Tag Archives: horror

“The Conjuring” Review

“The Conjuring” is a direct and unapologetic Haunted House film. Regardless of James Wan’s opinion on the actual existence of paranormal activity—it seems that Wan is a curious paranormal agnostic at the very least, or (a cynic would suggest) impersonating that attitude in order to enhance his cinematic craft—he is certainly a believer in the classic horror motifs. I spent a good deal his film feeling like Marty in “Cabin in The Woods,” questioning why its characters consistently made the mistakes that all characters are bound to make in every haunted house.

But these tropes must come from somewhere, and the real Lorraine Warren and Andrea Perron (consultants for Wan) claim that the film is “art” instead of fiction. Regardless of how you respond to their claim, it is this implied veracity that makes the film stand apart from other members of its wood-creaking, wind-blowing, door-thumping niche. Wan gives our demon-hunting protagonists, Ed and Lorraine Warren, a level of intelligence, humanity, and confidence that is functions as the brain and heart of the entire film. And while Patrick Wilson is serviceable, the true center is Vera Farmiga, turning in another performance brimming with a remarkable blend of pathos and cool intelligence. As no stranger to genuine spiritual search,—her own directorial debut “Higher Ground” percolates with metaphysical wrestling—Farmiga’s Lorraine has the remarkable (and underrated) ability to look her husband in the eye and say “I believe that God brought us together for a reason” without sounding trite, sentimental, or shrill. Like a belabored psalmist, she trusts God in spite of her weary, frightened, and frustrated soul.

Ed and Lorraine are human enough to become annoyed with the bureaucracy of the Catholic Church (their priestless, self-initiated exorcism made this protestant feel an embarrassing twinge of theological satisfaction), but sensitive enough to recognize the vastness of evil that lurks beyond humanity’s control. The actual evil shown in The Conjuring amounts to smoke, mirrors, and CGI, but Farmiga’s performance gives testimony to a transcendent pain and suffering. Like Francis McDormand in the Coen’s noir-pastiche Fargo, Farmiga both grounds and elevates all of the ridiculousness surrounding her.

Yet while Farmiga and Wilson are impressive, and while the tormented family is believable as well, the true crux of good horror lies in its formal presentation. Wan is credited as saying: “…the irony has always been that horror may be disregarded by critics, but often they are the best-made movies you’re going to find in terms of craft. You can’t scare people if they see the seams,” and he is right. Classic horror is intensely indebted to cinematic craft, pacing, and what the camera can and can’t see (or chooses not see).

In this regard I am happy to report that The Conjuring has some remarkable shots. Before anything crazy even occurs Wan uses an expositional steadicam shot with the skill and audacity of Martin Scorsese. The slow, intentional zooms he uses throughout the film effortlessly evoke films of the 1970s, when motorized zoom lenses were all the rage; rotating gimbal shots make us feel like spirits floating through out the haunted house. The whole film feels as if it is shot through either a blue-grey or warm orange filter (depending on mood and location), a nice homage to the browns and light-blues that fill out our cultural imagining of the seventies.

However, while it is evident that Wan is a student of Friedkin, De Palma, and other masters of horror, he refuses to immerse himself in their classic cinematic language, settling for pastiche rather than full-on technique adoption. And while I admire his desire to find an original cinematic voice instead of beating a dead horse (oh, but what a beautiful dead horse!), his visual style ends up in a sort of lukewarm deadlock; “The Conjuring” shifts between traditional dollying/steadicamming and the newer “Blair Witch”-style first-person shakeycam. These shifts often accommodate the purpose of individual shots, but they often detract from the pacing and groundwork laid by previous scenes. While this stylistic potpourri isn’t as obnoxious as Abrams’ direction in “Star Trek: Into Darkness,” Wan’s craftsmanship reflects on his generation in a similar way. He can clearly appreciate past styles and pull from them, but he seems to lack the slow, patient energy needed to build a coherent visual language that encompasses an entire film. He bears the DNA of a visionary, perhaps, but certainly lacks the perfection-driven legwork needed to get there.

Regardless, Wan’s sensitive, sincere approach to character and paranormal storytelling elevates The Conjouring into something that leaves you with a beating, compassionate heart long after you’ve exorcized its jolts and chills out of your system. And this summer, that’s saying a lot.

“The Shining:” Well, What About Hell?

Reposted from Facebook. Originally published on October 31, 2012.

In honor of Halloween, I thought I’d share with you all my review of Stanley Kubrick’s horror classic The Shining, a film that I haven’t seen in its entirety before a couple weeks ago. Like the Fargo review, this was for my Writing About Film class. If you want to watch something truly scary on this fabled night…. well, the review speaks for itself. It isn’t exactly spoiler free, but spoilers aren’t the name of the game here. What I tell you will hardly reduce your experience watching the film. Enjoy.

  Well, What About Hell?

One morning, Stephen King stood in his bathroom hung over and shaving. His wife burst open the door, wide-eyed, and emphatically whispered: “Someone’s on the phone who says he’s Stanley Kubrick!” Stunned, King jabbed the razor into the side of his cheek and ran out of the bathroom. Blood dripping down his face, shaving cream still coving half of it, he gripped the phone and heard a gravelly Bronx accent exclaim: “Hi, Stanley Kubrick here. I actually think stories of the supernatural are always optimistic, don’t you?

“I don’t understand exactly what you mean by that, Mr. Kubrick.”

“Call me Stanley.”

“What do you mean by that, Stanley?”

“Well, supernatural fiction and ghost stories all posit the basic suggestion that we survive death. If we survive death, that’s optimistic.”

King retorted: “Well, what about Hell?”

There was a long pause on the other end of the telephone before a grim retort resounded with foreboding finality.

“I don’t believe in Hell.”

According to King, this is the only pre-production discussion he had with Kubrick about adapting his book The Shining into a film.

  *****

  The idea of Stanley Kubrick soberly denying the reality of Hell seems ironic and slightly absurd. For it seems that, in the pantheon of 20th century “auteurs,” Kubrick labored most relentlessly to immerse audiences in a Hell of his own creation. In particular, The Shiningdid leave me optimistic: optimistic that if someone didn’t believe in Hell before watching it, their mind would at least be full of hellish provocation by the end credits.

  The Shining is a surreal, expressionistic, and perversely evocative horror film. It situates its protagonist, Jack (Jack Nicholson), in his own personal hell before letting his narcissism trap his family there with him. From the first time we see his disheveled face, Jack bristles with an uneasy, nervous energy. And as the film progresses, Jack Torrance seems more and more like the demonic lovechild of Nicholson’s previous roles. Bobby Dupea famously asked a diner waitress to hold chicken between her knees. Mac McMurphy­ nearly goes crazy with rage while pretending to be crazy. But unlike these characters, Jack is not even initially portrayed as the story’s “everyman” or even a moral man; in his first scene, a job interview, he seems a little too confident that he’ll avoid cabin fever when taking care of the Overlook Hotel for the winter, a little too confident that his wife and son will like it, a little too confident that they’ll be unperturbed by the murderous tragedy that took place in The Overlook. In reference to the murders, he says: “You can rest assured, Mr. Ullman, that’s not gonna happen with me. And as far as my wife is concerned, I’m sure she’ll be absolutely fascinated when I tell her about it. She’s a confirmed ghost story and horror film addict.”

Who would talk in such a way about a real-life tragedy? Who would say, “My wife loves disaster films, so she’d love watching footage from 9-11”? Meta-jab aside, Kubrick is giving away the game from the beginning: Jack is self-absorbed and incapable of empathy. Nicholson’s nervous energy is enough to give it away and learning how he hurt Danny simply adds a concrete fact to what we have already felt. Yes, Nurse Ratched, this time he really is insane.

On the other end of the spectrum, Kubrick extends no more empathy or warmth to Jack’s sane wife Wendy (Shelly Duval). Duval makes for a homely and likeable mother, but she seems almost too likeable, too much like the hollow echo of an innocent Hollywood archetype. Danny asks: “Mom, do you really want to go and live in that hotel for the winter?” She responds like a peer on the playground: “Sure I do! It’ll be lots of fun.” Wandering around the Overlook on arrival, she gawks at it like a kid in a candy store. After her first couple days there, she giddily tells Jack, “It’s amazing how fast you get used to such a big place. I tell you, when we first came up here I thought it was kinda scary.” Wendy has naïve energy but she isn’t portrayed as a person with much depth or fortitude. When things get rough she is very good at being terrified (her wide eyes do more acting than anyone except Nicholson), but Kubrick gives her character little textured zeal. She’s eighty-percent vulnerability, twenty-percent tepid resilience.

The sheer contrast between Jack and Wendy is obviously intentional; they mix like oil and water. Even before things get violent, the couple embodies the disintegration of the nuclear family in a way that is as scary and unbearably empty as the Overlook Hotel in winter. However, Kubrick’s nearly satirical portrayal of this family seriously hinders the rest of his film. Part of the masochistic pleasure of horror is seeing good things perverted: young people dying, good people in pain, sane people turned insane, innocent children turned bitter and evil. Yet Kubrick never gives his leads, even the young boy Danny, enough pathos for us to be horrified by their demise. We see them disintegrate, but we never saw them integrated to begin with; we see the tail end of a long train wreck without witnessing the train smoothly traveling down the tracks. This may be an attempt at realism on Kubrick’s part (after all, real families don’t typically go from loving each other to killing each other in the span of two and a half hours), but it makes the rest of his film seem more like a formal experiment than an emotionally-grounded story of tragic psychological corrosion. Kubrick seems too cold a director for that type of emotional investment.

This is not to say that Nicholson’s performance isn’t consistently entertaining; Kubrick wastes no time in giving Nicholson a stage to perform on. And Nicholson takes the stage like a skilled jazz musician giving a virtuoso solo performance; his face lurches and twitches with improvisational ease, with unpredictable moods and mounting tension that build into the film’s spectacularly famous climax (One of his best deliveries, often overshadowed by the “Here’s Johnny!” zinger, takes place when he’s confronting Wendy on the stairs: “Wendy? Darling? Light, of my life. I’m not gonna hurt ya. I’m just gonna bash your brains in!”). Is Nicholson a little too over the top to give Jack’s presence much weight? Yes, probably. But his beardy, beady-eyed, white toothed, grimacing mug deserves its place on the film’s poster and in our collective conscience simply for its menacing excess.

In a larger sense, Nicholson’s performance is the prime part of a yin-and-yang dynamic common to the best auteur filmmaking, fusing disparate elements: total directorial control and unpredictable, improvisational acting. During The Shining, you never feel like you’re out of Kubrick’s obsessive, calm direction, but Nicholson fills the frame with a manic unpredictability. The synthesis of elements makes you feel like you’re watching a perfectly practiced balancing act. Nicholson gives life to his own personal hell and Kubrick shows us what that hell looks like.

And what a hell Kubrick wants to show us! In cinematic form, psychological horror should be incredibly expressionistic. Cinema has immense power to turn internal fears into external realities and suppressed nightmares into perceptual truths. And in the hands of a good director like Murnau, Hitchcock, or Aronofsky, horror films can vividly realize our deepest anxieties.

The Shining pushed expressionistic horror to a level of nightmarish resonance unsurpassed to this day (except, arguably, in David Lynch’s Mulholland Drive). The garish Overlook Hotel set is so large and paradoxical in its purpose that it is consistently uncomfortable for the viewer. It externalizes the hollow, empty nature of the family’s relationship, the vast chasms between them, while simultaneously trapping them together in unbearable emptiness. The dissonance builds when Jack refuses to let Wendy into his writing room while he’s working—a room made to accommodate hundreds of hotel guests. Yet at the same time, wide-angle shots of Danny riding his bicycle down the skinny halls or running in the narrow hedge maze create a sense of distorted claustrophobia, expressing his increasing terror his family gets sucked into supernatural violence.

Some of film’s best scenes are its most hypnotic and show Jack’s fantasies come to vivid, surreal life. Room 237, the shape-shifting epicenter of Jack’s perverse fantasy, is beautifully constructed. It contrasts strikingly with the rest of the hotel, purple furniture and green walls giving it a 70s feel that undoubtedly places us in Jack’s self-imagined pornographic film. Its imaginative set design is as vivid as the slow-motion pool of blood seeping out of the elevator. Equally stunning is the modern, all-red bathroom where Jack decides to kill his wife and son.

Less impressive to a modern filmgoer are the more conventional movie scares: the skeletons and cobwebs in the lobby, the ghosts and bleeding figures that randomly appear. A modern day horror trailer has more affective jump-cuts than Kubrick uses in this film, and these innocuous figures undermine the plot when they begin to scare Wendy as well as Danny. They make Danny’s “shining” seem more like a plot device and his imaginary friend Tony seem more like a foreshadowing tool than a fully realized story element. In fact, the hotel’s residents are only sparsely and lamely picked up from Stephen King’s original novel in which they have far more purpose and resonance. In Kubrick’s hands, at the very least, they do add to the film’s sense of unpredictable surrealism. The Shining deftly defies logical analysis and structural cohesion. It’s not about what happens or why it happens but how it makes you feel.

For the long-standing achievement of The Shining is not its dramatic twists (“All work and no play” revelation aside) or its literal scares. No, The Shining is a masterpiece of conjuredatmosphere. Its vivid, surreal, perversely beautiful style stays firmly lodged in the mind. Its hissing, forebodingly experimental soundtrack and its cries of moaning winter wind may literally make you squirm in your seat. And while you may not feel for its characters, The Shining will trap you in a miserable hotel for over two hours and slowly, seductively dig its way into your mind.

There’s no Hell, Stanley?

Well, I’ve seen The Shining and I politely disagree. You’ve taken me there.