G. Bruno Fischer's Favorite Films of 2017

Once again, here we are; standing on the edge the precipice of yet another new year. It’s been a saccharine annual cycle with regards to film I was mostly pleased with the results. But then again, I only really bother going to new movies in theaters if they pertain to my specific sensibilities, intrigues, or are by directors, writers, or studios whose work I admire and consistently enjoy. This means that I probably haven't seen all or even some of the more superb independent movies of 2017 and probably wont until after the new year, but be that as it may here be my l list of the “best” films of 2017. With that in mind, the film’s I’ve selected for this “end of year review” are by no means what I consider to be the crème de la crème of 2017. Heck, I consider John Carpenter’s Big Trouble In Little China to be one of the most fascinating works of cinema ever made, but I doubt we’ll be seeing Kurt Rustle’s face slapped on a Criterion Collection box anytime soon. 

Now before I delve in I’d just like to mention that this list is based on my criteria of what makes a film “good,” which is as follows:

• Enjoyability, or how consistently entertained I was throughout the film. 
• Technicality, or how impressed I was with the overall constitution/production/presentation of the film.
• Rewatchability, or how many times a film can be watched after a first viewing.

Got it? Alright, let’s get too it then. Here are:

G. BRUNO FISCHER’S FAVORITE FILMS OF 

- 2017-

10) The Disaster Artist 

If you’ve read my review on James Franco’s rose-tinted adaptation of Greg Sestero’s book on the making of the “best worst film ever made,” then you may be wondering why it’s on this top 10 list in the first place. Well for starters, I regrettably didn’t see too many “new” movies this year, but I did still enjoy it. I’ll admit that my admiration for The Disaster Artist stems entirely from my love of the original film by the conventionally untrammeled human mystery that is Tommy Wiseau. Franco’s performance (or rather, imitation of Wiseau) is a spectacle worthy of attention and accolades. In truth, I’m mostly hopeful that The Disaster Artist will shepherd in more audiences to the masterpiece that is The Room; but for what it’s worth,The Disaster Artist still makes for an enjoyable “follow your dreams,” picture on the subject of accidental cinematic brilliance and though the final product is flawed it’s ethos is pure and story’s bizarre enough to earn itself in the number 10 slot. 

9) Alien: Covenant 

Now, I’m a titanic fan of Ridley Scott’s original 1979 extraterrestrial slasher movie and the subsequent “Alien” franchise born (or rather chest-bursted) out of it. Alien Covenant is the eighth installment of phallic-faced deep space killer’s cinematic saga so it should come as no surprise that it’d make it on my end of the year list. Covenant is not a “great” film, it’s not even “good,” per-say (not by a long shot), but that’s not really the point of this movies; I mean, the killer is quite literally a murderous bipedal cockmonster. It’s a modern-day B-movie (and a super fun one at that) with a hefty special effects budget that makes for a wonderful array of scenes where dimwitted space pilgrims die in laughably gruesome ways. Covenant is not be the best installment in the Xenomorph’s big screen repertoire (or even the second Alien film directed by Ridley Scott) but it’s still a pleasurable extraterrestrial monster mash that’ll quench your ephemeral blood lust. Plus it’s the only Alien film to feature a robot Michael Fassbender “fingering,” a second robot Michael Fassbender!

8) Coco

2017 wasn’t a particularly bountiful year for animated feature films, which is a shame because I still haven’t grown up and always cherish cartoons, anime, and theatrical displays of computer rendered animation. Coco is Pixar studio’s latest addendum to their already impressive roster of family-friendly films and I’m so pleased to say that it’s earned its place among their top-tier productions. The visuals are dazzlingly colorful and rife with imaginative allusions to Mexican culture, mythology, history, and praxis. The music is mellifluous and expertly composed. The story’s sweet, and the characters are fleshed out despite lacking, well, flesh. Overall Coco is an exceptional example of animated storytelling that’ll tug at your heartstrings like the chords of a fine-tuned guitarrón. Coco is a perfect picture show for lovers or art, music, imagination, and you can chance your coccyx I’ll be showing it to my kids when they eventually come into existence.  

7) Dunkirk 

I’ve always considered Christopher Nolan to be one of those consistently “good” but sparsely “great” directors but after witnessing the man’s take on the (debatably bloated) WWII genre I’ve finally acquiesced the fact that Mr. Nolan is better than “good,” he’s fantastic. Dunkirk is one of those films that acts more like a cinematic experience with the narrative following three different groups of characters taking place at three different timelines all edited together as if its one coherent chronicle. It’s no small task to take on a film in which the entire audience knows hows the story ends (SPOILERS: the nazi’s loose) but Dunkirk’s commitment to a nonlinear narrative with focus primarily fixed on visual story telling in lieu of dialogue (serious, there’s like two pages worth for a film just under two hours long) makes for a fascinating work of cinema. Dunkirk isn’t just another good WWII movie, it’s an unequivocal spectacle of filmmaking!

6) Thor: Ragnarok 

Much like the bulk of films under Christopher Nolan’s belt, I enjoy most of the entries in the Marvel Cinematic Universe; but rarely do I ever feel the need (or even desire) to re-watch them or deconstruct their cinematic constitutions. I’m not hating on the MCU but I mostly view their movies as little more than silly little action comedies that are designed to come, entertain, and disappear like Bond movies or porn. So you can imagine my surprise when I watched Thor: Ragnarok, the third movie in the “Thor” series, and discovered that it’s not only the best theatrical depiction of the viking God of thunder and mallets, but also the most entertaining Marvel movie to date. I mean, I’m still pretty perplexed that a Marvel movie made it on the list but as soon as I learned of who was directing it all became clear. I simply adore director Taika Waititi (don’t feel bad, I can’t pronounce his name right either), from his work on the short lived HBO series, Flight of the Conchords to his New Zealand independent tragicomedies (Hunt for Wilder People, What We Do In The Shadows). I consider Waititi to be one of the funniest directors currently working, and he’s more than brought his A-game to the MCU. Ragnarok is gut-bustingly hilarious but also action-packed, wildly colorful and knows how not to take itself so seriously. It’s a strange concoction of cinematic artistry that culminates into a perfect tongue-and-cheek science fiction superhero rhapsody that’s well overdue in this age of endless comic book movies.

5) Logan

Now I’d like to stress the fact that I’m not a superhero film fanboy by any means. I didn’t bother seeing Justice League, and I don’t care all that much for the X-Men franchise, but lord almighty did I love the crap out of Hugh Jackman’s send off to his Wolverine character in Logan. Apart from being a much more darker take on a source material marketed to children and comic book nerds; Logan delivers us a comic book movie that’s jam-packed with brutal over-the-top violence and gore but is also unafraid of adult themes and topics almost unheard of for super hero movies such as: later-life crisis, depression, cancer, suicidal thoughts, alzheimer’s disease, decapitation, child abuse, familicide, child murder, child murderers, murder-suicide, and the acceptance of one’s own death. In summation, Logan is one fucking bleak hero flick, but it works! In addition to being a justifiably dark and brutally violent hack-n-slash action romp underutilized by the superhero genre, Logan also serves as an emotionally driven character study of a pop culture icon at the end of his relevancy. It’s a much needed cinematic hero’s journey that’s mature, melancholy, and is as deliciously bittersweet as life itself. Hugh Jackman’s knocks it out of the park with his final Wolverine performance, and director James Mangold’s influence makes for a impressive dark genre film with prominent western and samurai film influences. It’s the kind of comic book movie you’d expect to get out of Quentin Tarantino or Martin Scorsese type; just throw in a hunky protagonist with knives coming out of his fists and you got yourself one fine-ass deconstruction of the the superhero genre! 

4) Blade Runner 2049

 I swear I’m not an unabashed Ridley Scott fanboy, despite the fact that this list contains two sequels to the man’s most popular science fiction properties, but Blade Runner 2049 certainly deserves its place on this board. I certainly have my fair share of issues with director Denis Villeneuve’s sequel to Scott’s existential android noir, but I’ve added it to the list (and placed it rather high) because of how gosh darn fascinating it it. Unlike the Star Wars and (to a lesser extent) Star Trek admirers I like my science fiction films abstract and atmospheric. The highest complement I can offer 2049 (apart from its beauteous cinematography, sound design, and performance by Ryan Gosling) is its ability to intrigue the viewer long after the film has ended. I don’t think I’ve dedicated more thinking time to another movie released this year than this one, which has lead to many debates and discussion among my cinephile friends and I and I believe that’s more significant appeals to the “hard” science fiction genre. It’s a vibrant and gloomy philosophical puzzle of consciousness, humanity, and technology’s place in it all, making for a film that’ll dazzle your eyeballs and exercise the more ponderous parts of your brain. If you’re seeking a film that presents the viewer with futurist metaphysical riddles without any clear answers or solutions then check out Blade Runner 2049! 

03) IT

 Oh man! Oh man! Oh man! There was a big-budget killer clown movie released this year, and I am still riding the megalomaniacal giddiness of that fact! It’s certainly no secret that horror movies are what gets me out of bed in the morning (apart from my fiancé and alarm clock) and director Andrés Muschietti’s It is one hell of a ride through the nightmareospher. Because the film centers around a group of children terrorized by an ancient evil shape-shifting clown the movie primarily serves as a vehicle for as many different horror scenes as the Muscheietti can get away with, should the runtime allow it. Yes, there’s an actual “plot,” and characters that are handled well and given a right amount of attention and development that all enhance the genuine horror of his multifaceted scare-feature. Really, the whole film’s like a variety show of nightmare fuel including the likes of: headless corpses, decomposing hobos, demented paintings, disembodied hands (ala Roman Polanski Repulsion), zombies, monsters, and of course clowns! To put it simply, It a horror junkie’s heroine that’s flashy, entertaining, and oodles of fun and I can’t wait for the sequel come 2019. 

 02) Three Billboards Outside Ebbing Missouri 

If you’ve read my review of Martin McDonagh’s third crack at cinematic storytelling, then you know precisely why Three Billboards Outside Ebbing Missouri is so high on my list. I can’t in full confidence say it’s the best-written movie released in 2017 (because that would require me to actually watch every film released this year and I’m no masochist) but McDonagh’s undoubtedly scribed the best screenplay out of all the film’s I’ve personally seen for 2017. It also doesn’t hurt that the cast is utterly brilliant with stand out performances from Frances McDormand, Sam Rockwell, and Woody Harrelson and with McDonagh’s directing the end-result makes for a joyfully bleak yet strangely compelling dark dramedy. McDonagh always surrounds his films (and probably his plays though I really can’t say as I haven’t seen any of them) around morally grey characters deep in a life-or-death battle for their souls that mirrors the everyday moral choices we now cinematically inclined humans must endure in our day-to-day lives. Three Billboards is a hard movie (for those not inherently drawn to dark thematic narratives) but shines a powerful light on the spectrum of human emotion that you can’t help but find yourself sucked into your temples. I can only hope the next Martin McDonagh film wont take 5 years to make, but honestly if it takes that long I’m sure it’ll be worth the wait.

01) Baby Driver

Director Edgar Wright is one hell of a filmmaker! Don’t believe me? Well, I did a little math based on all the feature films written and directed by the guy, and their total average Rotten Tomatoes rating comes out to a positive score of 89.4%. To put in perspective, Steven Spielberg average Rotten Tomatoes score is at 77.8% “fresh,” Oliver Stone’s average is at 62% and Ridley Scott’s currently standing at 61.4% and out of all those directors, the only one without an Oscar is Wright. Baby Driver is currently Mr. Wright’s most “fresh” film on RT, and upon watching it, it’s not difficult to see why. The entire film’s constructed over what appears to be a cinematic challenge set by Wright as the main character “Baby” (played by Ansel Elgort) is portrayed as always listening to an eclectic selection of music that’s entirely in sync with everything (and I mean EV-ER-Y-THING) that happens on screen. From the blocking of actors, to camera movements, editing techniques, even gunshot blasts, everything the audience sees is in tune with the tunes. From beginning to end Edgar Wright’s created the most action-packed, high octane, quick whited jukebox movie musical that ever has ever existed. I must admit that the bulk of my adoration for Baby Driver comes from my own experience as a video editor. Editing’s a factor I tend to pay close attention to when movies (even when I’m not actively looking for it), and Baby Driver is the most blatant display of big screen editorial pornography I’ve ever seen; making it the most rewatchable, entertaining, and cinematically impressive work of film I’ve seen all year and easily my most favorite movie to come out of 2017. 

G. Bruno Fischer 

December 31, 2017

;P

CAMERA GIRL, Ch 12: The Makeshift Tabernacle

Chapter 12

The Makeshift Tabernacle

A makeshift chapel.

Every mortuary has one: a room dedicated for the spiritually endowed. Lord knows they’ve been nothing but generous to the undertakers of the world. More often than not though the room’s just for show, completely devoid of any real sacred value. There’s often a designated priest or rabbi in the morgue’s directory but it’s not uncommon for the funeral director’s themselves to officiate whichever last rites the bereaved may have requested; and Slug’s parents are no exception. Though to their credit, the Merryhill Morgue’s “house of worship,” is perhaps the most picturesque Unitarian Universalist-themed faux-sanctuary this side of the Mason Dixon.

Just past the double, red, gothic doors lies a skinny velvet-blue carpet runner, dividing the chapel into two halves with four rows of balsa wood benches for each aisle. The pews have all been hand painted to resemble frozen red waves of mahogany. The walls are a compilation of grey faux-stone slabs facsimile to that of a medieval torturer chamber but without the chains, skeletons, and stench of stale urea. Instead theres a collection of dwarvish stained-glass windows bearing the likenesses of “historic champions of humanity,” so sayeth Slug, at least. Among the small but vibrant leadlights are the likes of Socrates, Mahatma Gandhi, Bill Watterson, and of course, Frida Kahlo.

Whenever entering the Merryhill Morgue’s Tabernacle Nora’s eyes always seemed fixed on Frida’s window first. She’s still not completely certain why.

The M. M. Tabernacle’s makeshift apse stands in the far back of the makeshift chapel’s interior, just past the end of the blue velvet. There on the floor, a Bergama prayer rug with cherry red lotus blossoms woven into the fabric. Atop this horizontal chef-d'œuvre, a poodle-pink casket, complete with a photograph placed between the head and foot panels. The gold leaf frame bares the smiling face of the late Mary Luanne Luzzatto. 

Behind the “altar,” hanging on the wall, a simple oaken bimah marked solely by a filigreed star of David. Looming over the bimah (and the pink coffin of the late Mrs. Luzzatto) a gargantuan cross. A crucifix, basking in the unnatural light of the ceiling’s fluorescent fixtures, minus a savior. Nora sneers at the cross like an adult vampire bumping into the teen-romance novel section at the local Barnes & Noble. 

“Where’s ‘sexy Jesus’?” Inquires Nora with tremendous disdain, “Don’t tell me the lad’s gone and raptured himself off, again.” 

The girls march across the blue velvet carpet runner en route to the fake chapel’s real emergency exit; illuminated by the neon-green sign hanging overhead in the far right corner of the room.  

“Pop said a formal complaint had been filed by a particularly sensitive family of Jehovah’s witness threatening to sue. But I think that was a lie ‘cus I’m pretty sure they eat their dead. We’d gotten concerning letters before, some more aggressive than others, but nothing crazy. Then I get a call from Pop telling me I can have the day to myself after school-”

“-That’s right, we shot The Guinea Pig Massacre at Trevor Noah’s sister’s studio.”

“-And after we were thrown out and called it a night I decided to cut through the cemetery, because: fuck the extra mile, right? But when I get there, the place’s swarming with cruisers, firetrucks, and ambulances with every light flashing and all. There was even a bomb squad. I didn’t feel like sticking around, so I kept walking and didn’t stop until I got home. I called you immediately after, remember?”

Nora could only recollect memories of splicing together close-ups of rodent-gnashing and action shots of bloodied appendages flailing about as if they’d been electrocuted. Nora nodded anyway, as not to appear rude. 

“I still don’t know if anything actually happened, but it made my folks loudly yell and cry throughout the night, which lead to a mess of other audible sounds I’d care not to elaborate upon. Fast forward to the following morning and Pop’s concluded that sexy Jesus has earned his severance package and was more than worthy of an ‘early retirement.’ It nearly took us the whole morning just to pry the fellow loose because the damn bolts had rusted all to hell. But, ‘twas not at all in vain, for in the end the morgue wasn’t exploded and I ended up with a hot new roommate that can rock a loincloth like no other. 

“Slug, I was in your room two days ago and there wasn’t a prophet, nor hunk to be seen.”

“Well, of course YOU didn’t see him. He hangs out in my closet. It’s the only place he can fit. You know I don’t have the wall space."

“So now there’s a messiah trapped in your closet? I’m more surprised it hasn’t happened sooner.”

“I take offense to that. In no way is my boy toy trapped. He has the freedom to come out of the closet whenever he wishes. Just so long as he stays in my room cus my Baba’s creeped out by his exposed, flaming heart.” 

The girls reach the emergency exit and Slug gives it a swift front kick to the door’s push bar switch, swinging it open with a resounding CA-CHUNK! 

A flash of light. 

Outside!

Blinding and white as the exposed buttocks of Sister Mary. 

Nora’s pocket jingles with the sound of jangling screws as she removes her notebook and brings it to her brow. A makeshift visor, but effective nonetheless. Her eyes begin to adjust, the vague skyline of a cemetery. THE cemetery. Headstones and ash covered by a dull, infinite sheet of overcast.

“Hey…” Nora speaks, hesitant to return to the hollowed grounds. 

“…Remember last December when we snuck into the episcopal church down on the corner of Russell and Braddock and swapped indoor Jesus for outdoor Jesus, just to see if they’d notice?”

Slug sighs, holding the door open for her friend with a leg still extended. 

“Well, considering that fact that St. Joseph's ‘outdoor’ Jesus belonged to their yuletide nativity scene, it was never a matter of if, only when. Now go outside so we can talk about your feelings.” 

“Fine!” Nora groaned like a hands-OFF kitty in the arms of a spinster, stepping out into the washed-out wasteland.

“But I don’t think you’re going to like what I’m going to say.” 

THE DISASTER ARTIST (2017): Movie Review

Every generation has it’s own “best worst movie” or, a film so arbitrarily bad by the standards of the basic cinematic convention that the final product becomes something so entertaining it elevates itself as something timelessly entertainment. These are the midnight movies, features to be given repeated viewings with friends after a night of dangerous debauchery. The latest cinematic juggernaut of the “so-bad-it’s-amazing” film genre is The Room: magnum opus of the bizarre man of mystery known only as Tommy Wiseau, whose masterpiece is still being shown in cinemas to sold- out crowds 10+ years after its initial release in 2003. The infamous “drama” turned “comedy,” inspired The Room actor (and alleged “best friend” of TW himself), Greg Sestero to write a tell-all book on the production of the film which is now adapted into a film by comedic actor/filmmaker James Franco. The Disaster Artist is Franco’s cinematic love letter to The Room, and it’s strange creator as Franco’s taken not only the staring role as the enigmatic Tommy Wiseau but has also taken it upon himself to produce, and direct his adaptation as well. The end result is a comedic light hearted version of Greg Sestero’s best selling book on the struggles of independent filmmaking helmed by the world’s most unusually “artist,” ever captured on film.

At its core, The Disaster Artist’s plot plays out like something out of Mel Brooks’ The Producers (1967) with it being a work of entertainment about putting on a work of entertainment that seems destined to fail. But there’s also quite a bit of Tim Burton’s Ed Wood (1994) in this as well with the other half of the story being a biopic of an eccentric director with all the passion and drive of an Orson Welles without any of the talent or awareness. The film follows Dave Franco (the younger of the Franco brothers) as Greg, a young acting neophyte who teams up with a weird older man named Tommy to pursue their dreams of making it in Hollywood. James Franco’s portrayal of the eccentric Tommy Wiseau is every bit of entertaining and unnerving as the man is in real life; who, for the record, still refuses to reveal his age, country of origin, or source of wealth which he used to fund his personal vanity project. There’s no real way to describe the human quandary that is Tommy Wiseau but somehow Franco’s captured the essence of the “man” perfectly. Franco’s impersonation is about as spot on as any actor other than Tommy could’ve hoped to achieve and made for easily the best parts of The Disaster Artist. I found the rest of the film to be charming and inspirational enough to say that I enjoyed it, but admittedly I do believe I wouldn’t have appreciated it nearly as much if I was unfamiliar with The Room or the book responsible for Franco’s adaptation.

The Disaster Artist is the 20-somethingth film directed by the Pineapple Express/127 Hours actor, but if The Disaster Artist is anything like those other projects, then I can understand why they’re so obscure to the public eye. Nothing about The Disaster Artist’s “look” or direction comes off as anything other than “alright.” The cinematography is done in that standard “shaky documentary” style that only audiences with bigoted hatred towards tripods will enjoy. The “visuals” seem to be focused solely on the actors and their performances, which isn’t terrible by any means but is ultimately forgettable, and the editing is about as basic as a preteen in yoga pants. That’s the main problem with The Disaster Artist, with exceptions to James Franco’s Tommy Wiseau act the whole thing’s just adequate. The story itself is interesting enough to keep your attention for 90 minutes but for anyone that read the book that was going to be a given one way or another. In truth, I think I would’ve been more forgiving for Franco’s overall portrayal of the source material if he’d stuck to making a more accurate adaption. I know nobody appreciates a critic whining about the book being better than the movie, but what made Greg Sestero’s original manuscript so fascinating was its unabashed telling of the unadulterated truth; about Tommy, their relationship, and the bizarre nightmarish conditions to which The Room was made. The Disaster Artist film gets the inspirational “follow your dreams,” route that’s probably present in the book but fails to capture the unruly darkness that both vilifies and humanizes the strange Mr. Wiseau. It’s apparent that James Franco adores Tommy Wiseau and his cinematic creation but I can’t help but shake the feeling that Franco’s adoration is why the film feels so disingenuous. Though I certainly have more gripes than praises I’d still call The Disaster Artist entertaining and enjoyable. The story may be told through rose tinted lenses, but if that’s the films intention then I can’t fault it for being successful in that regard. I get the feeling that this is Franco’s way to try and share his love for such a terrible yet enjoyable work of accidental cinematic brilliance and for that I can’t hate him too hard. The Disaster Artist is a campy appreciation piece and works in that respect. For all The Room fans in the world, this will undoubtedly be a pleasant experience to watch, but for everyone else, watch the original first.

James Franco as the enigmatic Tommy Wiseau  

CAMERA GIRL, Chapter 11: Burial Fantasies

Chapter 11

Burial Fantasies

Another hallway. But unlike the unprepossessing maze of corridors “behind the scenes” at the Merryhill Morgue this one’s far more idyllic. From an interior decorator’s perspective, at least. 

The walls are unsoiled and beige, lined with symmetrically placed Georgian accent tables of vintage red oak. Each table’s been topped with matching Greek hydria glazed with images of naked, muscular argonauts adorned with round shields, long spears, and beards. Every mouth of every vase possesses a bouquet of white chocolate roses; a standard feature of most modern American funeral homes. 

Betwixt two matching table-vase-flora sets, embedded in the beige, inches below the ceiling is a sign. It reads: Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch’intrate, which, when translated into English from the original Latin reads: Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.

Beneath the sign, a pair of black double-doors. They swing open to Nora and Slug, sashaying side by side like a couple of physically juxtaposing cartoon characters. 

“I don’t think you can have half your body cremated and the other half embalmed,” Slug lightheartedly sneered. 

“I’m not asking to be bisected top-to-bottom, just saw me off at the gut,” Nora said tracing an invisible dotted line running across her belly with a finger, “and burn everything from the waist down. I don’t need my upper half preserved, just on display like Jessie James or John Lenin. Then I’d like my ashes in the coffin with me, in the spot where my legs used to be and sprinkled in a way that makes it look like I have a ghost tail that gets smaller and thinner until it ends at my urn.”

“You want to look like macabre, dead genie?”

“I was picturing more of an hourglass-looking metaphor for the inevitability of death.”

“I think that’s going to be a given with any funeral, to be honest, but I admire the over complicatedness of your vision.”

“Merci beaucoup. So what are you going to do with your mortal remains? 

Slug ponders for a second, humming while she contemplates.

“First, I’ll have a closed casket. Nothing fancy, a simple pine box will do-”

Surprisingly modest.

“-to be buried in a private Jewish cemetery, in a grave under a big oak tree where my friends and loved ones will gather to pay their final respects and lamentations-“ 

Yeah, good luck getting a plot with that Tinkerbell tattoo. 

“-and after the Rabbi finishes reading his Psalm and the 13th fistful of dirt’s been tossed someone, maybe Trevor, will be blasting, “I Want to See You Go Wild” by Andrew W. K. on a boom box, just like John Cusack in Say Anything. And you, my dear, will toss my tethered corpse out of the tree overlooking my grave so I can swing around the mourners in sync with the music."

“Shit. That’s WAY better than my corpseceañera.” 

“תודה,” Slug chortled, “I got the idea from a clip I saw on the internet.”

A hum of recognition from Nora, feeling the energy of their game slowly dissipating into awkward, unruly silence. Slug takes the pause as a signal to redirect the conversation.

“So do you want too, y’know, talk?” 

“We are talking.” 

“I mean, real talk. Joshing  around’s fun and all, but you know I’m here for you, right? 

“I know Slug, I know. But now’s not the time.”

“And why not?”

“Because the foyer’s packed to the gills with cops.” 

Nora was right. As the girls stepped into the main lobby of the Merryhill Morgue they could see a pod of about 50 officers. Men and women of varying ages, sizes, colors, and creeds, all in matching blue and grey uniforms; some drinking out of styrofoam coffee cups, others talking amongst themselves, all gloomy and in attendance for their colleges’ last rites.  

“Oh,” Slug said meekly. 

“Outside?” 

“Outside.” 

THREE BILLBOARDS OUTSIDE EBBING MISSOURI (2017): Movie Review

I’m an unabashed Martin McDonagh fanboy. In fact, I believe it’d be impossible even to call oneself a connoisseur of contemporary filmmaking otherwise. I first watched McDonagh’s first feature film, In Bruges (2008), in college, after a friend professed that it was one of the best films ever made (wherein his list of favorites included Das Boot, The Deer Hunter, and Aguirre, The Wrath Of God). Said friend had also informed me that both Martin McDonagh (and his brother John Michael McDonagh) were considered to be Ireland’s best living writers. I have no idea where my friend attained this information, and I certainly don’t have the authority to back or refute his claim, but after watching In Bruges twice (that night) and Three Billboards Outside Ebbing Missouri this evening, I can’t say I don’t disagree with him. Three Billboards is writer/director Martin McDonagh’s third full-length feature film after a five-year hiatus following the release of Seven Psychopaths (2012), which I enjoyed but left some dark-comedy fans a tad disappointed for falling more towards the “comedy” end of the spectrum. Three Billboards seems to be McDonagh’s overcompensation for Seven Psychopaths’ more ebullient tone by cranking up the “dark” to a degree that even eclipse’s the darkest moments of In Bruges.

    The film centers around Mildred Hayes, played by Coen Brothers veteran Frances McDormand (Fargo, Burn After Reading), a divorced mother in her seventh month of grieving after the rape and murder of her teenage daughter. Enraged by the seemingly total lack of progress in her daughter’s investigation, Mildred rents out three billboards outside Ebbing calling out the chief of police, played by Woody Harrelson (Seven Psychopaths, No Country for Old Men) for his inequities as a harbinger of justice. This denunciatory protest kickstarts a series of emotionally extreme reactions from the various townsfolk of Ebbing, setting off a chaotic chain of reactionary events. It would seem (at least to me) that this is McDonagh’s cinematic depiction of the “cycle of violence,” the hypothetical pattern of human behavior in which high emotions and doctrines of retribution and/or revenge prove to be cyclical and potentially everlasting. Characters in Three Billboards abide by an almost dreamlike logic where actions are based entirely on raw, unadulterated emotions and inhibition is merely nonexistent. The result makes for a wholeheartedly appealing series of conflicts and catastrophes that tickled my funny bone and pulverized my heart, and believe me when I say that’s a positive. 

    Speaking of positives, let’s go over some of them as I’m still riding that, I-just-watched-a-great-effing-movie, high! First off, the cinematography is delightfully dreary, with a strong emphasis on the scenic beauty and modern dourness of small town living in the American south. The soundtrack is perfectly “indie” in that it juggles symphonic classical pieces with American folk tunes (complete with record scratches and tone distortions) which makes for an apt fusion of sound that’s entirely in line with this uniquely American tale of the timeless folly of human instinct and intuition. The acting performances are also amazingly auspicious. Frances McDormand, Woody Harrelson, and Sam Rockwell (Moon, The Green Mile) knock it out of the park in every scene they’re in. But the real star of Three Billboards is Martin McDormand himself for both his mastery of screenwriting and dialogue but also for his ability to direct his all-star cast. That being said, if you’re planning on seeing Three Billboards, I should warn you that it’s thoroughly melancholy to the point where if the film had a spirit animal it’d probably be a depressed onion cutting itself. Now for me, that’s a positive because I’m an emotional masochist who likes having his psychological sensibilities challenged, but not everyone enjoys that in their popcorn entertainment and this movie’s certainly not for everyone. This film’s a considerably hard pill to swallow, but the result is an experience that feel’s so in line with reality you almost forget that you’re watching a work of fiction. 

    I’ve probably gushed enough about Three Billboards, but without spoiling the plot, I’ll try to explain why. Martin McDonagh is an uncompromisingly truthful storyteller who excels at his depictions of people and how none of us are entirely good, but neither are we altogether evil. We are always going to be harbingers of both and how one’s decisions to act on either side can hinge entirely on how we’re feeling at any given time. Albeit McDonagh showcases this philosophy to a hyperbolic degree where characters don’t operate by common sense but rather through a kind of dream-logic where characters behave in the ways most of us wish we could when we feel angry, sad, or beaten down. Much like Martin McDonagh’s past works, Three Billboards makes for a pragmatic window into the complexities of human emotion that’s hilarious, heart wrenching, and sonderous. 

CAMERA GIRL, Chapter 10: SLUG

Chapter 10

SLUG

A cannonball of a young, stout woman comes barreling down the corridor, about as tall as an emperor penguin in the shape of angry turnip. Out of the back of her head dangles tendril of hair matted into a single, azure-dyed dreadlock (aptly named Chad) fishtailing behind her. Her skin’s golden-brown, like fine cane sugar with dollops of Cambric tea haphazardly flicked in. Vitiligo’s rampant all over her body, but only noticeable around her hands and visage. A pair of fireball red horn rimmed glasses rest askew on her splenetic face. A spatulate index finger extends from her arm if it were a Briquet sabre on the other end of a calvary woman. This is Slug; the strangest human Nora knows. 

“Don’t let him nettle you!” She cries, “You have rights! UNALIENABLE RIGHTS!” 

Dreading the encounter Nora’s jaw clenches shut with enough psi to grind solid granite into gravel. She sees the fury in Slug’s eyes. That primal, candescent glow around the irises not unlike that of a rampant mother grizzly finding one of her cubs in the clutches of a squishy, aloof human toddler. 

Unensorceled by this new challenger Officer Dante clears his throat. Nora’s legs transform into a pair of rubbery stilts, wobbling with inalienable terror.

Slug, you are a screen door hatch in my submarine of life. I guess we’re finally getting those matching mugshots the old gypsy woman told us about.

“Marcy!” Dante smiled, “Did I find your friend? Frank was looking for her earlier, said she broke in from the back. Though in truth, I think he’s just got hurt feelings. You should’ve seen his face; it was so red I thought steam was about to shoot out his ears!” 

This doesn’t phase the mad Slug on the warpath.

“Don’t get colloquial with me! Nora, are you alright? She’s shaking like a leaf!” 

Nora hated the weight of every eyeball in the room falling on her. She couldn’t even tell what face she was making over the pounding sound of blood in her ears; the face of someone stuck in a child’s swing. 

The Officer chime’s in, “Frank made a personal request for some ‘protection,’ in case whoever got past him was a dangerous and/or up to no good. Though, to be honest, I don’t think your bud’s much of a threat to anything other than Frank’s pride. But, I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t first ask a few questions before letting anyone off the hook. Why don’t you go back to the parlor and help your folks finish with the floral arrangements so we can both finish our work.” 

“Your WORK,” Slug barked condescendingly, “is a crockpot of lies and balderdash if you’re going to beleaguer a young woman in mourning!” 

Baron Munchausen would be proud. 

“Mourning or not, your friend still technically broke into the morgue.”

“Everyone grieves differently. You of all people know how something so formidable as tragedy can affect someone’s behavior. Remember Mrs. Luzzatto? After she became a widower?”

“Yeah, we couldn’t get her out of the tree overlooking her husband’s grave. We were there for eight hours before the branch she was straddling snapped. She fell and landed face first on Mr. Luzzatto’s tombstone. That was not a pleasant Christmas. ”

        “One’s reactions to grief is always going to look a tad peculiar from an outsider’s perspective. Granted, Nora’s actions certainly fall on the more asinine end of the spectrum but if sneaking into a cadaver repository Indiana Jane-style is her way of dealing with it, then we should be respectful and not marginalize it.”

The Officer’s throat made a groaning sound similar to a jammed coffee grinder, squeezing his forefinger and thumb over the bridge of his aquiline nose: a display of notable irritation.

“You know what? I don’t actually care about this. There are so many ways I can rip your words apart but I’m not going to.  It would not be hard but I’ve had a long night bleeding into an even longer morning and I still have a full afternoon shift to look forward too when this is all over so I think I’ll spare myself the headache.”

The Officer turns his gaze to Nora with an expression statuesque in its stoicism.

“You’ve been through a lot today, Miss Voorhies. Your mother was one formidable soul. You have my condolences,” he says sliding the beveled grip of the Nikon back into the arms of its master.

“Thank you,” Nora forces from her lips, her hands clutching the camera with a grip that could strangle pythons. 

And with a final nod, the Officer disappears into the repossessing room, presumably to talk the disgraced restoration artist out of pressing charges. Did he even want too? Nora didn’t want to stay put to find out and so without missing a beat Slug and she turned 180 degrees and marched themselves to the corridor’s exit. 

“You’re one radical pixie, Slug, too weird to live and too rare to die.”

“A radical pixie, huh? I like the sound of that!”

“Enough to get it tattooed on your neck?”

“Only if it’s written in comic sans and accompanied by an image of Tinker Bell twerking on the Torah.”  

Nora softly smiles. 

“I wouldn’t expect anything less.”