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by Farisa Khalid

10 Oct 2006

From the User’s Guide to Indian Films Intro

The movies described in the User’s Guide are the hit list of Indian cinema. They’re not only the best films of all time, but they give you the best glimpse of what Indians enjoy, their sense of tragedy and comedy, their aspirations, their regrets. In short, it’s a visual chronicle of Indian society in the last 50 years. Enjoy.

Fire (1996)/ Earth (1998)/ Water (2005)
Color, Hindi
dir: Deepa Mehta
Inspired by Krzysztof Kieslowski’s Trois Couleurs Trilogy, Deepa Mehta set out to make three films that would provide an unsparing look into the hypocrisies of Indian society.  Fire and Water concerned such thematically controversial topics as lesbianism and abuse of both the lower castes and women that they are still banned in India. Mehta forces contemporary India to explore they ways in which it justifies oppression and inequality, all in the name of religion. Narratively, Fire tells the story of a young woman trapped in a loveless arranged marriage who finds an emotionally and physically fulfilling relationship with her elder sister-in-law. Earth takes us to Lahore just before the traumatic 1947 partition of India and Pakistan and shows us the chaos of people being uprooted and displaced, and how generations of friendships forged between Hindus and Muslims, overnight, transform into murderous hatred as the city erupts in communal riots. Water, the final film in the series, casts light on the struggle of poor Hindu widows abandoned by their families to live a life of celibacy in overcrowded ashrams. All three films demystify the sacred values that Indians hold family, love, homeland, and identity. They give us a glimpse of all the insidious compromises and sins we are willing to commit in the name of duty and faith.

by Bill Gibron

9 Oct 2006

It’s a veritable smorgasbord of selections this week at the local brick and mortar. As Halloween quickly approaches – at least in the eyes of shopping malls, department stores and TV networks – and the season of fear fires up, the scary movie reissues are still riding roughshod over the product produced within the last year. If you look hard, however, you’ll find one of the summer’s more perplexing productions – a comedy which lifts many of its more meaningful elements from Frank Capra instead of the lead actor’s typical Three Stooges style. Even more confusing, this past blockbuster season saw an American master with a set of razor sharp satires and intelligent experiments to his name deliver a light little homespun confection that many found so sweet that it was almost dramatically disheartening. Still, with the pagan demonology dense and the old slasher cinema reinstating its importance to the genre, a fan can literally gorge themselves on anthologies, limited editions and collector’s sets of long beloved cinematic splatter. So grab your already gutted wallet and wander into a favored retailer for the selections available on 10 October, such as:

Starting off high concept and only rarely venturing into the low brow, Click represents a kind of career stepping-stone for the superstar Sandler. Getting to the point, age wise, when his goofy fratboy foolishness stops looking hilarious and begins feeling pathetic, this family farce tried mightily to move in directions the comic never before considered. Some found its third act lapse into Frank Capra-esque schmaltz awkward and poorly realized, while others argued that it worked well within the complicated narrative the actor was attempting. Indeed, Click is more than just a remote control gimmick – it’s every man’s middle aged crisis come to life, complete with the ability to live through it all in just a few fast forwarding moments. Sure, the ending is a tad pat, and most of the ancillary cast is wasted in ways that only add to the overall uneven feel of the film, but with Kate Beckinsale actually providing the heart that’s missing from most of the story, we are more than willing to forgive, forget and enjoy.

PopMatters Review

The Exorcist: The Complete Anthology*
Though it contains such sloppy sequel missteps as The Exorcist II: The Heretic and both Renny Harlin and Paul Schrader’s unnecessary prequels, there are still three good reasons to consider picking up this sell-through priced package - the original film, its equally compelling DVD redux, and the underrated third installment helmed by author William Peter Blatty himself. As an exercise in horror, The Exorcist stands as one of those true genre rarities – a narrative that plays successfully in both the realistic and supernatural realms. As an everyday tale of a mother’s fear over losing her daughter to the unknown forces of maturity, the drama is dense and detailed. As a religious based diatribe on how evil lurks deep within the heart of even the most innocent child, it’s a true terror knockout. No other director before or since had William Freidkin’s talent for taking the fantastic and framing it within the ordinary. Blatty’s return to the more normalized nature of wickedness was welcome, but for sheer shock value, stick with the original – and the included digital re-edit featuring the infamous ‘spider walk’ scene.

The Fox and the Hound: 25th Anniversary Edition
Just a week after revisiting the confirmed classic The Little Mermaid, Disney drags out this uneven effort from 1981 – when the studio was sinking in a 2-D animation quagmire – and tries to give it the masterpiece polish of its other films. Thankfully, no amount of added content can correct the problems inherent in this syrupy, saccharine story. Without giving away much, let’s just say that these natural enemies who become pals in childhood are forced to face each other later on when the naiveté of youth no longer allows them the ability to be free of judgment or instinctual response. Though the novelty of seeing – or in this case, hearing – Kurt Russell return to his House of Mouse roots might be draw enough for some, the badly rendered animation and depressing core concepts might lead a few wee ones to whine about the lack of wholesome fun usually associated with a work from Uncle Walt. Many still view this feature as a fine effort from a mostly new guard of young Disney staffers, yet it seems stiff and dull compared to the masterful films that were a mere five years or so away.

Hail Mary*
Considered by critics to be Jean-Luc Godard’s last great film – or biggest blasphemous abomination, depending on whom you survey – this reworking of the birth of Jesus and his equally holy mother is definitely different. With the mad scientist of the French New Wave firmly in control of his cinema subverting mannerisms – odd cuts, sequences of stilted surreality, parallel plotting – and a post-modern appeal that updates the Bible to the back streets of Paris, what should be significantly sacrilegious manages to capture the concepts of faith and belief better than any preachers sermon or authentic ‘Gospel’ recreation. Many will be surprised at how funny and uniquely human it all is while others will marvel at how the master of motion picture deconstruction actually makes his massive experimentalism work. Once baby Jesus is born and starts acting like a miniature messiah however, all bets are off. Still, for the purely hypnotic visual trance that Godard can apparently fashion in his sleep, this is one of his most arresting and engaging efforts.


A Prairie Home Companion *
It doesn’t seem like the most promising combination – the king of deadpan communal comedy, Garrison Keillor and the master of multi-character narratives, Robert Atlman, collaborating on a film version of the radio icon’s famous show. But by all accounts, the 81 year old auteur has delivered another of his stunning studies of human frailty supported by Keillor’s simple, homespun humor. Using a moc-doc sort of format (the film follows the fictional final show for Prairie‘s cast and creator) and interlocking stories that seem to slowly merge into a standard Altman interpersonal infinite, what could have been harsh and critical becomes soft and whimsical, especially in the hands of a true cinematic artist. Thanks to bravura turns by Meryl Streep, Lily Tomlin, John C. Reilly, Woody Harrelson, Tommy Lee Jones and Keillor himself, this behind the scenes look at the individuals who come together to deliver a weekly radio repast is, perhaps, not one of Altman’s confirmed masterworks, but it does prove far more potent than most of the mediocre movies that came out this year.

PopMatters Review

Style Wars & Style Wars Revisited*
Many love the music and the cultural lifestyle, but few are probably aware of the connection between rap, hip hop, break dancing and graffiti. The art of tagging, or marking one’s territory with paints and symbols as a warning to others, is as old as ‘50s greaser gangs. But thanks to the ‘70s malaise that drowned New York in a sea of underprivileged and lost youngsters, the notion of vandalizing the subway cars late at night, mostly with brightly colored and artistically designed derivations of one’s name, became a symbol of status in a reality brazenly bereft of same. This concept of citywide acknowledgement and respect soon became a substitute for violence and brutality, with kids using their spray can skills instead of their fists to settle scores. As this amazing documentary (now reissued with a new film revisiting the scene) shows, once music caught up with the whole graffiti underground, it wasn’t long before scratchin’, dancin’ and rappin’ became the new tools of trade for those looking to escape their situation. Today it’s all so commercialized and compromised. Want to see the reality of a revolution before it was corrupted by corporations? This is the place to start.

Texas Chain Saw Massacre 2: Two Disc Gruesome Edition*
You think Michael Bay took a beating when he announced his remake of the seminal ‘70s scarefest, The Texas Chain Saw Massacre? You should have heard the howls when original Chain Saw creator Tobe Hooper announced that he was about to direct a sequel to his power tool classic. And even worse, he intended it to be a social satire. The collective groans from the horror hopeful were almost as loud as Leatherface’s favorite limb cutter. Surprise, surprise, Chain Saw II was a regular revolting hoot, a movie mixing Tom Savini’s vivisection F/X with Dennis Hopper’s mad Method acting turn as a vindictive relative of the original film’s victims. There was even a crackerjack comic performance by Sawyer cook Jim Siedow. Though heavily edited to earn the necessary “R” rating mandated by Cannon heads Golan and Globus, this rip roaring Tejas two-step was still a nasty, novel take on the entire Saw mythos. Some find it sloppy and uneven. Others argue for its place right alongside its far more serious sister film. Thanks to a brand new special edition DVD release from MGM, now’s the time to settle this bet between the divided devotees once and for all.

And Now for Something Completely Different

In a weekly addition to Who’s Minding the Store, SE&L will feature an off title disc worth checking out. For 10 October:

Santa Claws
John A. Russo, one of the collaborators/masterminds behind Night of the Living Dead (along with George Romero), has long tried to destroy his reputation by creating a series of incredibly bad b-movies (Voodoo Dawn, Midnight) and starting a surreal series featuring schlock actresses in various states of undress (many going under the Scream Queen moniker – Scream Queen Swimsuit Sensations, Scream Queen’s Naked Christmas). So should we expect anything better from this sophomorically titled treat trading on the taboo topic of a nasty Noel? Even with the amazing Debbie Rochon in the lead, and a certifiable whack job dressing up like Kris Kringle to thrash his victims with a handy dandy claw, this still could be an example of bottom feeder bait and switch. You know – sounds good on paper and in summary, but barely works as a narrative once the celluloid starts to unfold? Anyway, SE&L will just side with the lovely Canadian cult actress at the center and avoid Russo all together. With his money mad hands all over the Dead DVD in which new footage was inserted to pad out the masterpiece’s marketability, he deserves to be ignored.

by Bill Gibron

8 Oct 2006

As part of a month long celebration of all things scary, SE&L will use its regular Monday/Thursday commentary pieces as a platform to discuss a few of horror’s most influential and important filmmakers. This time around, George A. Romero’s redefinition of the zombie movie.

He didn’t invent the zombie movie, but his entries in the genre have clearly defined and mythologized it. Some would even say that he is the only undead auteur that understands the cinematic category. As important to horror as any filmmaker before or since, advertising executive turned director George Romero single-handled lifted the living dead film from its voodoo roots and reconfigured it as a stunning social comment on the shifting state of America. From 1968 until now, the Pittsburgh icon has forged a unique career, mixing styles and subject matter to touch on almost every aspect of the macabre. He’s taken on vampirism (Martin), madness (The Crazies)  - even a tribute to one of the founding facets of post-modern horror, EC Comics (Creepshow).

Yet it’s his regular return to the flesh eater film that remains a constant in the mind of his followers. Such substantive acclaim – all four Dead films have met with varying degrees of adoration – makes Romero that rarity in the realm of the reanimated human. Naturally, this begs the question, what is it about his approach to the cannibal corpse that makes it so powerful, and why can’t others match his legitimate legacy as a formidable fright filmmaker? It’s a quandary that has sparked hundreds of overheated debates.

It was clear from his first installment of what is now a quartet of quintessential efforts that Romero wasn’t using the classic concept of horror to formulate the fear in Night of the Living Dead. Classic terror, usually defined around the Universal ideal of Gothic monster movies made during the ‘30s and ‘40s, argued against a clear reality as the backdrop to fear. Instead, everything was hyperstylized, from the setting and situations to the players taking part in the terror. From Romero’s point of view, the growing aesthetic advances made during the ‘50s and ‘60s, from the medium mutating French New Wave to the cinema vérité documentaries sweeping the circuit, allowed the introduction of truth and authenticity into motion picture macabre.

Night‘s story was deceptively simple. A brother and sister, visiting a relatives grave, are attacked by what appears to be a madman. It soon turns out that the dead have come back to life, and are killing and consuming the living. Finding a seemingly abandoned farmhouse to hide in, Barbara soon meets up with Ben, a fellow refugee that just so happens to be black. As they try to secure their position, they discover a family in the basement, along with a teenage couple. All are hiding and less than excited about helping. Soon, everyone is working together to battle the growing menace outside. News reports witnessed over the television indicate a situation slowly winding out of control. Even though the reports seem positive, there’s a growing sense that all is lost. All these people can do is hope for the best, and fight to survive.

With this one monochrome masterwork, Romero reconfigured the elements of fright, using recognizable individual types and understandable circumstances to elevate his shocking supernatural splatter. Night invested the scary movie with a new sense of immediacy, its narrative almost unrelenting in the way it paces its zombie attacks. Just enough time passes for the television to deliver another set of sinister warnings before the next deluge of the dead occurs. This then gave the terror that much more relevancy to an audience used to the hustle and bustle of life. The situation therefore didn’t require such a massive suspension of disbelief.

All pointed political grousing aside (each one of his films have a sound social stance at their center), the real advance Romero championed was indeed to connect horror to the everyday life of the audience. Few were familiar with haunted castles, grave robbing, and blood drinking Counts. But show them a mob of viscous, mindless killers pounding at the door, looking for flesh to consume, and suddenly the security of existence seems a little shaky. Toss in a touch of racism, matricide, and a lot of unanswered questions about human foibles and frailties, and you have a major shift in the fright film language.

It continued on a decade later with Romero’s return to the series, 1978’s Dawn of the Dead. Now capable of tapping into elements unavailable to him at the time of Night‘s creation (color film, advanced F/X and make-up work) and using a far more recognizable space as his frame of everyday reference – the shopping mall – this filmmaker fashioned his new slaughter spectacle as an apocalyptic look at the disintegration of infrastructure and the completely plausible ‘us vs. them’ mentality that arrives whenever an unfathomable act of evil confronts our sensibilities. In this case, a group of professionals (two TV reporters, two government soldiers) hole up in a local shopping center, clearing out the zombies and protecting themselves from the monstrous mob outside to try and recreate their once semi-privileged lives.

All throughout the course of the film’s opening act, we see the foursome battle to reach their consumer sanctuary, fending off all manner of undead obstacles. Once safely inside, they begin to plot. Zombies are destroyed, doors blocked off. A perfect asylum from the atrocities around them allows the group to gorge on the many materialistic pleasures available. We see our heroes hording food, glutting themselves on fancy meals and overindulging in items of extravagance. By the time some like-minded outsiders arrive – in the guise of marauding bikers – our clique has become covetous of their self-made retreat. By contrasting the death of one social structure with the attempted birth of another, Romero made all his points about class and equality. But buried in the heart of the political science was really just an examination of the human desire for comfort and security.

In many ways, Dawn represented the end of the reality-based Romero horror film. His next two efforts in the Dead series would remove most of the recognizable pragmatic aspects of the situation (real world places, interpersonal human interaction) with outrageous scenarios and even odder zombie circumstances. As a result, the director continued to polish his approach, picking and choosing the aspects he really wanted to explore. His follow up, 1986’s Day of the Dead - considered by many to be the lesser of all four films (it’s a highly debatable delineation) - argues from the beginning that the real world is long dead. In a stellar opening setpiece, a lone band of governmental scientists and soldiers try to drum up anything “living” in what appears to be an abandoned town. The minute their presence is known, however, hordes of ravenous zombies begin literally crawling out of the woodwork. As the streets fill with thousands of flesh craving fiends, we see the end of human civilization, reconfigured in the stammering, shuffling walk of a reanimated corpse.

This doesn’t mean that Romero totally avoids reality in this glorious cinematic gross out. Instead of focusing on the social, or the political, the director focuses his attention on personality. We see the simmering divides between people, the hatred the military has for the scientists and visa versa. Both are forced to live and interact with each other, but with their individual purposes being crossed and contradictory, they can literally never see eye to eye on anything. This means the real horror is personal, not apocalyptic. As the world decays outside, humanity’s lost hope are arguing in a bunker over sexual favors, the rounding up of additional zombies for experimentation, and what they will do should the need arise to escape from their underground bunker.

This makes Day a very dark film indeed, the kind of exploration of the fragile human soul that many don’t imagine they’ll ever want to witness. Unrelenting in its horror, featuring the perfect contextual juxtaposition of Tom Savini’s ultra realistic autopsy like effects, it remains a movie arguing that the only way to recapture the purity of existence is a kind of total rejection of the past. Toward the end, when things are going decidedly deranged, the Jamaican helicopter pilot argues for everyone to simply drop their duty and fly off to a deserted island somewhere. There, some manner of life can be restarted, one without the constant threat of the living dead causing chaos and the amplification of human faults. The idea is not so much rejected as reconfigured by many of the things we see later. When a “trained” zombie named Bub proves that he can respond with thought, no matter how simplistic, ‘it’ dooms everything around it. The notion that these “things” can actually reason refutes the feeling that they’re just obstacles to overcome. Instead, they become opponents in a battle for the rest of the planet. 

With such a solid third installment, it’s odd then that it took 20 years for Romero to revisit his zombie mythos. He has been quoted as saying that the failure to fully realize his ideas for Day of the Dead (his original script featured zombie armies, trained by the government, waging all out war against their fellow flesheaters in massive battle scenes) plus the rather uninteresting political landscape left him lost for a way back into his series. Oddly enough, when Land of the Dead finally arrived, it was amazingly well received. Considered a return to form and a furthering of his agenda-based fright facets, the truth is far more complex. In essence, Land is a distillation of all three previous Dead films. It offers Night‘s home as hospice, Dawn‘s man-made oasis, and Day‘s military inspired sense of security. It also illustrates the corruptibility of all three, how each one is a fool’s paradise built on bricks and the backs of those dumb enough to try and fend for themselves.

In Land, years have passed, and zombies now live in quasi-communal packs, easily preyed upon by scavengers looking for goods to barter with in the new quarantined city of Fiddler’s Green. This sectioned off society has a typical structure – fat cats at the top, middle class barely making ends meet, underclass doing all the grunt work – and it reflects the way in which the living dead also organize themselves. When they finally decide to attack the humans, they place the lesser corpses up front, fodder for protecting the so-called “smarter” ones following up behind. The purpose is simple – confront the living on their own terms. The concept is clear – as a repressed majority, they will no longer sit by and let the Establishment minority ignore their existence.

Again, the political ramifications are intense. The zombie leader is a big, beefy black man who was obviously once a gas station attendant. Similarly, the humans capable of defending the Green are all members of the mitigated lower class. Together, they form a conspiratorial element that is destined to topple any arrogant hierarchy. But the main theme of Land of the Dead is the shredding and selling of hope. In a world which seems sorely lacking in any kind of recognizable trust, Romero reiterates that belief in something beyond oneself is only fated to fail. By using the individual instinct to survive, and marrying that with the intelligence to find an escape, the results are either prophetic or predetermined. Land ends on a note of vigilante vindication as well as a possibility of survival. It has de-evolved the genre into a simple screed on Darwin’s ‘only the completely capable endure’ ideal.

Romero will always be remembered for reinstating terror back into the horror movie mix. Where once outrageousness and the fear of the unknown seemed like reason enough to keep the macabre minions at bay, he amplified the angst by directly linking his dread to the things in life that people can instantly identify with. They say that the number one and two fears that most individuals have are their own death, and the death of a loved one. Romero rewired this trepidation into a meditation on mortality, an argument against an afterlife and an easily recognizable relationship between living humans and undead corpses. Keeping the connection physical – via eating – was the final major masterstroke. It gave his Dead films a visceral edge that most fright films just couldn’t compete with. It’s why these four films remain classics of the creature feature genre. It’s why George Romero’s legacy as a fright icon is already secured.

by Bill Gibron

7 Oct 2006

As the video revolution of the ‘80s proved more profitable than any other facet of the fledging multimedia, distributors were desperate for anything that would make for a viable VHS presentation. Naturally, the simplest genre to jump on was horror. For as long as there was an outlet for motion pictures, macabre has been seen as the easiest way to make a mega-fast buck in the business. Since most home video fans were adolescents, unable to access these slice and dice spectacles theatrically because of the everpresent “R” rating, dumping as many onto the easily rentable VCR arena seemed like a solid idea. As part of Empire Pictures exploitation-oriented production ideals, which included such schlock classics as Ghoulies, Zone Troopers, From Beyond, Creepazoids and Sorority Babes in the Slimeball Bowl-a-Rama, a take on what is perhaps the most terrifying place for most people – prison – was commissioned. Written by company scribe C. Courtney Joyner, who himself would give birth to such future cinematic cheese as Puppet Master III, The Class of 1999 and Dr. Mordrid, this latest effort would be another in a long line of potentially profitable titles for the inventive entertainment entity.

Somehow, the filmic fates smiled on the simply named Prison, providing it with a stellar cast that included future stars Viggo Mortensen and Lane Smith, and an inventive novice Finnish director named Renny Harlin. Making his American moviemaking debut, Harlan wanted to impress Western audience with his style and cinematic sparkle. Taking the standard storyline, he added substantial visual panache to a film’s basic vengeful spirit plot. When an old abandoned prison is reopened to accommodate that bureaucratic certainty known as overcrowding, an ancient evil is reawakened. Becoming part of the structure itself, the malevolent force (the remnants of an inmate wrongfully executed years before) manipulates wires, walls and other intimate elements to wield its wicked payback. In the process, guards are garroted, inmates are maimed, and secrets long buried in the prison grounds return from the grave to kick ass and take names. While much of the movie seemed silly, and overloaded with jailhouse jocularity, Harlin hemmed in the more ridiculous aspects to deliver a fascinating piece of horror pop art.

By utilizing a real rundown penitentiary (the brooding Wyoming State Prison) and accenting the acting and effects, Harlin avoided many of the frustrating formulas that fluster your basic scary movie. Thanks to the atmosphere of dread inherent in the backdrop and the gory greatness of various set piece deaths, instead of a typical trip into direct to video drek, Empire ended up with a wonderfully effective fright film. Harlin’s handling of the project was so well-received that he was immediately hired to direct A Nightmare on Elm Street 4: The Dream Child, which in turn lead to his leap into the big time – helming the Die Hard sequel Die Harder. Sadly, most fright fans have forgotten, or even worse, have yet to see this excellent exercise in terror. Long unavailable in any format – and YET to be released on DVD – this is one lost fright flick that could really benefit from a digital resurrection. Prison may not be the best convict-based creature feature ever made, but it’s certainly worth an aluminum disc revisit. It stands decapitated head and shoulders about its ‘80s overkill brethren.

by Bill Gibron

6 Oct 2006

After spending the better part of the ‘60s on The Andy Griffith Show – and winning five Emmys for his sensational supporting work as the bumbling deputy Barney Fife, Don Knotts was lured by Universal into an exclusive feature film contract. His first effort for the studio was this lightweight horror comedy centering on nervous typesetter named Luther Heggs and a local legend about the ghosts that haunt the sinister Simmon’s house. Tailored to his specific talents, it was a project perfectly suited for Knotts. After all, no one at the time did physical anxiety the way this mannerism master did. He could make an audience antsy just by saying ‘Hello’. Here, Heggs was even jumpier than Mayberry’s less than finest. With a script created specifically by Griffith scribes James Fritzell and Everett Greenbaum, and solid direction from small screen journeyman Alan Rafkin (responsible for episodes of everything from The Dick Van Dyke Show to Bewitched) what started out as a standard star vehicle quickly became a family film classic.

At first glance, this all does look like your typical Knotts material – fidgety town joke with a vivid imagination and a reputation for abusing same, gorgeous gal who won’t give our hero the time of day, overbearing bully who finds Luther offensive as a co-worker and a human being, and an ordinary cinematic mystery involving a haunting, an unsolved crime from the past, and the requisite red herrings strewn throughout the sensational supporting cast. While most fans focus on the sensational – and somewhat scary – haunted house set pieces (the blood-riddled pipe organ, the secret stairwell, the portrait with a pair of gardening sheers jammed in its throat) it’s actually the heart that confirms The Ghost and Mr. Chicken‘s consideration as a masterwork. Knotts is such a well meaning mensch, the kind of instantly likeable sad sack that we hope will eventually succeed, that we can’t help but empathize with his plight. The fetching Alma seems to care for our coward, but with the dishonorable Ollie around to interfere with their budding attraction, we wind up with a sensational subplot of love unrequited to go along with all the macabre-based merriment.

As witty as it is wise, The Ghost and Mr. Chicken boasts another element that many post-modern movies can’t even begin to find, and that’s a combination of slapstick and character-based comedy. Most current films try to milk laughs out of ludicrous situations, standard gross out gags and superficial sexual innuendo. But every member of the town is terrifically realized, from the spooky Mr. Kelsey to the Mayor’s paranormally obsessed wife Halcyon. With dialogue strewn with wonderfully memorable lines (“And they used Bon Ami”…“Let me clarify this”…“Attaboy Luther!”) and a wrap up that makes us appreciate just how much we care for these characters, The Ghost and Mr. Chicken is a landmark of lovingly crafted cleverness. One should ignore the dismissive tone of the ‘too cool for school’ generation and embrace this movie for the gentle gem it is. Luther may be a variation on the village idiot, but in the end, it’s his courage and conviction that matter. It’s an important message that bolsters what is a mini-masterpiece of a movie.

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