The Evolution of Brain-Eaters

In recent years, zombie flicks have become a dime a dozen. Hypnosis, virus, magic, science: take your pick of zombie origin. We are all but accustomed to the scab blood, the torn clothes, the twitchy movements. But where does this come from? Have zombies always been this predictable, this gross and terrifying in their depictions?

White Zombie (1932) is considered to be the first "mainstream" zombie film. Starring Bela Lugosi (who many may remember for his famous portrayal of Dracula in the 1931 film of the same namesake), the film follows a couple who are to be married under the roof of Charles Beaumont (played by Robert Frazer), a man set on making the bride-to-be his property. He enlists Lugosi's character to make her a "zombie", regarded in this context as an undead slave with no ability to speak and limited/slowed physical movement: he achieves this through the use of a "potion" and, interestingly, the power of telepathy, an aspect we don't really see anymore.

White Zombie (1932)

Back in the 30s, zombies were still structured under the origins of Haitian folklore, wherein a "zombie" was the living undead, brought back to life through ritualistic voodoo or magic: this was a trope that remained true for the next 20 years in other films such as I Walked With a Zombie (1943) and Teenage Zombies (1959). However, this changed significantly with the arrival of Night of the Living Dead (1968) in the late 60s when George A. Romero decided to up the ante.

Night of the Living Dead was Romero's magnum opus: one of the first cinematic pieces to show gratuitous violence on-screen and depict the zombie archetype in a truly revolutionary way. In comparison to White Zombie, this film showed them to not only move a little quicker but also look undead, featuring gaunt expressions, blood around the mouth, sunken eyes and gaping wounds. Lastly, the most important factor and one we take for granted now in 2018 is that the zombies are cannibals.

Night of the Living Dead (1968)

Romero's inspiration for such stemmed from the Richard Matheson novel I Am Legend, which featured man-eating vampires as the antagonist. Romero's zombies are almost a homage to Matheson's instantly recognisable and monstrous creation, blending two types of evil to make something terrifying, a villainous idea that would scare the pants off movie-goers in the midnight screenings. These zombies weren't created by voodoo, though: they were created by radiation from a satellite returning from Venus, introducing a more new-age and technological aspect to the horror genre.

So, by the late 60s, we had bloodthirsty, slow yet menacing zombies. It's groundbreaking, and somewhat scary, but how can it be expanded upon? Can it be expanded upon at all? Of course it can. And it was in the mid-80s with the arrival of Romero's ninth film Day of the Dead (1985) and Re-Animator (1985). Whilst Re-Animator leans more into the biopunk subgenre of sci-fi horror, it still stands true as a zombie film, in that the dead characters become undead pretty swiftly; what the two films share in common, however, is their evolution of the zombie archetype. In these films, zombies are able to speak, to use logic and reasoning, albeit limited in most cases.

Day of the Dead (1985)

Between 1985 and 1999, the horror genre spiked in many different directions, and the zombie route seemingly became more haphazard and comedic. Most notably is Dead Alive (1992) directed by Lord of the Rings director Peter Jackson, a wonderfully dark and disgusting comedy about people becoming infected by a Sumatran rat-monkey, and consequently transforming into zombies that ooze, bleed and bloat. Less terrifying, yes, but definitely more gross.

Fast-forward to the 21st century and you have the zombies we know today or, more realistically, genetically enhanced and pathogen-ridden people. In the early noughties, we were treated to Danny Boyle's incredibly violent 28 Days Later (2002), a film fixated on a society overrun with zombies caused by the "Rage virus": the zombies have bright red eyes, dark and congealed blood spilling from their mouths and insanely fast movement. In essence, a zombie you most probably wouldn't be able to outrun, which is arguably much more frightening than previous models.

28 Days Later (2002)

What made the 28 franchise special was that it played off the victim's transformation psychologically as well as physically: it's noted that writers Alex Garland and Danny Boyle wanted the virus to be reflective of "social rage" and that it "amplifies something already in [everybody], rather than turning them into something entirely Other". This made for an incredibly unique social commentary on contemporary British life and a very different depiction of zombies entirely. It was, in my eyes, more intellectual than the traditional route.

A lot of other countries hopped aboard the viral pandemic train, as it were. This includes staple horror films such as REC (2007) from Spain, Train to Busan (2016) from Korea and The Night Eats the World (2018) from France. These films centre around the nuanced trope of viral infection, one which we understand to cause zombie outbreaks in modern cinema, and something I'd argue has become outdated. I believe there are some films (such as Train to Busan) that can still make it engaging and still cajole the audience into wanting the characters to survive, however I've found in my experience that in later years, these films are becoming a minority and much harder to find.

Train to Busan (2016)

It's hard to say where zombies go from here. Films like Shaun of the Dead (2004) and Zombieland (2009) adopted their 90s counterparts' comedic value and films like the Resident Evil franchise (2002-2017) still encompass traditional aspects of the zombie sub-genre, but I think it's going to take something truly exceptional to break the mould.

Film Reviews: Why Does America Love a Killer? [Natural Born Killers, 1994]

Natural Born Killers (1994)

[Reader disclaimer: there will be some spoilers discussed. This piece also contains material of a mature/graphic nature].

From the brilliantly twisted minds of Quentin Tarantino and David Veloz, Natural Born Killers (1994) is a film from the early 90s following two lovers on their rampage of violence, chaos, sex and more violence. It is an artful mixture of sadomasochism, socio-political commentary and destiny, sinking its claws into you from the get-go with director Oliver Stone's uniquely sporadic style (the final edit of the film, after all, featured 18 different film formats). 

This film is intense and experimental in its edit, bleeding realms of insanity and stabilised reality together: we enter the world of Mickey and Mallory Knox, the camera angle unsteady and the filters interchanging between black and white and red. We are shown quick cuts of decaying life, a scorpion being squashed, a deer rotting by the side of the road. And then, we see the two main characters interacting, so devout in their love for one another that you could almost forget that they are psychopathic mass murderers. They are, in essence, the modernised Romeo and Juliet...with shotguns.

What's so deeply intriguing and attention-grabbing about Natural Born Killers is the way in which certain scenes are depicted. For example, Mallory's backstory is presented as a 50s sitcom, juxtaposing light-hearted music and an overly ambitious laugh track with scenes of domestic violence and sexual abuse. It's uncomfortable to watch, despite the prompts for a sitcom audience to be interactive. We then transition into the meeting of Mickey and Mallory, shifting to a black and white filter with soft lighting, reminiscent of the film noir era, abruptly changing the tone of the scene entirely. 

Although Stone's vision is artful and whimsical, it could also be argued that it is somewhat haphazard and too chaotic in places. For example, in the third act of the film, a prison riot ensues with quick cuts of prisoners murdering other prisoners, guards being beaten senseless, the warden (brilliantly played by Tommy Lee Jones) running around like a headless chicken. 

However, even for a film as experimental as this one, I think less cuts could've been used for that particular scene. In comparison to other films written by Tarantino, this one tends to bludgeon you over the head with imagery in places that easily could've been rectified with cleverly written dialogue or exposition, as opposed to someone getting their face caved in with a crowbar. 

Another aspect of Natural Born Killers that will give some audience members food for thought is that Mickey and Mallory aren't necessarily the villains of the film. If anything, characters such as Wayne Gale (played by Robert Downey Jr.) and Jack Scagnetti (played by Tom Sizemore) are more corrupt than our titular anti-heroes. Moreover, Wayne represents the toxicity of mainstream media and the way in which it romanticizes violence, and Jack embodies everything wrong with white privilege, as well as the disreputable connotations connected with American law enforcement. 

"By putting virtuoso technique at the service of lazy thinking, Stone turns his film into the demon he wants to mock: cruelty as entertainment." - Peter Travers

Stone and Tarantino's concoction of blood splatter and ingenious commentary make this film the gloriously gory marvel that it is but one has to give credit to the performances of Woody Harrelson and Juliette Lewis as Mickey and Mallory: the former being a cold, calculated yet delightfully charming killer and the latter being a lovable, psychotic and whimsically troubled one. 

Lewis' performance in particular is admirable and I think Mallory's character is by far the most complex and intriguing one. It's almost understandable to a point why she acts the way that she does, why she murdered the people she did. It is not justifiable, and Stone ensures that through the interactions the characters have with her, but it's most certainly an interesting (if not unusual) representation of a serial killer.

Harrelson's performance, ironically, takes more of a backseat to hers. I'm not disputing that it wasn't at all fantastical and entertainingly crazy, but it certainly didn't have the same kind of attention that Lewis' did, and I personally think that's a good thing. A trope in most 'troubled lovers' storylines is that the female counterpart is the "ride or die", the one who goes along with her male lover because she wants to do everything for/with him (much like the relationship between fictional characters such as Harley Quinn and the Joker or Anastasia Steele and Christian Grey). In that respect, it was refreshing to see a woman both devoted to her man yet also independent enough to make her own decisions, speak her mind and murder at her own leisure. 

This film is chaotic, intense but surprisingly funny in places. I thoroughly enjoyed it, and it was a nice change of pace to admire Tarantino's work without his directorial perception. 

If you liked this film, I'd also recommend the following:

• Reservoir Dogs (1992)
• Man Bites Dog (1992)
• True Romance (1993)
• Planet Terror (2007)
• Savages (2012)

Overall rating: 8/10

- K

The Auteur Cheatsheet: A Guide to Recognising Directors and Their Films

If you're somebody who watches films on a regular basis, you'll probably be aware that some directors (especially people like Tim Burton or Quentin Tarantino) have a distinct style: for example, Burton's films are stylistic because they feature gothic, pale and thin characters with an ominous piano in the soundtrack. Tarantino favours the other end of the spectrum: complex narratives, gratuitous violence and a very selective bunch of songs (often within the 70s era).

Directors with a very specific vision are often referred to as auteurs, defined as being "a singular artist who controls all aspects of a [...] creative work, a person equivalent to the author of a novel or a play". So, in essence, a director with a definitive style.

With that being established, here is an "auteur cheatsheet": a way to identify a film's director from very little information. I will be focusing on established directors but refraining from covering the more popular ones (such as Tarantino, Scorsese, Bay, Nolan or Spielberg), as they are easily covered by many other writers on a daily basis.

Wes Anderson

The Darjeeling Limited (2007)

Wes Anderson isn't actually a new director: his filmography spans back to the 90s, with his first feature film Bottle Rocket (1996). Arguably, Anderson rose to popularity after the success of his Oscar Award winning flick, The Grand Budapest Hotel (2014), in which we were introduced to some delightfully weird characters played by actors we've all but become accustomed to in mainstream media (such as Ralph Fiennes and Jeff Goldblum).
What made TGBH so distinctive, other than Anderson's whimsy, is his colour palette. And this remains true for most of his films.

Films such as The Darjeeling Limited (2007) are especially poignant due to their use of colour, depicting different cultures to our own and creating aesthetically pleasing place-settings for the characters to interact in. A scene becomes so much more than the dialogue: it becomes eye-candy for the audience.

Moonrise Kingdom (2012)

Another easy way to spot an Anderson film is his use of symmetry. One of the aspects of a Wes Anderson film is the way the scenes are framed: he frequently shoots scenes in which the character(s) are deliberately placed either dead-set in the centre or to the left or right of the screen. In other words, not where you would usually expect them to be.

Because we are so used to Hollywood blockbusters that focus on close-ups of the leading actor, or the camera moving with the actors as opposed to remaining completely stationary, there is an unusual feel to watching an Anderson scene. We are left to observe and study it, taking in the character and the background, focusing more on the actor's expressions and body language than the dialogue, although the dialogue is what we will talk about next.

The Grand Budapest Hotel (2014)

Finally, a vital key to an Anderson film are the characters/dialogue. One of the reasons I personally enjoy his films so much is due to his incredible ability to create these quirky and frankly odd characters interacting with each other. 

The Grand Budapest Hotel is a wonderful example of such. The actors are human cartoons, skittish and spontaneous in their movements and delivery of dialogue. At times, the interactions feel out of place and seemingly uncomfortable which, in my opinion, makes the film far more entertaining: there's nothing worse than having to sit through an actor monologuing about something irrelevant (looking at you, Joel Schumacher). 

Paul Verhoeven

Robocop (1987)

Paul Verhoeven is, arguably, not much of a household name. When I described him to my friends, they all look bewildered. It wasn't until I listed his films that I was met with "oh, that guy" and mutual nods of agreement. But there are very obvious ways to spot a Verhoeven film: one of his most famous pieces of work, Robocop (1987), is centred around it: post-futurism and the evolution of humankind.

Verhoeven often focuses on a time away from our own, looking into the technological advancements of the human race. The entire concept of Robocop is fitting out a dead police officer into a cyborg-like suit and watching him grown within the community, taking out bad guys and upholding the law as both man and machine. On a socio-political end of things, it's incredibly fascinating, but it's also just, simply put, pretty badass. 

There is also a frequent attention to modern militia and government addressed in his films, adhering to a sense of blindly conforming without ever really questioning it. It's a subtle social commentary, one which seemingly rears its head in every single one of his films: it's also interesting in that "military science fiction" was considered niche for its time and now frequently appears in mainstream cinema, e.g. District 9, (2009) Elysium (2013), Edge of  Tomorrow (2014).

Total Recall (1990)

Another aspect of Verhoeven's filmography is body horror. A lot of it. This appealed to 10-year old me: I've always had a sick fascination with horror films and crime documentaries, so the first time I watched a Verhoeven film, I was blown away. 

Total Recall (1990) in particular features a lot of violent imagery, including eyeballs being almost vacuumed out of someone's face. Is it over the top? Absolutely, but that's what makes it a fun watch: it's an unpopular opinion but I believe that if violence aids in explaining a character's motives or backstory, then it's fair game to show it on screen.

Starship Troopers (1997)

Finally, we have segues. Verhoeven very cleverly transitions throughout his plots with small segues, often in the form of a fictional commercials, moving from one scene to another and providing short pieces of context between them. 

This is mostly evident in Starship Troopers (1997) and it makes you feel like you're part of that character's universe: you're exposed to the same fictional war propaganda, the same monologues from the authoritarian characters. Essentially, you're given the same experiences as the main characters, and I think that's an ingenious way of Verhoeven to coax out an audience's willingness to engage with his films.

Nicolas Winding Refn

Bronson (2008)

Like Anderson, Nicolas Winding Refn isn't a new director to the Hollywood scene, but he isn't as widely appreciated as he arguably should be. I first came across Refn when I found the film Bronson (2008) and I ended up sitting there for an estimate of 90 minutes in complete awe.

Refn makes use of high-contrast lighting with a combination of intensely saturated/coloured editing in such an artistic way that you will be left pausing the film to study the scene as if it were a painting. He seems particularly smitten with extreme samplings of warm and cold tones, filtering a scene in completely red or shades of blue and grey to convey different moods throughout. Bronson, specifically, features a lot of red imagery, as it is meant to depict a man unstable and ruthlessly violent.

Valhalla Rising (2009)

Another aspect of Refn's filmography is the trope of the "loner", evident in such films as Valhalla Rising (2009) and Drive (2011). What makes the former film so interesting, in my opinion, is that the character One Eye (played by the wonderful Mads Mikkelsen) is completely silent. In fact, the entire film only features 120 lines of dialogue, the first of which isn't even spoken until seven minutes into the runtime. 

The entire picture is classified as a metaphysical sci-fi film, more open to interpretation than anything else. Valhalla Rising isn't the easiest of watches, especially if you're opposed to almost a complete lack of dialogue, but it's still something I recommend to people because there is an artistry to its silence that goes greatly unappreciated by most fans.

The Neon Demon (2016)

Whilst some characters are depicted as the "loner", others are lovingly given unhinged personalities. As Anderson is to quirky, Refn is to "disturbing". The Neon Demon (2016) is a great example of this, showing young women in the fashion industry becoming slowly consumed by an evermounting need for perfection and idolisation: if this sounds familiar to you, then you're probably also a fan of Darren Aronofsky's Black Swan (2010). 

The protagonist herself (played by Elle Fanning) isn't the character considered to be disturbing, it is the people she ends up surrounding herself with, merging into a world of unnerving visuals and body horror part-way through the film. What Refn doesn't show, he most certainly tells through the dialogue and body language of the actors, seemingly visceral yet subtle at the same time.

Guillermo Del Toro

The Shape of Water (2017)

Lastly, we come to a director that was the talk of the Academy awards this year: Guillermo Del Toro. I've been following this man's rise in the ranks since the early noughties, when I first saw Blade II (2003), because there was something so intriguing about his ability to create fantastical worlds and creatures. He reminded me somewhat of Tim Burton: not in style but in talent/ability. 

Like Burton, Del Toro is also renowned for his collaborations with a specific actor, namely Doug Jones. It wasn't until recently that I realised just how many things Jones has been in: if you take the time to look him up, you'll be astounded by just how many things he has listed in his filmography. One thing that amused me greatly was that one of my favourite villains from my childhood (The Gentleman from season four of Buffy the Vampire Slayer) is played by, you guessed it, Doug Jones. 

He is best known as of late for his portrayal of Abe Sapien in The Shape of Water (2017) and Pan/Pale Man from Pan's Labyrinth (2006), but he also features as Lady Sharpe in Crimson Peak (2015) and Abe Sapien again in the Hellboy franchise (2004-2008).

Hellboy II: The Golden Army (2008)

The thing Del Toro is arguably known best for are his creatures: from vampires with arachnid-like jaws to giant fighting robots, Del Toro has brought all kind of fantastical creations to life through his work. One of my favourite examples is the lore associated with the Hellboy franchise, specifically Hellboy II: The Golden Army (2008): there are so many complexities to the "antagonist" and his background, focusing not only on his need for power but also his lament for the loss of his old world. Visually speaking, Prince Nuada (played by Luke Goss, who also features as the villain in Blade II) is considerably beautiful but also reflective of a time before the modern world. Admittedly, I found myself rooting for him, but that's just because I'm more inclined to side with "bad guys" than I am with heroes (that's what years of watching horror movies will do to you!).

Cronos (1993)

My final point on Del Toro is his willingness to be openly macabre. Very rarely is there a film where the hero wins, more so they are content to return back to equilibrium or, alternatively, fall into further despair. 

I remember watching Pan's Labyrinth for the first time and feeling my heart drop after Ofelia's final scene, the same way I felt when watching Dr. Casares in The Devil's Backbone (2001) or Thomas Sharpe in Crimson Peak: all multifaceted characters who unfortunately meet a less desirable end than their counterparts. 

The ways in which death are shown in Del Toro's work are bleak but also intrinsically wonderful, showing the audience that the "end" doesn't necessarily have to mean the absolute end of everything. It is somewhat spiritual, I would argue, reflective of Del Toro's generally humbling and appreciative personality.

- K