No one does detached British youth better than Sean Conway. He’s like an across-the-Atlantic Larry Clark without the dirty old man’s leer. Like most film school graduates, no matter the locale, he’s a combination of what he’s learned, what he’s loved, and what he longs to achieve. As much a writer as he is a director, Conway has expanded his media profile to include novels, poem collections, and several short stories. He’s also an accomplished screenwriter, selling his first script while still in college. In many ways, he’s the classic celluloid success saga - student film to much more accomplished work, minor recognition to national acknowledgement. In a series of short film steps, cobbles on the road to artistic reward, Conway has perfect his themes. He’s also found a way to cleverly combine prose with motion picture providence.

The results can definitely be seen in the following five mini-features, spanning the first three years of his output. Each one addresses a particular portion of Conway’s peculiar POV, including sex, drugs, crime, craziness, kink, cool, and above all, contemporary chaos. By focusing on individuals in his disenfranchised demo, by turning the standard coming of age into a true test of human will, he reinvents a genre we’ve seen dozens of times before. Even better, he does so from a decidedly British perspective, a look laced with tradition, techno, and a tendency toward underplaying emotion. This makes Conway’s work even more astonishing - even with said cultural setting, he still unearths the kind of rich psychological tapestry that a lot of more “obvious” films fail to deliver. Going over them one at a time, we can see his growth, as well as the common threads that bind his works together, starting with: 

Rocco is an art student who spends his days painting Xerox copies of Kurt Cobain photos, his nights navigating the dead end world of his aimless youth. His girlfriend Zazie brightens things up, but the truth remains that our hero seems as directionless as his muse.

As with most student films Rocco Paris feels like a wholly insular initiation into the world of Sean Conway. It’s clear from what we see visually that this English upstart understands the language of films. His scenes come together with a kind of celluloid magic, making sense even when the narrative gets lost in a lack of explanations. Similarly, he ‘gets’ the concept of creating character tension by using gesture and actions as indicators. There is a real sense of discovery and personal growth on the part of our lovers, a look at a life that seems truly believable and yet almost completely built out of Conway’s desire to impress. Indeed, that’s what one means when they argue inferred narrowness. As a fledgling filmmaker, our future auteur is still getting his bearings. We see where he’s going, but we’re not sure if he’s getting there in the best possible manner.

There are other elements here that will also scream self-indulgence: the constant switching between grainy black and white and cloudy snuff film style color; the voice over narration that often misleads the audience as to intent; the sudden shift, at the end, into French (with French subtitles to boot); the projector sound effects; the flimsy fixation on the late Nirvana shaman. None of these whims are fatal to the film - indeed sometimes, Conway uses them as a necessary wake-up call for a viewer lulled into a kind of visual complacency. Most importantly, Rocco Paris illustrates what its maker continues to do best - finding the fringe faction in his own part of the world and illustrating it in honest, open, and aesthetically exciting way.

Fenton Fuller is a young man tormented by schizophrenia. While his family wants him institutionalized, our subjects shattered mind senses conspiracy in every action.

Really nothing more than an extended rant punctured by occasional bits of conversation exposition, Rabbit Stories argues for Conway’s ability as a writer. There are times in this fictional tale when you swear he found a real mental patient, an equally authentic set of adults, and filmed them au natural, without provocation and within a stylized documentary. With the camera snaking around and in between characters, an editorial approach that plays with our own sense of reality, and page after page of perfected psycho speak, we can’t help by feel confused - and confident in Conway’s ability to tell the truth. The lines here are so stinging, so concrete in their ability to illustrate Fenton’s condition, that even if we didn’t have the voiceover telling us of his bubbling bad brain, we’d catch on rather quickly. He’s a classic nutjob in an equally timeless tale.

It’s just too bad then that there’s not more backstory here. We are interested in the Fuller family dynamic - why Mom visits, why Dad criticizes. We are also intrigued by the doctors, driven to distraction by our lead’s constant lack of an internal monologue. Again, one of the hardest things to accomplish in fiction is a factual portrayal of mental illness. Even with available examples in real life, and some undeniably gifted actors, artistic pretense frequently gets in the way of authenticity. But since Conway is a wizard at the truth, capable of uncovering it in even the most ditzy or dire of circumstances, it’s no wonder Fenton’s surreal stream of consciousness works.  By avoiding the cliché and the stereotypical, Rabbit Stories reveals its knowing nature.

Alex is planning on taking a bath, and her man plans on watching. Along the way we meet a geek burglar, a well-endowed swimmer, two larded drug dealing lesbians, and a pub filled with reprobate raffling off our heroine’s soiled knickers.

Like his American counterpart, trailer park Pasolini Giuseppe Andrews (the indie genius contributed two songs to the soundtrack here), Conway is interested in life the way it’s really lived - not the sugar coated, candy colored version of existence fed to us via television and advertising. There is a razor sharp authenticity here, an eccentricity meshed with the undeniable truth that easily takes one’s breath away. His actors really help sell the situation. As Baby Shoes, Danny Young is dynamic, looking like a slightly less smug Colin Farrell. He brings a real warmth to his jealousy-torn role, and his voice over narration is loaded with story enhancing emotion. Similarly, Gina Blondell’s Alex is the flawless personification of everything Conway wants to convey. She’s sexy, stupid, alluring, ambiguous, and ever so slightly out of reach. Even her walk screams something significant. In a setup that mandates a ying to a partner’s yan, Young and Blondell make a wonderful - and better yet, believable - pair.

There are other layers to Alex and her Arse Truck that help make this 15 minute masterwork feel far more fleshed out and realized. Race becomes a subversive sexual subject, as does overweight lesbian congress. We get surreal, enigmatic images of a swimming man covered in Band-Aids and a cheerleading group practicing in a darkened parking lot. The musical score does a great job of supplementing the circumstances, amplifying the out of control atmosphere and accenting the characters. As unheralded auteurs go, Sean Conway will definitely be a name to watch in the future. If there is any justice in an artform landscape littered with lame journeyman hacks, his will be a creative spark recognized and revered. Alex and her Arse Truck is all the proof anyone needs. 

Two black half-brothers, both named Aristotle, try to figure out their path in the cold hearted criminal streets of the UK. One fancies himself a poet. The other competes in the unusual sport of ghetto racing. Each one faces his own struggles, both at home and out among the gangs and cutthroats they run into on a daily basis.

While it’s an obvious sentiment, this is what Conway has been building up to over the last few shorts films. Longer than anything he’s attempted before (at 24 minutes, it’s almost twice the length of Alex) and built on a solid storyline, this is a compelling character study carved out of secret loss, obvious problems, and some slightly off center concepts. The entire notion of “troubled” Aristotle wearing a woman’s wig, riding a horse, and entering unusual offtrack races makes for an curious arc, but the vast majority of the movie is made up of the quiet interaction between our two main leads, each one delivering the kind of understated performance that brings out the best in Conway’s material. Indeed, this is the best written short of the lot. It’s lyrical, ephemeral, cruel, calculated, and all too real in its slice of life snapshots. And thanks to the men managing these lines, we become entranced in the all too certain sense of doom.

Conway also proves his mantle as a visual artist with this film. The shots he selects, the slow motion races that put the mute Aristotle up against all competing horsemen, really shine in a viable, cinematic way. Filmed in HD, with a real emphasis on naturalism and found locations, Kings of London provides a glimpse of the city that few ever see. This is a view of the backroads and alleyways of the sprawling meta-metropolis, a portrait painted in struggles and survival. This is a place where no one wins and everyone suffers in the end. The film even begins with a story of date rape, and wraps up on a beat so horrific and yet obvious that it comes out of the plot organically. There will be those who question Conway’s desire to turn everything into a monologue, a chance encounter becoming several pages of pain-filled dialogue, but that’s the beauty of Kings of London. It’s a near masterpiece of tone, approach, and storytelling.

Two boys spend an aimless night smacking each other in the genitals while a narrator explains their alienated and disaffected feelings.

In some ways, the story of this two minute short’s making is far more interesting than anything which happens on screen. Film journalist Mike Plante (Cinemad), got it in his mind to invite filmmakers to lunch. In exchange, the artist would have to agree to make him a movie. The catch? It could only cost the amount spent on the meal. In the case of Conway’s $24 repast, the results are quite odd to say the least. Shot on what looks like a cellphone and featuring some uncompromising male nudity, what we wind up with is a lark, a romp relegated to what looks like a poorly made porno. The narration provides some compelling context, as well as addressing the obvious questions about who, what, when, where, why, and how. Beyond that, and the intriguing set-up, we can relish Conway’s wordplay, but that’s about it. The rest of Sloe Gin Nights seems missing from the otherwise engaging middle section.

With a feature film in his future and what seems like the full support of a community ready to aid in his arrival, Sean Conway should soon be a household name. Like Mike Leigh or Ken Loach, he seems perfectly in tune with the United Kingdom of his life and times. Like Danny Boyle and Guy Ritchie, however, he uses obvious stylistic choices and rich dialogue to enhance his day in the life dynamics. The combination is intoxicating, drawing one in while keeping enough distance to demand our empathy. With such a stellar foundation of filmmaking behind him, Conway is destined for greatness. That he’s already come close to achieving it here argues for such an inevitable aesthetic conclusion.

—Bill Gibron

That audible gasp you heard last week was film geek society struggling to come to grips with what they just heard. After years of being marginalized as the man who produced more bad b-movie dung than any other independent maverick, after decades balancing unbelievably bad schlock with a cadre of novices who turned into industry giants, Roger Corman was getting an honorary Oscar. Yes, you heard right - the man who made the original Little Shop of Horrors, who helmed a series of spectacular Edgar Allan Poe adaptations for his American International Pictures was picking up the film biz’s biggest tribute, an award that many far more famous and talented have never received.

Granted, it’s nothing more than career-retrospective recognition, and when you’ve got a list of names you helped shepherd into cinema like Corman does (just a few of the names include Coppola, Scorsese, Howard, Bogdanovich, Demme, and Cameron), such a nod was inevitable. And since the Academy of Arts and Sciences is looking for ways to remain relevant in the instant access and opinion platitudes of the Web World, giving Corman one of those coveted gold statues is a guaranteed way to get the normally jaded celluloid know-it-all to sit up and take notice. One imagines the decision had less to do with such crass commercial matters and actually stemmed from Corman’s contribution to film.

Still, it will be pretty amazing to watch the man responsible for such tacky ‘50s terrors as Attack of the Crab Monsters, The Viking Women vs. the Sea Serpent and Teenage Cave Man get his just rewards. Heck, the video overview alone will be worth tuning in for. Corman, like the exploitation pioneers who copied his go for broke approach, rewrote the rules of post Golden Age filmmaking, tackling genre titles and favored commercial categories (the Western, the War movie) with slavish shoestring abandon. He once bragged that he could make a Roman Empire epic with “two extras and a bush”, but he was much more proficient than that. Indeed, Corman gave voice to hundreds of otherwise ignored actors, actresses, writers, directors, and production crew, using his skinflint style to minimize returns while maximizing results.

His honorary Oscar, however well deserved, does break new ground for the formerly stodgy society, introducing the possibility of having other outsider mavericks make their way up the stairs to the Kodak Theater. If SE&L may be so bold, perhaps we could champion a few choices for future ballots. After all, if the guy who gave us a plethora of pathetic horror hackdom in the ‘70s and ‘80s can win your ultimate approval, we think these five people deserve a similar statement of artform significance. Each one has given in ways that are undeniable in the annals of film and to leave them out while letting Corman in seems, well, criminal, starting with the man responsible for the continuing commercial appeal of the gross out comedy:

For his amazing trilogy of ‘gals gone gonzo’ films - Pink Flamingos, Female Trouble, and Desperate Living - this aging Baltimore bad boy should be first up for his piece of AMPAS metal. Waters took his passion for underground moviemaking, married it to a sense of humor formed out of juvenile delinquency and proto-perverted fixations, and fashioned some of the funniest films ever to be ignored by the mainstream. By the time Hollywood embraced his pristine piece of PG nostalgia, Hairspray, it had been transformed into a boring Broadway hit. Yet the rest of his oeuvre - Cry-baby, Polyester, A Dirty Shame, Pecker, Serial Mom - confirm his status as the king of stingy suburban satire. If anyone deserves an Oscar, it’s the former (and still reigning) Prince of Puke.

As one of the many cinematic anarchists that got Waters creative juices flowing, Anger is an artist trapped in a maniac’s moody persona. Some days, he’s a diva. On others, his affiliation with the Thelematic philosophy and Aleister Crowley’s Book of the Law - Liber AL vel Legis drives his wholly insular motives. And yet the movies he’s made - Scorpio Rising, Rabbit’s Moon, Lucifer Rising, among others - are visionary works of undeniable cinematic scope. What makes this particular selection all the more spicy is that Anger is also responsible for uncovering and publishing many of Tinseltown darkest, dirtiest secrets. His infamous Hollywood Babylon books first introduced curious fans to the horrors of the Black Dahila, the truth behind the Fatty Arbuckle case, and the murder of Sharon Tate.

For El Topo and The Holy Mountain alone, this hallowed Hispanic savant should have a permanent place in the Academy’s Hall of Fame. Both movies represent the very pinnacle of revisionist reinvention, the former finding solace in the spaghetti western, the latter as a denouncement of religion and the manipulative mainstream media. Together with other exceptional works - Fando y Lis, Santa Sangre - Jodorowski remains a man married to his singular sense of art and the expressions of same. While he does dabble in mysticism and some eccentric philosophical pursuits (psychomagic?), his works continue to impress and inspire. If Oscar is indeed looking to extend its awareness of the talent triumphing in the rest of the world, this directing genius would be a great place to start.

Come on Oscars - show you’ve got a backbone and celebrate this Brazilian horror filmmaker who challenges his countries love of religion and government oppression by outwardly mocking them in his supposed scary movies. A blasphemer as well as an iconic man of the people, Marins has turned a tired stereotype - the evil undertaker- into a macabre action hero, an immortal who confronts the hypocrisy in society by reflecting its repugnance in his own evil. His Coffin Joe films remain the most astonishing - violent, vehemently anti-Catholic, and volatile in their celebration of all things flesh. Besides, with his six inch long fingernails, it would be wonderful to see how he actually “accepts” his award. Could make for some very memorable television.

So what if he never really made a movie on his own. Who cares if he exported almost all of his product from behind the Iron Curtain (or from somewhere South of the Border) and redubbed it for clueless ‘60s kiddies. Murray made a mountain of moolah providing such surreal matinee fodder as Little Red Riding Hood, Santa Claus, The Magic Land of Mother Goose, Curse of the Doll People, and Jack and Beanstalk. Most of these Russian/Ukranian/East German/Spanish/Mexican productions were blessed with big budgets and impressive effects, but Murray managed to find a way to sap all the magic out of these culturally specific fairy tales.  With a major documentary on the man coming soon, it’s time Hollywood acknowledged his contribution to the crap kid vid it puts out today.

—Bill Gibron

With only one more official weekend left in the Summer 2009 season, and the one-two horror show punch of The Final Destination 3D and Halloween II not being screened for critics, perhaps its time for a little forced perspective. On Monday, 31 August, SE&L will unveil its picks for Best and Worst Films of this year’s popcorn parade. As usual, box office success and critical acclaim are more or less mutually exclusive. Additionally, it seemed like this time around, there was a decided bell curve when it came to consensus. Films were either very good or very bad, with a much smaller valley of outright mediocrity to maneuver through. There were the occasional surprises and the equally shocking letdowns, but for the most part, Hollywood delivered exactly what they promised over numerous trailers and PR ploys - for good and for bad. 

But before that sure to be controversial list, here’s another collection of insights from the last four months. Indeed, sometimes, a critic’s job can consist of nothing more than the discovery of a series of small miracles among a veritable cosmos of crap. When found, they are definitely worth mentioning. So in lieu of a legitimate round-up (who knows - maybe Rob Zombie delivers another bit of classic horror remake reverence, right?), we provide this look at 10 memorable, sequences, performances, personalities, or plotpoints that really stuck out during the May to August marathon. Inside the numerous hours of proposed entertainment, within a domain frequently dominated by the routine and redundant, these individual gemstones stood out. And like any true treasure, they need to be stolen away and savored, beginning with:

Dr. McCoy Signs On in Star Trek - May
Casting was crucial to J. J. Abrams “reinvention” of the classic space series. Choose unwisely and an entire geek nation will be breathing down your prone pencil neck. Among the brilliant bits of actor/icon matching, none can top bringing New Zealand’s Karl Urban to the part of prickly starship doctor Leonard “Bones” McCoy. Pitch perfect in both voice and demeanor, the arrival of cantankerous cuss aboard the Enterprise shuttle became the moment when everything about what Abrams was trying to do gelled, and gelled effortlessly. From line readings to reactions, he remains the new Star Trek‘s MVP.

Christoph Waltz in Inglourious Basterds - August
Nazis are not supposed to be heroes. Unless you’re talking about Germans who want to overthrow the standing Reich regime (ala Valkyrie) or bumbling members of some sitcom take on the swastika, these jackbooted jerks deserve their everpresent placement as go-to villains within our WWII historical dynamic. So when Austrian actor Christoph Waltz turns famed ‘Jew Hunter’ Hans Landa into the driving force behind Quentin Tarantino’s brave deconstruction of the war film, he manages the next to impossible - he replaces Brad Pitt and the entire Allied cabal as our primary focus. He’s simply superb.

A Visit to a Prawn “Research” Facility in District 9 - August
As serious speculative fiction films go, Neill Blomkamp’s race allegory is like Planet of the Apes turned on its apartheid prone head. One of the most haunting, and horrific, moments comes toward the end of the second act, when desperate bureaucrat Wikus Van De Merwe brings an alien into the MNU building to help him locate an important item. Along the way, they discover a disgusting lab filled with gory experiments, all aimed at unlocking the keys to extraterrestrial “weaknesses”. Like Dr. Frankenstein’s lab in George Romero’s Day of the Dead, this one sequence illustrates humanity’s inability to handle its own mortality, and the extremes they will go to in probing/protecting it.

Ponyo Atop a Tsunami in Ponyo on the Cliff by the Sea - August
Full of magic ocean power and desperate to get back to her friend Sosuke, the heroine in Hayao Miyazaki’s ecological take on The Little Mermaid stirs up a literal tempest, waters surging like tuna stuck in a fisherman’s net. As the waves swell and pitch, rising high above the tiny Japanese village where the story is set, Ponyo climbs on top, little newly discovered legs running just as fast as they can. In one memorable shot, Sosuke looks out his mother’s car window to see his friend keeping pace with the vehicle, her sunny smile supporting a sea full of fury and destruction. It remains Summer 2009’s purest pen and ink delight. 

Zack Galifianakis in The Hangover - June
Whenever the surreal stand-up is on screen, playing bumbling brother-in-law-to-be Alan Garner, this otherwise straightforward exercise in scatology discovers a brave bizarro world subtext. Honestly, Galifianakis makes any line, even the most mundane (“Is this really Caesar’s Palace?”) sound like the height of hilarity. That he bonds with an abandoned baby and takes a punch from Mike Tyson merely adds to his anarchic persona. Here’s hoping any proposed sequel probes Alan’s ambiguous legal status, as well as his penchant for jock straps as underpants.

The Soundtrack from (500) Days of Summer - July
Director Marc Webb got his start in commercials and music videos, so he clearly has an ear and eye for how sound and images should go together. While he relies on one too many montages to get his point across, his sonic backdrops for this unusually effective post-modern RomCom are undeniably effective. From the Smiths and the Pixies to tracks from talented newcomers like Regina Spektor and Mumm-ra, every cue is flawless. In a genre that typically lets songwriters sell the sentiment, Webb works magic out of the music he chooses. Like others skilled in the aural/actual combination (Scorsese, Tarantino, etc.), said selections remain as memorable as the movie.

Randy! from Funny People - July
While the entire film as a whole is very hit or miss (the last 45 minutes alone may be the most misguided in any toilet humor honed comedy), there is no doubting that Judd Apatow knows the world of stand up. He proves this by taking sketch actor Aziz Ansari and turning him into the delightful disgusting phenom Randy. Every time this character is onscreen, and this is a minor turn at best, he steals the scene. Even better, when working the stage, he celebrates all that is delicious, and dangerous, about the joke-telling art.

The 10 Minute Silent Backstory from Up - May
We don’t usually expect the serious, or the sad, from a Pixar film. Instead, the CG wizards usually keep things light, airy, and full of life. But when aging hero Carl Fredricksen reflects on his life with (and without) late wife Ellie, the next few minutes are some of the most spellbinding, sublime silent storytelling every committed to a cartoon. Painted in perfectly realized vignettes, each one building and expanding on the previous, we see love discovered, bonds cemented, and lost both dire and devastating. By the end of the sequence, we never doubt Carl’s motives - or his means of achieving them.

Burt Stands Up to Some PC Thugs in Away We Go - June
For most of Sam Mendes madcap baby boom roadtrip, John Krasinski’s father to be is a low key, non-confrontational sort. But when Maggie Gyllenhaal and her hippy reject partner Josh Hamilton try to read him the riot act about child rearing, New Age style, the mild mannered salesman can take it no more. He let’s loose with a denouncement so cutting, so calculated, that to call it a comeuppance would be an understatement. Instead, Burt makes us believe that his future offspring has little to worry about. Dad may be a tad dense, but he’s ready to defend his family when necessary.

Malcolm Tucker’s Curse Laden Rants from In the Loop - July
If Peter Capaldi doesn’t get nominated for his role as the foul-mouthed “fixer” for the British Government in Armando Iannucci’s brilliant political satire, there really is no justice. Here is a man who is so angry, so constantly primed to fly off the handle, that he’s practically levitating. Blessed with the belief that he is better than those around him and quite capable of taking them down a peg when they think differently, it is the kind of comic turn that usually gets noticed. Here’s hoping we’re right.

Honorable Mention:

Anything in Mega-Shark vs. Giant Octopus
The new definition of direct to DVD schlock - and cinematic silliness is all the better for it.

The 5 We Wish We Could Forget

Robot Gonads in Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen - June
In a contest between racially insensitive machines and mechanized testes, big automaton balls win every time, and not just because of what they suggest about the man adding the oversized steel nutsack to the proceedings.

Steve Zahn’s Psycho Motivational Speech from A Perfect Getaway - August
In a collection of FBI profiler monologues, complete with statements about time standing still and living a million lifetimes, this classic case of killer speak couldn’t have been more hammy, cheesy, or laughably stupid.

Hank Azaria’s Accent from Night at the Museum: Battle for the Smithsonian - May
Wait…is that Boris Karloff? No, it’s Michael Palin playing Pontius Pilate in Monty Python’s Life of Brian. Maybe it’s an ineffectual combination of the two. Whatever it is, it marks a low point in this comic actor’s otherwise fine voice work.

Ben Stiller in The Marc Pease Experience - August
There’s a reason Stiller’s high school director can’t get off campus - and it has nothing to do with a penchant for teenage poon. If this were a real teacher, he’d be incarcerated or dead. Instead, as with most statements of cinematic inappropriateness, he is one of our heroes. Ugh. 

A Sexually Inappropriate Chaka from Land of the Lost - June
Speaking of placing unnecessary sleazeball content in the middle of a supposed family film…how did Sid and Marty Krofft allow their adolescent caveman to be turned into a walking fur-laden advertisement for the bad touch. Talk about ‘raping’ one’s past!

—Bill Gibron

We all complain about talking in today’s movie theater experience, a combination of lax living room viewing habits translating over to the big screen scenario as well as that most senseless of addictionas - the cellphone. We crow about texting and other forms of technological shorthand, kids incapable of leaving their portable video game consoles long enough to absorb a 70 to 90 minute movie. But there are worse affronts to the sensibilities of a faithful cinephile, acts of egregious insensitivity and inappropriate behavior that, 100 years ago, would probably mark the difference between a civilized and callously uncouth society. While by no means all inclusive, here’s a list of 10 things that happen almost regularly in Bijous around the country that warrant a little more than a passing criticism. Sadly, strict laws against homicide keep film fans from resorting to outright violence, even if light of such affronts as:

Catcalls and Wolf Whistles
While definitely sexist and reminiscent of a time when chauvinism battled feminism for the proper way of dealing with a fetching guy or gal, aurally expressing your sexual approval of a star or onscreen sequence is just pointless. Megan Fox doesn’t want your horndog howl. She’s quite content with the million dollar salary your blind sense of beauty provides her. Besides, the only person hearing your approval of Eric Bana’s naked bubble butt is the un-attentive teenager zombie out in front of you. Also, when was the last time anyone acquiesced to physical congress with you based on a bleated sound of sensual acknowledgment. Thought so.

—Bill Gibron

Be afraid, Twilighters, be very, VERY afraid. A certified franchise killer is coming your way, and it is not a swarthy group of Comic-con nerds complaining about your Beatlemania like overrun of their yearly San Diego geek-off. No, in a surprise move that Hollywood is still haggling over, Bryce Dallas Howard has been hired to replace Rachelle Lefevre as the evil vampire Victoria in the spinster/single gal phenomenon. Initial reports cite “scheduling conflicts” as the reason for the switch (the movies are being shot in rapid, near back-to-back, succession) while others use Ms. Howard’s increased profile and semi-star status as an excuse to up the series’ already ample commercial clout.

But there is another, more sinister possibility out there, a variable that should have everyone on Team Edward and Team Jacob shaking in their sensible shoes - Bryce Dallas Howard is a murderer of movies. She takes established cinematic dynasties and destroys them. Not completely, mind you. Tinseltown never completely buries something it can eventually reinvent, re-imagine, and more or less continue to exploit financially, but given her track record as a performer, Ron Howard’s daughter is clear creative poison. Need proof? Let’s look back at her brief ten years before the camera and see whose legacy she’s saved, and whose she’s left drifting in artistic limbo…

—Bill Gibron

He’s one of cinema’s most endearing ‘characters’, a figure of fear for nearly three decades. And yet he’s not some one-liner quipping child killer or hulking sinister ‘shape’. He doesn’t wield a chainsaw (usually) and didn’t make a pinheaded deal with the devil until sometime later in his creative canon. Indeed, Jason Voorhees and his Friday the 13th films have become the stuff of legitimate legend, forging a VCR fueled fanbase that takes every action of his hockey masked spree slayer and transforms it into the goriest of Gothic gospel. With the 2009 reboot hitting store shelves today (as well as being available on On Demand and ITunes), we here at SE&L thought we would revisit every single movie in the Friday franchise - and sheepishly recognize that this means we indeed own all 12 - to see if the films themselves hold up to critical scrutiny. Even better, from 1980’s original slice and dice to the current installment’s cruel carving, we can see how Jason evolved, how he grew, and in several cases, how he blew, beginning with: 

Two things stand out about this original entry into the Voorhees family legacy. First, Sean Cunningham sure takes his time here. This movie feels at least twice as long as its 90 minute running time and not always in a good way. There are far too many pointless pauses between the bloodletting. On the positive side, Tom Savini’s make-up work is flawless, and Betsy Palmer’s turn as big bad Pamela V. has to go down in history as one of the meanest ‘mothers’ in the entire horror genre. For those who think it’s a classic - think again. Of a type? Absolutely. Of faultless movie macabre? No way.

It’s just so sad how the MPAA functions. Strangely cyclical in their concerns, they were in the middle of their anti-violence campaign when the adult Jason decided to show up with a potato sack on his head and a murderous attitude on his brain. This meant that most of the deaths here were severely edited to meet the “voluntary” ratings board’s demands, and as a result, they defanged this sequel’s potential teeth. Still, as with an origin story, Jason’s first journey into spree killing is better than you’d expect. It has a faster pace than the first film, and the ending begins the whole “huh?” aspect of plotting that will perplex the franchise from here on.

It’s gimmick time for the series, and sans the arterial spray the material dictates, we get another anemic adventure. The need to bring more and more victims to the fray finds a hilariously hack biker gang stalking our teens and no one can deny ole’ Shelly’s contribution to the mythos (actually - who brings a hockey mask to a weekend sex and drugs make-out party???). Still, the need to play to the 3D set-up leaves many of the murders inventive but strangely passive. Besides, our horror anti-hero gets one of the worst last act send-offs ever/ Hanging? Jason? Please…

One of the best entries in the franchise, and a fine slasher film at that. With everyone assuming this was the end - after all, the title even suggests the same - there is an urgency and energy here that’s missing from all previous installments. Even better, director Joseph Zito amps up the brutality with the help of a returning Savini. With Corey Feldman poised to be the memorable nemesis to this crazed killer’s unstoppable slaughter, a classic battle between good and evil emerges - and the ending is one horrific hack and slash set-piece. If it really were the finale, it would have been a great one.

Here are some basic cinematic rules - you can’t make a Halloween film without Michael Myers (Part III: Season of the Witch), a Terminator film without a Terminator (Salvation), and you definitely can’t make a Friday the 13th film without Jason Voorhees - and no, a plot twist substitute for same just won’t work. Director Danny Steinmann argues that studio interference and MPAA demands (again) disemboweled his proposed “reboot” of the series. Perhaps the lame script, lousy acting, and supreme lack of gore gave said corporate interference a run for its mediocrity money. Whatever the case, this is perhaps the worst entry in the entire fright franchise.

Tom McLaughlin stands as the J.J. Abrams of the Friday the 13th series. Brought in to resuscitate what looked like a dead cinematic staple, the filmmaker injected the return of Jason (in a new, novel “zombie” form) with enough black humor and directorial flare to compensate for the previous entries’ lack of excitement. Even the opening, which sees our main monster resurrected by a stray lightning bolt, is giddy in its goofball Frankenstein allure. With a tone that sets it apart from other Fridays, and acting that redefines the term Method, this is what all sequels to the slasher genre should be - fun and flashy.

Groan. After leaving Jason at the bottom of a lake to basically be nibbled away at by trout, Part VII producers had to find a way to get him back on shore and slicing away. Sadly, they chose a ridiculous Carrie-lite narrative involving a girl with telekinesis. Toss in an unethical shrink, a group of obnoxious teen partiers, enough pot references to choke Bill Maher, and an ending that makes about as much sense as any other Friday entry and you’ve got nothing but scare flick stupidity. At least the last act psychic showdown between our heroine and Jason has some spark…some.

It’s a decent idea - transport our hockey masked horror to the Big Apple and let him murder a few New Yorkers in the process. Unfortunately, Jason goes about his ripper road trip via a boring ass cruise filled with graduating high schoolers. Yawn. There is nothing really wrong with the boating material. It’s the same old MPAA hampered violence. But once Big J gets to the center of modern culture, this all gets wonky - VERY wonky. The ending remains one of the biggest head scratchers in the entire history of the series - and that included Crispin Glover’s “dance” sequence from The Final Chapter.

In which our icon goes demonic - and immortal - and stupid. Before, we could support a pissed off adult Jason. We even bought the undead fun of his zombie counterpart. But turning our hulking figure of menace into a small prosthetic beastie that “invades” the bodies of others? Huh? We come to Friday the 13th for slashing and high body counts, not voodoo shapeshifting nonsense. Sadly, the promised trip to Hades also doesn’t do very much for the fan. It’s rather flaccid and ends up playing out like exactly what it is - a poorly realized and though out plot point.

Here is the true ‘love it or hate it’ entry in the Jason mythos. Ignoring practically everything that’s happened since Part VI, we get a futuristic twist on the whole serial killer concept. While it’s a kick to see David Cronenberg as an angry bureaucrat eager to use our icon’s “limitless regenerative powers” for his own illicit purposes, the rest of the film offers up an Aliens rip-off with Mr. Hockey Mask as the resident xenomorph. In between futile firefights and lots of android titillation, we get a Jason 2.0 that’s part monster, part machine. Too bad the rest of the movie is all crap.

YES! Finally, someone gets the basics of both Mr. Voorhees and Master Krueger, Esq. Instead random joking and uneven mythology, Hong Kong action king Ronny Yu just unleashes these monsters and lets them do what they do best - murder tons of innocent people. This is a literal bloodbath, the kind of carnal display that will make gorehounds happy while satisfying even the most discerning fright flick purist. From the novel way they get these two together to the last act stand-off that’s nothing but pure knock down drag out horror heaven, this was the best installment in the series…that’s right, was, until:

If Sean Cunningham is responsible for giving birth to this monumental scary movie franchise, Marcus Nispel should be given credit for forcing it to finally grow up. Removing all the stilted trappings of previous installments, and focusing instead on the unbridled cruelty of a disfigured man on a homicidal rampage, the Texas Chainsaw Massacre remake director delivers the kind of hardcore terror this franchise has sorely lacked. This is what Jason Voorhees was always meant to be - focused, unyielding, determined…and very, very deadly. If you want your slasher fare with an ample amount of comedy and carnality, look elsewhere. This is the moment when Jason became the monster he was supposed to be - and it’s mesmerizing. (Our full review of the Friday the 13th 2009: Killer Cut Blu-Ray can be found HERE).

—Bill Gibron