Anuja Chandramouli: The Hopeless Blogger!
Sunday, May 15, 2022
Muting manic Mother’s Day celebrations
The worst laid plans
A Bad-Mood inducing Brooding Batman
The price of distraction
Post-Valentine’s Day Peregrinations
Schism between Science and Spirituality
Fractured lives and fickle fortunes: The House Next to the Factory is a confident debut
Moonstruck with Matrimony
Sunday, December 12, 2021
Existential Hacks from a Confirmed Cynic
Somnambulism to the Rescue!
Benefits of being Besotted with IPL
When Wokesters attack Jokesters
The Stirring Stories of the Stupendous Six
Why do Women Put up with It?
Friday, August 06, 2021
NAVARASA: Bolstered by some Brilliant Performances and Little Else
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Navarasa now streaming on Netflix |
Edhiri: Karuna
I like what the
Bard wrote about mercy in The Merchant of
Venice– “It is twice blessed: It blesseth him that gives and him that
takes.” One of the nicest things about being human is the capacity for
forgiveness, especially when it is extended to those who are deemed undeserving
of it by a spiteful society. Bejoy Nambiar’s Edhiri tells the tale of Dheena, played by a superb Vijay
Sethupathi who finds a vent for years of suppressed emotions in an unplanned
act of violence and he is left broken to pieces by the crushing burden of
remorse. Interestingly enough, the short focuses on Revathi’s character as well,
who is directly affected by his actions and the climactic portion reveals that
she too is traumatized by the albatross she bears around her neck.
The storyline is
engaging and boasts some excellent performances from Sethupathi, Revathi and
Prakash Raj and yet, it doesn’t add up to an entirely satisfying whole. The gradual
unraveling of multiple layers of angst and agony feels a tad rushed, like the
characters would have liked a little more room to breathe…
Summer of 92: Haasya
Priyadharshan’s
Summer of 92 has the dubious distinction of being the worst of the lot. Based
on an incident from Malayalam actor, Innocent Vareed Thekkethala’s life, it is
supposed to be hilarious but it is anything but. Velusamy (Yogi Babu), a
successful comedian returns to his native village, is feted in his school and
delivers a speech that is supposed to inspire and tickle the funny bone. There are
stinky poopy jokes, lame attempts to pass off cruelty to animals as humor,
scribbling scandalous gossip on loo walls, and increasingly desperate attempts
to make the viewer laugh. Needless to say, none of it works and you venture a tentative
smile in relief only when the credits roll.
Project Agni: Adbhuta
Project Agni reveals that director Karthick Naren is a huge fan of
Christopher Nolan and his film is what you get, when you get your geek on and
spend way too much time poring over the auteur’s work and fan fiction churned
out in his honor. The result is a poor man’s Nolan film which is much ado about
nothing in particular. Aravind Swamy is a genius type named Vishnu who calls
his pal, Krishna (Prasanna) who is with ISRO to tell him about a major
scientific breakthrough. Incidentally his assistant is named Kalki. Clearly no
grey cells were severely taxed when these names were thought up and the same
can be said about the script though there is a lot of talk about the ancient
Sumerian civilization, aliens, the laws of time, conscious, subconscious, dream
states, etc. It is supposed to come together with an explosive twist but it all
fizzles out with a weak pop.
It is too bad
because Arvind Swami and Prasanna are remarkable actors who elevate this
material to a level of respectability it does not earn.
Payasam: Bhibatsa
Vasanth’s entry is
Payasam which is an interesting title
since the sweet treat does not normally incite disgust or revulsion. So every
time the camera zoomed in on the delicacy bubbling away even as guests who have
arrived at a wedding are already drooling in anticipation as they wait for the
festivities to be concluded so they can savor it, I expected someone to throw
up into it…
It couldn’t have
been the easiest rasa to work with but given that one of the characters
portrayed by Aditi Balan is a widow who is looked at askance by some of the
guests for her “inauspicious” presence at an auspicious event, one can be
forgiven for thinking the film might zero in on the disgraceful treatment meted
out to widows. However, the story places the spotlight on one man’s (Delhi
Ganesh) jealousy over the good fortune of his nephew and his subsequent
actions. It is a weird interpretation that never quite sits right.
Peace: Shanthi
Karthik Subburaj
takes another stab at making a film about the Eezham conflict after the
unmitigated disaster that was Jagame
Thanthiram. This time around the results are much better though it is
doubtful that a rebel would spend so much time waxing eloquent about the “mannu”
they are fighting for. A small rebel faction with Master (Gautham Menon),
Nilavan (Simha) and a couple of others are in the hot zone when a little boy
crosses their path. He is determined to head into no man’s land in his quest to
find his little brother Velaiyan.
It is a dangerous
mission but Nilavan risks his life to help him. The twist here is touching and
Subburaj should have left well enough alone. Instead he tacks on a climax that
is supposed to tug your heartstrings but merely has you rolling your eyes.
Rowthiram: Raudra
Arvind Swami
makes an impressive debut as a director with Rowthiram, which is the pick of the lot. Arul (Sreeraam) is an aspiring football player who lives
with his down on her luck mum, Chitrama and sister, Anbu. In the opening
stretch a bullying boor is attacked with vicious intent by Arul and the film tries
to understand the boiling rage that drives this young man. Of all the films, in
the anthology this is the one with the most emotional resonance. These are
likeable characters who are doing all they possibly can with the wretchedness
of their situation. I only wish that the actions of a desperate woman who is
willing to do anything for her offspring had not been so harshly judged by the
film or said offspring.
Young Sree Raam (you
might remember him from Pasanga) does exceptional work here and deserves
special mention for more than holding his own against a roster of towering
talent.
Inmai: Bhaya
Rathindran Prasad
deserves credit for not taking the easy route to conventional horror in
depicting Bhaya. Inmai is more ambitious in scope and gently explores the
terrifying tendrils of fear that takes shape from guilt, trauma and monsters
that lurk in the deepest caverns of memory. A moody, slow – burn of a short
that has some truly rousing and effective moments.
Siddharth sinks
his teeth into a meaty character and is in fine fettle. Parvathy is not bad but
it is Ammu Abhirami (formerly seen in Asuran) who nearly steals the thunder
with her electrifying performance and those evocative eyes.
Thunindha Pin: Veera
After all the
emotional wattage which prompts you to take a breather between the shorts, Thunindha Pin directed by Sarjun has some
high voltage action against the backdrop of a magnificent forest. Vetri (the
intense and immensely talented Atharva) is an idealistic rookie who is gung ho
about finding himself in the middle of the fighting against the Naxalites.
Needless to say he is in for a rude awakening. The conversation between the
beleaguered soldier and his captive who refers to himself only as Comrade
(Kishore) who is a kingpin among the Naxalites is interesting and Kishore is
brilliant. But in terms of portraying conflicting ideologies and the men who
are driven by their passionate beliefs the film falls hopelessly short of
anything close to satisfying.
Guitar Kambi Mela Nindru: Shringara
Contrary to what a
lot of men seem to think, few women would take it as a compliment when an
aspiring suitor constantly likens them to their mommas. I wish somebody would
tell that to Gautam Vasudev Menon. And I would suggest he read Sophocles’ Oedipus Rex or Freud’s fascinating
insights on boys who are fixated on their mothers. Romance is supposed to be
his strength and there are a few surprisingly sweet moments here which harken
back to his best work but overall this film is a misfire.
Suriya is miscast
as a gifted musician who is all set to explode on the international stage. So
is Prayaga Martin who plays his love interest, Nethra and simply cannot manage
the reaction shots required to sustain a close – up. Karthik’s music with its riffs
on Beethoven and Ilaiyaraja is charming but it does not quite manage the feat
of conjuring the magic Harris Jayaraj’s did for GVM’s earlier work.
All in all, Mani
Ratnam and Jayendra Panchapakesan’s Navarasa
is not quite a delicious, nine – course repast but it does deserve props for
effort directed towards a worthy cause and some memorable performances.
Abolish the Curse that is Caste
Not a day goes by when the news headlines fail to report something about the troubles associated with caste – based discrimination which has forced members of the lower castes to live in poverty, restricted to low – paying menial jobs that are considered undignified and unclean. In 1947, having won freedom from the white sahibs who incidentally considered all the brown chaps to be inferior without exception, India framed a brand new constitution which formally banned the practice of untouchability and other caste – related evils. It was a noble sentiment, even if it did next to no good.
Over seven decades
later, not much has changed. The caste system compounded by the class divide
remains a pernicious, malignant presence, tainting every single aspect of
society. We read about atrocities committed against Dalits, shake our heads
dispiritedly over something that happens with unfailing regularity, condemn
such diabolical deeds on twitter every time the topic is trending while
remarking in private that nothing is ever going to change because caste is too
deeply entrenched in our country. Everybody knows a couple or two who married
out of their own caste and talk about how their folks were cool about it, which
points to a brighter future but even in the Puranic age, these things happened
- the exceptions which never changed the status quo.
We must abolish the
caste system if there is to be the faintest chance of our great - grandchildren
not having to listen to holograms informing them that a Dalit woman was raped
and murdered, while her protesting relatives were burnt alive to silence their
screams. Again. To rip out such an ancient evil by the roots, we can start by
doing away with the community certificate entirely, even if it is there for the
ostensible purpose of doing the right thing by the downtrodden via affirmative
action programs in educational institutions and the employment sector. The
quota system doesn’t really seem to have helped the people it was supposed to.
Rather, it has perpetuated the very evil it was designed to prevent.
By ensuring that
the caste identity we cling to is eliminated, we may just manage to secure
equal rights for all. Future generations will grow up not knowing or caring
which caste their ancestors belonged to. And if we can provide quality
education for all our youngsters especially the ones who can’t afford it,
perhaps in the future, everyone will be guaranteed a fair share of the pie. Or
payasam. An added bonus is that the politicians will no longer be able to
manipulate the vote banks on the basis of caste. Isn’t that reason enough to
burn up those community certificates immediately if not sooner?
This article was originally published in The New Indian Express.
Tuesday, July 27, 2021
Sarpatta Parambarai A Helluva Fight
I like sports
flicks even if they are not game – changers in that rousing genre. The Longest Yard, Remember the Titans, Rush,
Dodgeball, the entire Rocky
franchise and Creed are films I have
watched more times than I care to remember. Million
– Dollar Baby is one of my all-time fave films and it never fails to reduce
me to a miserable puddle of tears. In short, I love sports films, unless they
are made in India. Here people do weird things like cast Priyanka Chopra as
Mary Kom, give Farhan Akhtar a chance to log in a whole lot of gym time to play
Milkha Singh unconvincingly or whoever it was he played in Toofan, etc. Even the critically acclaimed Irudhi Suttru was a
disappointment because I felt it was about a lot of things but the boxing
itself which it was purportedly all about wound up somewhere at the bottom.
Which is why Pa. Ranjith’s Sarpatta
Parambarai was a refreshing change.
After the promise
Ranjith showed with the excellent Madras,
he went on to make the awful Kabali
and Kaala which prompted me to set
the bar really low for Sarpatta
Parambarai but the film, while not lacking in the ideology he cares so much
about and which yields mixed results cinematically speaking, treats the
material with a certain dignity and has such innate respect for the sport of
boxing, you can’t help but be charmed.
Set in the 1970s,
against the backdrop of the emergency, Sarpatta
Parambarai tells an oft told tale of an underdog, Kabilan (Arya), who rises
from the dumps only to fall so that he can rise again. None of this is
groundbreaking, but Ranjith can be counted upon to freshen this stuff up. It helps
that Ranjith always opts to work with a powerhouse cast. Pasupathy, who plays
coach Rangan is just pure dynamite! He conveys so much with his eyes and subtle
use of body language, that it is impossible to take your eyes off him. The man is
a study in understatement! John Vijay who is an Anglo – Indian father figure to
Kabilan is excellent. The supporting cast of boxers - Santhosh Prathap as
Raman, John Kokken as Vembuli and Shabeer Kallarakkal as Dancing Rose are so good,
they easily eclipse Arya who is in his element in the training montages and
inside the ring where he does a decent job of conveying intensity and aggression
but in all the other scenes it is obvious that he is the lightweight among an
impressive array of heavyweights. He is particularly horrendous in a scene
where he has an emotional meltdown and wallows in self-pity. But the good thing
about his character is that he is no saint, and despite his sins, you do root
for him.
Kabilan’s journey
is an impressive one although I found it hard to swallow that a rookie could
take out pros in successive rounds with next to no training. Why do we keep
showing this in our films? It doesn’t happen that way folks. Excellence in
sports takes so much more than talent, aggression or inspiration. Boring things
like endless training, hard work and dedication are called for. A couple of
training montages before a big match is just not going to cut it. Just once, I would
like to see a protagonist who lives, eats, sleeps, breathe his chosen sport
allowing for no distractions. I doubt a project like that would be green – lit but
I daresay it takes just that kind of maniacal commitment to achieve sporting
glory!
Be that as it may,
of course we have to talk about the caste as well as class divide that is
always present felt in Ranjith’s films. There are characters like Thanigan
(Vettai Muthukumar) who would prefer the likes of Kabilan to beg for alms in
front of their homes, shovel up cow dung or slave for them but draw the line at
him going on to represent and win for their Sarpattai clan. His devilry to stop
the progress of Kabilan is reprehensible, unpalatable and in the climatic
stretch, somewhat unconvincing. One wishes Ranjith would temper his passionate
beliefs with just a touch of balanced perspective because ironically, while he
has raised his voice against those who would trod upon the rights of lower
caste members and blue – collar workers, he seems to endorse those boxing clans
like ‘Sarpatta parambarai’, ‘Idiyappa parambarai’ etc. though it is almost a
given that it must be a struggle for aspiring boxers to gain acceptance to
these clans with the inordinate pride some of them take in their identity and
their reluctance to let outsiders in. Sounds familiar? I have always wondered
at the bias displayed by people who raise their voice against bias.
That aside, critics
always rave about the ‘powerful’ women characters in Ranjith’s films but I beg
to differ. Bakkiyam (Anupama Kumar) as Kabilan’s mum, Mariamma (Dushara
Vijayan) his wife and even, Sanchana Natrajan who plays another character’s
wife while solid performers are given nothing to do but scream and berate the
men in their lives in an endless litany. The interminable shrieking is at the
shrillest pitch possible and really grates on the nerves. It is commendable
that these women make the men earn their respect, but I would have appreciated
them more had they gone about it in a less hysterical manner. And I really
wish, that a woman who repeatedly whacks her son with a broomstick isn’t
applauded as ‘feisty’. Abuse is abuse whether it is a man or woman meting it
out and I wish folks would stop treating it like a perfectly acceptable thing.
However, grouses
notwithstanding, Sarpatta Parambarai
has some beautiful moments. I loved that Dancing Rose berates his buddy’s less
than honourable conduct while later bolstering the same fallen comrade by
telling him that there is no shame in a loss if you have fought with honor and
given the best you have got. I misted up at that. Incidentally, he is the only
character who is a decent sport. Everyone else with their mulish clannishness
including the hero would have done better to exalt the sport of boxing more
than their petty rivalries.
Another aside
worthy of a mention is when coach Rangan returns from jail and has a private
moment with his wife, where they exchange a look of heart melting fondness
though they are in the middle of a crowd… Ranjith does his best work when he
brings out these small, intimate moments that establish the bonds shared by his
characters and these triumph over the more epic stretches he stages though they
are effective too. Ultimately, Sarpatta
Parambarai may not quite deliver a knockout punch but it is definitely a
helluva fight!
Sunday, July 25, 2021
Once Upon a Time in Hollywood is Equal Parts Brilliant and Problematic
I’ll start by
admitting to being a huge Quentin Tarantino fan. I have watched and rewatched
his films so often, I can probably write a thesis on his work in my sleep. I’ll
also confess that with The Hateful Eight
and Once Upon a Time in Hollywood, it
seemed to me like the auteur was losing his touch. Especially since his work
was never characterized by emotional range or soul – stirring substance and
with these two duds, no amount of his quirkiness and trademark flamboyance seemed
adequate for the task of making amends for the overriding superficiality
smothered in swagger and style.
Even so, when
Tarantino announced that he was making the transition from auteur to author, I
was intrigued, for obvious reasons. And the man, didn’t disappoint. The book is
impossible to put down and the novel format is perfectly suited to Tarantino’s
love for lavish detail, verbose asides to meditate on the minutiae and making
of films, tendency to digress from the main narrative for long detours into
Hollywood by lanes for some shop talk and celeb worship. Unlike the movie, with
its leisurely to the point of lethargic pace, he cranks it up a notch while drawing
his readers by hand into the inner lives of his characters. There is Rick
Dalton, the actor whose career is headed towards the rocks, Cliff Booth, the
stuntman and Dalton’s sympathetic sidekick who may be a little too good at
killing and Trudi Fraser, the memorable child actor who schools Dalton on
method acting and expresses her aversion to being referred to as ‘Pumpkin Puss’.
All of them make for intriguing companions.
Tarantino’s pen
lingers on the real life figures as well – Sharon Tate, Roman Polanski, Charles
Manson and his ‘lost girls’, although the attempt is less heartening. Manson,
for instance he dismisses as a hack who would have sold his immortal soul,
existential philosophy which was supposed to herald a new order and his adoring
followers for a record deal he does not have the talent to secure. All this
makes for riveting reading and turns out to be an incredibly visual experience
comparable to watching and having your mind blown by the best of his films.
Tarantino has long
reveled in being a provocateur, and his unapologetic audacity is his biggest
strength, giving his work a raw honesty that is shorn of anything remotely
resembling wokeness or political correctness. After all, he is the guy who saw fit to rewrite the
history of World War II as an outrageous revenge fantasy but every once in a
while, his penchant for lowbrow cinephilia and consequent creative decisions
can be in surpassingly poor taste. Never has it been more apparent than in his
portrayal of Bruce Lee in the film version of OUATIH which had the departed
superstar’s daughter, Shannon Lee up in arms against Tarantino for the
disrespect and blatant mockery of a bona fide legend who battled impossible
odds to achieve his cult status but unfortunately, did not live long enough to
see his efforts pay off. As always, Tarantino stuck to his guns, and has
doubled down in his book to make a case for Bruce Lee suffering from an
inflated ego and insisting he was disrespectful to American stuntmen, who he
claims refused to work with Lee because he would purposely tag them in fight
scenes (landing real blows with his fist and feet).
Tarantino claims
he has plenty of evidence to support his claims regarding Lee but be that as it
may, one can’t help but think this is unfair to Bruce Lee. The glam factory,
like the rest of society has always been hard on those belonging to minority
groups, failing to recognize their talent or giving them opportunities to shine
and holding them to ridiculous standards while conversely, their white
counterparts are literally allowed to get away with murder. This is exactly the
sort of systemic racism, actors with the ‘wrong’ skin color have battled for
eons now. And the decision to have Mike Moh portray Lee and his trademark
mannerisms with exaggerated excess to achieve a certain caricaturist effect sticks
in the craw especially if you are a rabid fan of the great martial artist (like
me) even if it is to establish that Cliff Booth as a war veteran with medals of
valor to prove his prowess as a killer can easily take the Dragon out. In light
of the tragic fate that overcame Bruce Lee and later, his son, Brandon Lee,
this whole arc is insensitive, to say the least.
It is particularly
galling given how unabashedly sympathetic Tarantino is to Cliff Booth himself,
who definitely murdered his wife (this scene is mined for romance and it is an
outrageous flourish that is wildly entertaining and surprisingly sweet) and has
killed three civilians and managed to escape the law every single time. Worse,
is Tarantino’s near slavish devotion to Hollywood’s golden couple of the 60s –
Roman Polanski and Sharon Tate. He clearly has nothing but respect for the
former and love for the latter (who is never less than a beautiful, blonde
angel), evident in his treatment of both which is disconcerting with regard to
Polanski. Tarantino takes great pains to pay suitable tribute to a fellow
auteur (I confess to being an admirer of Polanski’s brilliant body of work
myself) and establish his undeniable genius but in a departure from his
garrulous style keeps mum about the Polish director’s conviction for the rape
of a minor which resulted in him absconding from the USA.
Naturally, this
makes one wonder why Polanski merits such adoration while Lee was hauled over
the coals for allegedly being disrespectful to American stuntmen who in all
fairness are more than likely to have treated him with less than the respect
that was his due, since at the time Lee was a ‘Chinaman’ working as the Green
Hornet’s sidekick. It just smacks of racist and exploitative overtones, given
that Tarantino famously trotted out Uma Thurman clad in the iconic yellow
jumpsuit Lee wore in The Game of Death,
for his smash hit, Kill Bill, which
was marketed as a homage to the martial arts legend.
Even more
disturbing is Tarantino’s cavalier treatment of the pedophilia rampant in
Hollywood. He asserts that Charles Manson used his underage girls as ‘catnip’,
pimping them out to those who may serve his ends. Naturally, since he is the
villain of the piece, none of this is glorified but the entire thing becomes a
shade off - putting when an underage character insists on being called
‘Pussycat’. She offers sexual favors to Booth, who in an uncharacteristic move
demands that she show him proof of her age before turning her down. This
character then goes on to reveal that she had a sexual relationship with
Charles Manson at the age of 14 and proceeded to marry someone (at the cult
leader’s suggestion) and dump him shortly after, because the move would ‘free’
her to escape her parents and join him and his hippie followers. At no point,
is it suggested that she is a victim on account of her age, susceptible to the
machinations of smarmy cult leaders. Instead she is portrayed as a poster girl
of the degenerate hippie culture Tarantino clearly despises.
This attitude of
the auteur turned author becomes even more troubling when Mirabella Lancer aka
Trudi Fraser, an eight-year-old actor gets her flirt on (in the book) with the
much older Dalton, her co - star. She talks to him of love and marriage while
going off script in an exercise to understand their characters better and
later, calls him at an unearthly hour for the ostensible purpose of reading
their lines together so they can kill it on the next day’s shoot. Dalton protests
very weakly about the inappropriateness of it all before indulging her request.
While it is apropos that the inappropriateness of it all has been stressed, it
also makes the reader wonder if Booth was not speaking for Tarantino himself
when he admits to liking a fictional character, who is “unconsciously racist,
consciously misogynist”. After all, at the end of the day, Tarantino can really
be an INGLOURIOUS BASTERD of the highest order, even when he is at his dazzling
best.
Thursday, July 15, 2021
Fear Street Part Two: 1978
Was there ever a
horror movie prequel/sequel that was ever worth a damn? Fear Street Part Two
tries hard, it really does, but nothing really sticks. The axe-swinging
murderous puppet type controlled by the witch, Sarah Fier whose curse has haunted
Shadyside for centuries supplies the gruesome thrills and chills in Camp Nightwing
which was alluded to in Part One. Ruby Lane (who sings a sweet little song
while wielding her knife) and Billy Barker (A little boy who bashes heads in
with a baseball bat) make an appearance too. This set – up harkens back to Camp
Crystal Lake and the terrifying Jason of Friday the 13th fame so one
mentally prepares oneself for happy little campers getting slaughtered and also
wonders how parents still send their kids to these places were the counselors
are either high or preoccupied with getting laid with their young charges being
the last things on their minds!
There is a little
more backstory about the witch and the emotional beats are supposed to be
supplied via a soured relationship between two sisters who have diametrically
opposing views about how best to handle being stuck in an accursed place and
yet another messed up relationship between former friends. They resolve their
differences while being hunted by one of the witch’s minions, watching their
friends and charges hastened to horrendous ends and screaming fit to bust their
lungs. None of it works though. This time around, the director Leigh Janiak,
ramps up the bleakness and darkness which seeks to drive the horror quotient
through the roof but since the film is nothing but a set up for a major reveal
in part three, most of it is repetitive and the schtick gets old.
And a pet peeve is
the continued tendency to portray witches in the worst possible light never
mind that the infamous witch hunts which spanned centuries and claimed the
lives of thousands of innocent women whose only crime was that they didn’t
stand and pee was one of the darkest chapters in history. It is so tiresome
that this tired old trope of the wicked witch is still being mined to create loathsome
women characters. But hopefully, in the spirit of wokeness which seems to be
the driving force behind art these days, part three will turn things on its
head and reveal that the witch is not the real villain of the piece but a
victim who has slaved across the centuries to save Shadysiders from the same
malevolent creature that claimed her life and unleashed a brood of mass
murderers. Now wouldn’t that be something?
Tuesday, July 13, 2021
Fear Street Part One: 1994
It was only a
matter of time before the back storied world – building and myth - making that
powered one too many money – minting superhero franchise seeped into the horror
genre. We saw glimpses of it in the Conjuring and Insidious universe which has
been yielding increasingly diminished returns to begin with and now, Leigh
Janiak has upped the ante with her offering of three movies based on R.L
Stine’s series, “Fear Street”, spanning centuries, to be dropped in
installments over the course of a month on Netflix. The film is not a faithful
adaptation and is a much darker take on R.L. Stine’s work which was written for
children and therefore does not feature the body count, blood and gore that are
prerequisites for a slasher flick. In fact, his books were once famously
described as a ‘literary training bra’ for Stephen King.
“Fear Street Part
One: 1994” is set in Shadyside aka Shittyside. The town has an unfortunate
history of ordinary people suddenly losing all their marbles and going on
killing sprees. This is exactly the sort of thing that can give a place a bad
rap and lead to plummeting property value, plunging the citizenry into poverty.
Their problems are compounded when the
film opens with yet another Shittyside massacre in a mall and the people have
to cope with the scale of the tragedy even as the media highlights similar
gruesome incidents from the past contrasting the town with the neighboring
Sunnyvale, which is picture perfect and prosperous to boot. Naturally, they
tend to look down on Shadysiders, going so far as to blame them for their perpetual
wretchedness.
Deena (Kiana
Madeira) has just put together a bitter mixed tape for her ex, Sam (Olivia
Welch) who has moved to Sunnyvale and is not inclined to buy into theories that
a witch named Sarah Fier has placed a curse on the town making it a breeding
ground for serial killers who go about the business of slaughter in wildly
creative and surpassingly gruesome ways. Deena’s brother (Benjamin Flores Jr.)
is a bit of a nerd who has made it his business to study the legend of the
witch. Her friends Kate (Julia Rehwald) and Simon (Fred Hechinger) are selling
pills to their school mates in a determined effort to pick themselves up by the
bootstraps and better their lives. On an eventful night, Sam accidentally
disturbs the grave of the witch and paints a bullseye on her back, dragging
this oddball group of friends into a night of mayhem and murder.
Janiak treats
these characters with respect and it is why we come to care for them though
they can be abrasive and unlikeable on occasion. They make a lot of bad
decisions but they are not blamed or shamed for it, because the film
understands the brashness and desperation of youngsters who are heartily sick
of adults, unwilling to take the time to listen to their fantastical claims,
wrapped up as they are in their own worlds. Fittingly enough, the adults
barring a few exceptions are mostly absent. Even the burgeoning sexuality of
these characters is not treated as something to be used for purposes of
titillation or as a cautionary tale. This sensitivity is not common in this
particular genre and makes for a refreshing change of pace.
“Fear Street Part
One: 1994” is high on nostalgia, the occasional jump scare and boasts of a
rousing score but it is hardly the most frightening film out there even though
parts of it are truly disturbing and make you feel a little queasy. Even so, it
is interesting enough to make you want to come back for the second installment.