Horning

30 May 2009

At Murketing, Rob Walker notes the rise of an ironic T-shirt, “Three Wolf Moon,” which looks like something that Brett from Flight of the Conchords may have worn. As Walker explains, lots of people wrote silly reviews praising the shirt, and sales took off. If you look on Amazon, you can see the gallery of images Photoshopped to show celebrities wearing it, and so on. Very creative and fun, a contemporary collective experience. So why does it creep me out?

Here’s Walker’s analysis of the shirt phenomenon:

This is an example of an object acquiring a narrative, and meaning. At first, it was simply a bad T-shirt. Then it became that bad T-shirt, the one that attracted a reviewer-flash-mob. If you were wearing it, and someone asked, you could tell them a story. In fact you could tell them the story even if they didn’t ask—it’s a good story!—particularly if you submitted a funny review which you can then recount.
The object becomes a souvenir of a moment and an experience: The time we all got together and made fun of this T-shirt.

I can’t tell how serious Walker is about this being a “good story” that anyone would want to hear—I guess I found it interesting, which is why I am writing about it now, but I would think anyone who was wearing the shirt telling me that story was sort of annoying. I’m sure there are scads of opportunities for this sort of pile-on participation online at any given moment, which seems to rob them all of a significant ingredient of serendipity that would tip the resulting personal stories from lame to not lame. That is to say, the fact that this occurred online on a retail website makes the whole event seem contrived, even though it probably wasn’t. The network effects, the rapid scaling-up of online viral phenomena, generates the air of contrivance—for me at least—which makes all such spontaneous events seem feasibly pre-plannable. It seems as though there are always enough bored yet clever people out there on the internet to latch onto memes.

But what I most fear—and maybe I shouldn’t—is that these sorts of experiences may be the only sorts of experiences we will have in the future. For those of us used to different experiences, the transition may be painful. I think this was what I had been feeling at Yellowstone. All our experiences may come with this prepackaged feeling of being contrived, of being designed to be reported on, if only by ourselves. The moments that don’t seem worth blogging about or “sharing” will become harder for us to fathom, undigestable, sitting in our minds like the stones in a bird’s gullet.

by Alan Ranta

29 May 2009

If you have ever taken the time to look in a mirror on acid or shrooms, you may be able to relate to this Tosca video of a selection from 2009’s No Hassle.

//Mixed media
//Blogs

Emerging from My Hiatus from Big Budget Games

// Moving Pixels

"I'd gotten burned out on scope and maybe on spectacle in video games, but I think it's time to return to bigger worlds to conquer.

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