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Friday, Sep 26, 2008

Music is the most opened ended of mediums. Individuals can influence the reception of a song or a sonic cycle simply by using their own personal powers of interpretation. What may sound like a collection of purposeful pop hits to some becomes the primer for an entire wounded adolescence. In other instances, self-proclaimed works of art stagnate and slowly fade away. When critics first heard Lou Reed’s follow-up to his crackerjack mainstream monster Transformer, they were at a loss for words. The dark, dirge-like Berlin centered on a pair of desperate junkies, the lyrics exploring such non-commercial themes as suicide and physical abuse. For many, it was just too grim and self-aggrandizing. For painter turned director Julian Schnabel, the 1973 LP became the soundtrack to his troubled teen life.


Now, three and a half decades later, the filmmaker has found a way to celebrate his love of this difficult and dense masterpiece. Convincing Reed to do the au courant thing and play the entire album live, Schnabel set up a five night stint at St. Ann’s Warehouse in Brooklyn, New York. There, accompanied by an orchestra, a children’s choir, and a sensational back-up band, Reed revisited the story of Caroline, her mentally unsound boyfriend, and their battles with depression and drug addiction. With Schnabel adding a visual interpretation to the story (via filmed sequences created by his daughter Lola) and a locked in look at the onstage dynamic, we are swept away on waves of wounded imagery and tonal misfortune. While not a great cinematic statement, Berlin (now available on DVD from The Weinstein Company’s preeminent Miriam Collection) is still an unbelievably effective concert.


As an artist noted for his imaginative approach, Schnabel’s most shocking invention here is getting Reed to care again. Fans of the former Velvet Underground guide (this critic included) have often lamented the 66-year-old’s sometimes lax performance aesthetic. While never a strong singer, Reed tends to act like a downbeat Dylan, avoiding melody all together for a sloppier, more spoken croak. This frequently renders his outright poptones almost completely uninteresting. Reed got his start in the song factories of Manhattan (at Pickwick, to be specific) and he can’t deny his way with a catchy melody. But when he presents this material onstage, his inferred lack of caring destroys the music’s magic. Here, Reed is back in rare form, sensational with only occasional slippage back into his old, nonchalant ways.


The other startling aspect of Berlin is watching Reed’s reactions. When the audience explodes after a particularly powerful sequence, the man’s manic, weather-beaten smile says it all. Elsewhere, the living legend lets his guard down, flashing obvious signs of appreciation when guitarist Steve Hunter (who played on the original recordings) rips a particularly powerful lead. The best moment, however, is not part of the Berlin album proper. Instead, Reed indulges an encore by bringing UK torch singer Antony (of Antony and the Johnsons) up front. There, the pair perform the old Velvet’s classic “Candy Says” in such a stunning fashion that its creator is visibly shaken. It’s an amazing moment, as if Reed is finally realizing just how great his songwriting skill is, and how amazing it is to hear someone really run with and interpret his marvelous ideas.


This does not dampen the impact of the other offerings. Berlin remains a fascinating piece, a collection of simple sentiments expanded by an almost apocalyptic scope. Most of this came courtesy of producer Bob Ezrin, and the concert experience improves on the LP’s rather restrictive mixes. Live, the title track explodes across the stage, while “Lady Day” sounds as definitive as anything Reed has ever done. Both “Caroline Says I” and it’s far more famous follow-up showcased the combined effectiveness of their author’s words and music. By the time “Men of Good Fortune” rolls around, we are sold, and then Reed cements the deal with his readings of “The Bed” and “Sad Song”. Without the dimensions of such a show, Berlin can seem self-indulgent and insular. But in performance, it finds its focus and force.


As part of the DVD release, there’s a five minute interview with Reed and Schnabel (taken from something called “Spectacle: Elvis Costello with…”) that explains some of the motivations behind the album and the movie. There are also six minutes of behind the scene material, clips of the musicians warming up, the crew creating the stage, and blocking being discussed. The only thing missing here is a commentary track from the director. Schnabel clearly relates to Berlin (he calls it a celebration of “love’s dark sisters: jealousy, rage, and loss”) and it would have been wonderful to hear how he interprets the material, especially in light of the comments about his past. Reed’s input would be wonderful as well, yet it’s clear that, as he’s aged, the man has gotten even more closed off and bitter. Sadly, neither man gets a chance for a deeper discussion.


Still, one has to compliment an artist who chooses to revisit a much maligned work. Until recently, it was rare when someone like Reed would play an entire album in concert. For some, going back to a song or sound that may have been part of a one-off or casual studio experiment must be mindboggling. Hits have a tendency to live on outside their creation. The filler and ancillary tracks remain locked forever in their making-of moment. For Lou Reed, Berlin must represent both the best of times and the worst of times. Cash had given him the freedom to create. Sadly, “Take a Walk on the Wild Side” and its accompanying LP removed much of his ability to experiment. The result was a lost gem, undiscovered until now. For Julian Schnabel, Berlin stands as a personal touchstone. Thankfully, he’s allowed the rest of us to rediscover its amazing magic as well.


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Monday, Sep 22, 2008

We barely recognize them. The fringe dwellers, the ones who live life along the edges of the social structure we struggle so mightily to maintain. They clean our offices. They cook our convenience foods. They plow through a mound of monotonous, meaningless tasks so that we can savor our sense of superiority and entitlement. They begin and end in anonymity, and for the most part, we prefer it that way. And yet art loves to drag out these ‘dregs’ turning them into figures of heroic virtue and stretched stoic nobility.


Not the Campbell Brothers, however. Ohio auteurs Luke and Andy have created a masterful look at service-oriented tedium and lowlife illegitimacy called Cordoba Nights, and with this early morning adventure into the dark underbelly of a Midwestern metropolis, we see the boys responsible for such cult classics as Midnight Skater, Demon Summer, and The Red Skulls finally finding their voice as mainstream moviemakers. Though it may sound a little like a certain video store clerk turned Pulp pioneer every now and again, this is a wonderful slice of seedy substrata that suggests, if anyone can overcome the outsider tag to become a patented indie icon, it’s the Campbell boys.


Former drummer Finn doesn’t mind delivering pizzas. He doesn’t care that most of his customers are lousy tippers or that his boss, the prickly Mickey, gives him crap most of the time. Alone in his car, vinyl LP record player spinning tunes from forgotten eras in his ear, he cruises the small town of Bronston and attempts to avoid his ever-present melancholia. When an attractive girl named Allie asks for a ride uptown, Finn agrees. After all, a little company wouldn’t be too bad, especially with the kind of deliveries he has to make. But he soon learns of his passenger’s unspoken motives. Seems she’s trying to escape the clutches of cruel crime boss Darren, and the thug won’t take her absence lightly. As a matter of fact, he will send out his harried henchmen to capture her and kill whoever helped her out - and that puts Finn right in his gun sights.


Like a trippy tone poem embellished with some equally marvelous 16mm specks, the Campbell Brothers bravura Cordoba Nights is undeniably good. As a matter of fact, it more or less borders on the great. With its intricate narrative wrapped around marginal individuals, and characterization that’s both subtle and sophisticated, the boys have seemingly perfected their lurking quirk perspective. Instead of making jokes for the sake of humor, or adding violence to up the geek factor, the Brothers have mellowed. They have found their groove among the various cinematic references that have long fueled their fascinating film work. Again, the cloud of Tarantino seems prevalent here, but the link may be more tenuous than tired. Since they are mining the same material as their far more famous counterpart, we may simply be seeing a shared interest, not an outright rip.


Certainly QT would never champion a hero as dry as Finn. Played with laconic likeability by Raymond Turturro, we can see the actual wear and tear of a pointless existence written all over our pizza guy’s grubby mug. The Campbells give the slouch several interesting idiosyncrasies - the love of unusual songs, the record player boom box, the sudden speed freak frenzy that comes with breaking the law - but Finn is also a classic slacker. He’s directionless and doesn’t care, driven but only because it beats sitting around without the cash to buy some beer. Ragged and retro, our lead is just open enough to keep us interested, and yet the Campbells fill his storyline with so many secrets that we sense we’d never get to know the real deal.


Allie is supposed to be the contrast, the wild child spirit sent to jar Finn out of his malaise. But as played by longtime Campbell company member Ashleigh Holeman, our fascinating free spirit appears cut from the same aimless cloth. It’s clear she is a user - of people, of favors, of circumstance - and there are times when we wish someone would wipe the beaming smile off her smug face. Cordoba Nights never excuses Allie - it may be the movie’s biggest gamble - but since Finn is so far gone into an insular existence built out of unusual obsessions, the pair seem perfectly in tune. Oddly enough, the movie doesn’t try for a romantic or sexual counterpoint. Together, the duo acts as mutual muses, inspiring the other to take risks, if only for one night.


The rest of the cast is expertly employed, the Brothers bringing out the best in such diverse actors as Duane Whitaker (another link to Tarantino) and Joe Estevez. The Sheen sibling is excellent here, delivering a memorable minor moment as a calzone loving mobster with a special place in his heart for hot food. Elsewhere, the standard Campbell crew comes out to support their sponsors, with Chuck Cieslik and Andrew Mercer as standouts. But the real breakout work done here belongs to the boys themselves. Like this past Spring’s Poison Sweethearts which tried to mimic the standard static grindhouse titillation (and did so marvelously), the cinematography stays completely in character. The Ohio nights are loaded with low tech filmmaker flavor, the gray spots of grain embellishing an already atmospheric natural light look.


Even better, the boys keep the camera moving. This isn’t ‘point and shoot’ camcorder-ing, the kind of unprofessional practice we see from most homemade moviemakers. Here, the lens looks inside and around objects, strapped to the hood of Finn’s car to capture the vehicular movements through a dark and depressing cityscape. Handheld sequences complement purposeful tracking shots, and everything feels planned out and primed for ease of editing. Indeed, everything about Cordoba Nights, except the budget, screams out for inclusion in the IFC/Sundance strain of modern indie moviemaking. If you didn’t know about their previous love of all things gory and zombified, you’d swear Luke and Andy were trying to ride on the genre’s contemporary coattails.


Instead, we wind up with an original vision from a pair of filmmakers who should be branching out into even more meaningful Cineplex fare. While they could conceivably emulate their celluloid heroes for the next few years, hoping that someone recognizes their talent among the DVD din, the truth is, their filmic future is now. Here’s hoping some studio gives the guys a shot at doing something within the system. Only then will we know how far they truly have progressed. For those who’ve loved the lunatic lyricism of such unlikely classics as Demon Summer, Cordoba Nights will seem like a million motion picture light years from such a past. In the case of these clever creators, that’s perfectly all right. Sometimes, it takes a risk to really prove one’s mantle. Thanks to their most recent output, the Campbell Brothers are clearly ready for the big time.


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Saturday, Sep 20, 2008

Fright fans have been waiting for this event for nearly three decades. After 1980’s Inferno introduced the concept of a continuing saga about the infamous Three Mothers, and the possibility of the ultimate horror trilogy, those who’ve followed Dario Argento’s career have wondered when he would finally deliver the last act of his terror triptych. Suspiria has long been considered a macabre masterpiece, the kind of unbridled moviemaking genius that ushered in copycats, great expectations and the prospect of even better things to come. The Italian auteur’s follow up was crucified, critics and audiences both startled by its dissimilarity to its source, as well as its purposeful sense of style over substance. Now comes Mother of Tears: The Third Mother, and again, Argento is defying convention to deliver another totally unique take on his previously forged black magic reality.


When an ancient urn is unearthed in an old Italian cemetery, it brings with it the standard portents of evil. The death of an innocent art historian marks just the first of many unspeakable acts. Soon, Sarah Mandy is caught up in a sinister situation that she barely understands. Chased by forces bent on destroying her, and unsure of the admonishing voice in her head, she seeks the help of fellow museum employee Michael Pierce. When he proves ineffectual, she searches out the counsel of the Vatican’s last official Exorcist, as well as one of Rome’s leading alchemists. Through her connection to her late mother, and the previous incarnations of Maters Suspiriorum and Tenebrarum, Sarah soon learns that Mother Lachrimarum has risen, and plans on orchestrating the second fall of Rome - unless our heroine can find a way to stop her.


Hitting the ground running and never giving up for 90 nasty minutes, The Mother of Tears (new to DVD from Genius Products, Dimension Extreme, and the Weinstein Company) is Dario Argento’s final statement on his precedent as the definitive Delacroix of dread. Avoiding most of the slow burn visual splendor that made Suspiria a classic, and shunning all of Inferno‘s incomprehensible tone poetry, the 68 year old director has finally finished this long gestating journey - for better and for worse. There will be complaints that this film feels nothing like its predecessors, that there’s an obvious scary movie overkill methodology at play. Indeed, the first film used witchcraft as an afterthought, the denouement in a plotline that had numerous other elements going for it. Similarly, the notion that pagans ruled a decadent New York apartment building was but a single facet in a film overloaded with optical - and occult - wonders.


Here, Argento seems to be saying ‘enough is enough’. Instead of painting the screen with memorable imagery, or provocative pictures, he just antes up the arterial spray and hopes for the horrific. Luckily, he delivers some delightfully disgusting set pieces. Throats are slit, bodies carved open, and various torture devices remove eyes, mouths, and other organs from their biological owners. This is also one of the few films that put kids directly in harms way. A baby is tossed off the side of a bridge, while another toddler is vivisected into several disturbing parts. The F/X work is wonderful, unsettling in its power and putrescence. Sure, there are some moments of mindless CGI that get in the way of the wickedness, but overall, The Mother of Tears provides an open grave full of gruesomeness.


The director also has a capable cast on hand to sell the sluice. Though she’s reduced to ‘last girl’ role quite often in this splatter rampage, daughter Asia Argento is an agreeable lead. She may act whiny and weak a great deal of the time, but she has a presence that the camera can’t deny. And though she’s hidden in smoke and mirrors for her part here, it’s great to see Daria Nicolodi back in the genre camp. As Detective Enzio Marchi, Christian Solimeno may come across as nothing more than plot fodder, but he makes good use of his screen time, and Adam James does a decent job as Mike, the art historian with an interest in the supernatural. Elsewhere, moments with the legendary Udo Kier and Coralina Cataldi-Tassoni remind us of why Argento is the master. No one kills a character like Dario.


As for the DVD itself, the added content is underwhelming in its quantity, wonderful in its quality. Argento is present for both an onscreen interview and various backstage sequences. The Q&A even drops a delicious bombshell - he may revisit the Three Mothers again. Having enjoyed himself immensely while making this film, a suggestion regarding a prequel has inspired the spirited 68 year old. An origins picture would be right up his alley, especially considering his love of making movies. During the Behind the Scenes featurette, we see Argento in his favorite position - implement of death in hand, camera over his shoulder ready to capture another senseless bit of slaughter. No matter his recent track record, this is an artist who clearly gets a thrill out of bringing his bravura vision to the big screen.


Yet what most fans are probably wondering is where Mother of Tears fits in the entire Mater mythology. It is clear that, when he came to this fabled finale, Argento knew his narrative would have to do some rather basic back peddling. He ties to Suspiria and it’s dance school setting and makes reference to the Manhattan mayhem section of his set-up. There are call backs to the original Three Mothers book (which we see in Inferno) and lots of exposition regarding architecture, cults, history, and death. Again, this is the first of these films to feature the Mother plotline almost exclusively. We aren’t dealing with a character discovering the witch and her secret, underlying purpose. Here, everything’s out in the open and a part of it.


The observant obsessive will see references to other Argento works as well. The obvious bow is to his mostly forgotten effort Phenomena. With the use of a monkey familiar, and a last act flood of maggot-filled offal, the director clearly delights in reminding us of his legacy. Similarly, he seems to be channeling the entire post-modern creepshow canon, tossing in a homage to Clive Barker here, a direct reference to Peter Jackson and The Frighteners there.


Mother of Tears works best when it avoids conversation and simply brings on the carnage. It may not satisfy every fan of Argento’s prosaic past, nor is it the realistic return to form everyone has been hoping for. Still, for anyone who doubts his power behind the lens, one look at this luxuriant, ludicrous exercise in excess will convince you - Dario Argento is a master, and Mother of Tears is an effective, engaging statement of same.


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Friday, Sep 19, 2008

The media just loves to fawn over George Clooney. With his combination of classic Hollywood charisma and contemporary self-effacing nerve, he tends to enhance, and sometimes overwhelm, the projects he touches. From his early, ineffectual work in films like One Fine Day, to the critical acclaim accompanying his turns with the Coens, he’s a student of the old studio system as well as a jester in his own idiosyncratic kingdom of considered cool. But what’s most fascinating about this man’s career is not his rise to mainstream prominence. Instead, his unique turns behind the camera - Confessions of a Dangerous Mind, Good Night and Good Luck - indicate an artist willing to bend tradition in order to place his own unique stamp on cinema. His latest effort, the attempted screwball comedy Leatherheads, is no different.


Poor Dodge Connelly. All he knows is football. He’s been playing an unappreciated professional version of the sport for years, unable to capture the public imagination the way the college game has. When his team folds, he heads to Chicago to talk with old ally C.C. Frazier. The sleazy entrepreneur is representing Princeton star Carter Rutherford, and Connelly thinks he can con the young war hero into going legit. Of course, as with every story like this, there’s a dame in the mix - in this case, ace Tribune reporter Lexie Littleton. Quick with a word and decisive on a deadline, she is out to undermine Rutherford. Seems his WWI mythos might just be bunk after all. Of course, destroying his reputation may just put the fledgling fortunes of professional football in jeopardy - and Connelly won’t let that happen.


You’ve got to give Clooney credit for trying, especially when most of Leatherheads is a jaunty, jazz age dream. He’s definitely learned a lot from his many collaborations with ones Joel and Ethan, and his visual flair never fails him. This is a smart, good looking movie, never overplaying its period piece precision or resorting to camp or kitsch. Clooney’s attention to detail is flawless, his comic timing as polished as the brass of a speakeasy’s spittoon. And as we learn on the included commentary track of the new DVD from Universal Home Video, he’s a student of several old school cinematic masters. So why then is this movie merely good, and not the amazing masterpiece it wants to be? Where did this director and his dedicated cast go wrong, especially in light of all the things they both get so very, very right?


One answer may be the genre. As Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day indicated, the screwball comedy is a dead genre for a very good reason - it’s hard as Hell to recreate. Not only was the format a product of its time, but it also reflected the obvious anxieties of a world between wars. Clooney clicks into the aspects that cause instant recognition - ditzy dialogue, razor-sharp put downs, lightning quick conversations - but never finds the narrative mechanics to amplify everything else onscreen. During the opening football sequence, we see the kind of cinematic zing required to pull this off. By the middle of the second act, all that pizzazz has petered out.


Then there’s Renee Zellweger. While far more tolerable here than in other starring roles, she’s still the hollow feminine side of a rather lax lover’s triangle. With a pinched up face that blocks her needs to be expressive eyes, and a delivery pitched somewhere between community college thespianism and The Hudsucker Proxy, she never settles in to her function here. It’s the same with John Krasinski as Rutherford. He is supposed to be a genial lox, the kind of wide eyed innocent who doesn’t mind dipping into the dark side once in a while - or at least, that’s how the script handles him. He goes along with the get rich quick scheme forwarded by Connelly and Frazier, rather mercenary in his decision. But then, when Zellweger’s Littleton betrays him, he acts like a hurt puppy - albeit one that freely stained the companionship carpet whenever and wherever he wanted.


It’s up to our creative cheerleader to hold everything together, and it’s a testament to Clooney’s talent and magnetism that he manages to make it work. Connelly’s moxie, his sense of purpose and passion for playing football comes across loud and clear. Similarly, when smitten with Littleton and jealous of her wandering attentions, we believe in the legitimacy of their love. It’s too bad that the second act gets bogged down in ancillary plot points. Had Leatherheads simply stayed focused on showing how football moved from a college to national pastime, we’d have a winning sports epic. But emotions that should soar merely lumber along, failing to get our undivided attention.


As part of the hefty DVD packaging, we get a wealth of explanatory extras. Clooney’s commentary with producer Grant Heslov is a might dry, yet the two do offer up some solid production insights. The deleted scenes argue for a film that could have been even longer (at 116 minutes, its 26 too long) and the various Making-of documentaries showcase Leatherheads’ attention to detail. Of course, none of this addresses the bigger question - what would this film have been like had Clooney found castmates equal to his movie idol mantle? What if, instead of Zellweger and Krasinski, he had managed Matt Damon and, say, Jodie Foster? This is a movie that cries out for all around classicism. As we learn from the bonus features, Clooney was required to do most of the heavy lifting.


As a result, Leatherheads stands as an almost success. It does the best it can with the cast and content collected, and still ends up delivering an occasionally delightful entertainment. It’s clear that, as he continues his career, Clooney’s choice behind the camera will be as brave and as interesting as the movie roles he options - maybe even more so. No one but this mainstream man-crush could use his considerable clout to forge a ‘20s era experiment in style and sass. While it doesn’t always work, Leatherheads definitely looks and feels right. And in the case of this clever attempt, two out of three is all that’s really needed.


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Sunday, Sep 14, 2008

You can’t capture lightning in a bottle, according to the old cliché. Such electrical discharges also never strike in the same place twice, if you believe the rap. Applicable to hundreds of situations, we film critics tend to pull these maxims out whenever a sullied sequel rears its dreadful, usually unnecessary head. Almost always a clear case of cash from commercial chaos, revisiting a previous success ups the amperage for such a potential kinetic crash. Thus, the proverbial responses. Retardead, the new film from Monsturd makers Rick Popko and Dan West, wants to revisit the scatological success of that previous crap creature funny business. Unfortunately, the wit and weirdness of the first film just doesn’t translate over to a flailing zombie stomp.


Although everyone in the tiny county of Butte thinks that their fecal nightmare is over, the truth is far more disturbing. Seems the creator of the scat monster, Dr. Stern, has found a way to escape his fate, and is now teaching at the local institute for students with special needs. His goal is simple - use a hyper-intelligence serum to turn a group of mentally handicapped kids into abject geniuses. There’s just one side effect, however. After a while, these buffoons to braniacs start snacking on human flesh. It’s not long before Sheriff Duncan, Deputies Dan and Rick, and FBI Agent Susan Hannigan are ass deep in zombies - and desperate to find a way to stop the cannibal corpse holocaust. Oddly enough, Stern might have an answer for that as well.


There are times when a movie hits you in a certain way. Perhaps it’s the material, or the sort of day you had previously, but when a film that shouldn’t actually clicks, you wonder if it can happen again, and if not, what caused the connection in the first place. Monstrud, the first horror comedy from duo Rick Popko and Dan West, is this kind of non-quantifiable quackery. While cornering the market on mieda humor, it also worked as an effective bit of b-movie schlock. Of course, one is convinced that revisiting the title now would probably result in the aforementioned ambivalence. After all, the story of a killer stool sample would seem to have a limited shelf life. Still, Popko and West hope that Retardead offers up some similarly stupid fun. And for the most part, it does.


Of course, that also means there are some gaping flaws in the filmmaking reasoning. As Shaun of the Dead taught us, the living dead can be hilarious - that is, as long as you concentrate on the characters and circumstances surrounding the satiric scares. Here, Popko and West rely on our previous knowledge of the Butte County citizenry instead of reintroducing their individual quirks. Similarly, gore is rarely handled with humor. Sure, we can laugh at a particularly outrageous bit of arterial spray, but for the most part, blood letting is the perturbing pause before any other slice of slapstick. But Retardead thinks fiends feasting on spinal chords and bodies blowing apart is the height of hilarity. Sadly, sidesplitting is NOT sidesplitting. 


Even worse, this is a movie that wusses out on the most important facet of their (potentially) tasteless humor - the retards. After all, if you’re going to call a movie by such a politically incorrect term, you should treat the material in an equally offensive manner. At first, it looks like Popko and West will come through. We get a rogues gallery of identifiable idjits, from the inappropriate pee girl to the oversized homunculus with a safety helmet and hygiene issues. As we are introduced to Dr. Stern’s class, each cretin getting their individual moment to shine, we keep waiting for the filmmakers to break free. Instead, they immediately jump into “Flowers for Algernon” mode, turning their punchlines into frequently unfunny props.


Still, there are some reasons to rejoice. As the most dip-sticked deputies in the history of law enforcement, Popko and West are a cunning comedy team. There is a sequence when they are sharing some porn and a beer that’s a classic of understated spoofing. Also, the technical ambitions and actual achievements are well worth celebrating. The movie looks larger, the scope matched well by the improvement in cinematic technique. Sure, there is still too much padding here (a zombie comedy shouldn’t last longer than 85 minutes - Retardead is 100), and Dan Burr’s Dr. Stern is a fairly ineffectual villain. Instead of being over the top and evil, the actor turns on the seriousness and subtlety. A movie about retarded kids turning into bloodthirsty killers doesn’t need such nuance.


In fact, it’s fair to say that most of Retardead suffers from the seminal sophomore slump. It’s too ambitious, too overloaded with feigned confidence to completely succeed. Granted, in a realm where most homemade horror movies are a single step away from being digital chum, Popko and West deliver a fun and somewhat solid experience. But they also suffer from the same lo-fi failings that most no budget efforts experience. Instead of simply doing what they do best (and did well before), they purposely try to up the ante. And just like the concept of capturing lightning in a bottle, they barely manage to make it. This is a film that should be better than it ends up being - and perhaps it’s not Popko and West’s fault. Their Monsturd was a noxious little novelty. As the old saying goes, it’s almost impossible to repeat such accidental anarchy.


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