I Hate When Mommy Calls Me Jesus

With a poster reminiscent of Orphan and a title deliberately eschewing the rules of punctuation, I(')m Not Jesus(,) Mommy was a streaming indie clearly made for a giddy ol' blogger like me.

Quick Plot: Dr. Kim Gabriel is a fertility expert whose bout with cancer has ironically rendered her unable to conceive her own child with supportive husband. When she's asked by a shady researcher named Roger to help participate in a government experiment bringing the first human cloned embryo to term, Kim finds the temptation of insemination a little too easy to pass up.

Seven years later, the world has changed. A lot.

Whereas in 2013 the U.S. government was using illegal Mexican immigrants as disposable test cases, radio announcements now tell us that any American sneaking over the Mexican border will be shot on sight. Curfews are enforced and food rations are distributed by federal employees. Utopia this is not.

Kim, now widowed, is eking out a miserable survival with her son David. Bundled up for a new ice age and sporting some ominous lesions on her face, Kim begins to sense something amiss when David demonstrates some handy skills with premonition and resurrection. 

Across town, Roger cares for his sister and niece, filling their time and souls with some hard-earned Old Testament wisdom. As anyone who's seen The Rapture might guess, such Abrahamic lessons can steer towards controversy pretty quickly.

Directed and co-written by Vaughn Juares, I'm Not Jesus Mommy is far too ambitious for its own good. Much of its grand theological movements come off as silly, and the very nature of its title makes the third act something of an anticlimactic wash. That being said, the film is kind of fascinating in some of its decisions. The complete second act switch is effectively jarring, leaving the viewer (or at least me) having absolutely no idea where the story will go. Unfortunately, then you remember the film’s title and realize the big mystery is frustratingly revealed without even watching.

High Points

Considering its shoestring budget, I'm Not Jesus Mommy is smart enough to establish its post-apocalyptic setting with some extremely clever and basic decisions. Kim (and actress Bridget McGrath) undergoes a complete make-under, with chapped lips and scraggly brown hair replacing the lip gloss and dye job worn by a successful doctor in a thriving world. It’s surprising how effective such simple choices are

Low Points

Should we talk about the title? I can forgive the absence of a comma that seems to be riling other reviewers (considering it's supposed to be said by a kid, the omission makes sense) but for the first 60 minutes or so, we're not in any way THINKING of Jesus or what he has to do with the story. It's almost a spoiler not just to the ending, but to the very thematic underlining of the film. 

Lessons Learned

Cell phones + angry car rides = certain doom

Just because you're lucky enough to get government sanctioned bread doesn't mean you should be all showy about it

In case of apocalypse, be sure to wear layers

Rent/Bury/Buy

I'm Not Jesus Mommy isn’t really a recommend, but it also seems unfairly maligned with a 2.8 IMDB rating. This is a low budget, highly flawed little movie, but it earns plenty of points for being something different. It tries too hard to do far too much, but the optimist in me appreciates a cheaply made first feature about government sanctioned human cloning causing a rapture. Maybe it’s just because I really love me some raptures. Point is, those who are looking for something new might find it worth checking out on Instant Watch. Know what you’re getting into and tread with caution, but hey: how many other cheaply made first features about government sanctioned human cloning causing a rapture will you watch this week?

Devils & Mullets, Oh My!

If your ears are on the hearing hunt for a little apocalyptic conversation, allow me to point you towards the latest episode of The Feminine Critique. It's here where you'll get Christine and I discussing the delightful 1967 Peter Cook/Dudley Moore buddy/devil comedy Bedazzled, as well as the just a tad more serious religious comedy The Rapture.

Well actually, Michael Tolkin's 1991 examination of faith and the Old Testament might not necessarily be the fun-for-all the world expected. But it does have James LeGros without a shirt and David Duchovny WITH a mullet, so it's a guaranteed good time nonetheless. 

Check it out on iTunes or whatever listening technology the cool kids are using.

Can You Tell Me How to Vanish On Boring Street?

You know when you REALLY want a movie to be great? The director excites you, the premise is up your alley, and the fact that it’s streaming on Netflix just seems like kismet. At a certain point, it’s like the film has to work to NOT be exactly what you want.

Vanishing on 7th Street works awfully hard.

Awfully.

Quick Plot: It’s a typical day in Detroit when the city pulls a Left Behind style blackout that leaves nothing but a lot of clothing and a few stray survivors hanging out in darkness, where only the beam of flashlights will stave off a herd of shadowy figures. Among the living are Paul (John Lequizamo), a film projectionist with a history hobby, Rosemary (Thandie Newton), a physical therapist looking for her baby (and probably named Rosemary for the sole reason of letting reviewers write “Rosemary’s baby”), James (Jacob Latimore), a 12-year-old waiting for his bartender mom, and the offensively named Luke (Hayden “I Hate Sand” Christensen), a field reporter.

The motley crew holds up in a local tavern called Sonny’s (ha ha) fully lit by a backup generator. As the lights begin to dim and their power supply starts to die, Luke convinces the rest to make a break for it by jump starting a nearby truck. 

Jump starting nearby trucks is so very easy on camera.

To go further into the plot might lead to spoilage, except--

SPOILER ALERT--

There’s nothing to spoil because we never ACTUALLY find out anything about anything...anything...about...anything.

Why did most humans vanish? Why weren’t French poodles and squirrels taken? Is there somewhere these things GO? Why DID that Chevy still run, and was it JUST because it was a Chevy? Why was Paul taken into the ether and spit back a few days later? How in The Happening does THAT make sense? Is it aliens? God? Demons? Pulse-ish shadows from another dimension? Hot dogs? Betty Buckley?

GIVE ME SOMETHING!

Sigh. Not every film needs to give us every answer. Is The Shining about ghosts, alcoholism, or Native American genocide? It doesn’t matter if the film is good enough to justify the lack of answers.

Vanishing on 7th Street, however, is not. Anderson creates some excellent spookiness right from the outset, including one of the most effective jump scares I’ve seen in some time within its first ten minutes. The mystery is haunting enough to keep us on edge, but when NOTHING stands behind it, how can an audience possibly be expected to stay on board? Anthony Jaswinski’s script gives us dull squabbling and zero answers, and even though some of the performances do what they can to sell it--okay, really just Lequizamo and the young Latimore, as Newton comes off shrill and Anakin is still Anakin--the movie ultimately feels like a stretched out short story that never had a good ending to begin with.

High Points

It’s probably impossible for a lifelong Star Wars fan to ever get behind Hayden Christensen again, but young actor Jacob Latimore brings a fantastic presence to his role as James. If only he had played Anakin Skywalker...

Fellow history nerds rejoice! Anybody else always intrigued by the mystery of the Roanoke settlement’s disappearance? Let’s see a better film about that

Low Points

Considering Brad Anderson’s past work, I was weirdly disappointed with some of the overbearing soundtrack work in Vanishing on 7th Street. While the jukebox choices had a hauntingly retro feel, some of the scoring was just too much and broke the eerie subtlety of the film’s major mysteries

We learn quite early on that once you’re covered in darkness, you’ll be swooped away (even though WE NEVER KNOW WHERE TO). So how frustrating is it that at a key moment, two of our main characters are being closed in upon by the shadows only to...um, escape and keep freaking out. Way to break the rules and therefore lessen the tension of anything that comes after

Lessons Learned

Never underestimate the importance of glow sticks. Never.

Jukeboxes use an awful lot of power

Try to avoid going to the theaters to see Adam Sandler movies because really, is THAT where you want to be during the rapture?

Rent/Bury/Buy

I’m trying to avoid using the word ‘frustrating’ anymore in this review. It’s not particularly a google keyword I’m looking to catch, but holy Kirk Cameron can I not think of a better adjective to describe Vanishing on 7th Street. The potential is there, and yet the insane coyness of the script seems to dare its audience to give up. At the same time, Brad Anderson continues to show plenty of strength when it comes to building tension, and hey, some of us just love a good rapture. I’m being quite negative on the film because GRRRRR does it make me say GRRRRR, but the premise itself might still be enough to at least give it an Instant Watch try if you like these kinds of things. Just prepare to be ...

(Pause to check thesaurus)

Stymied! Yeah, that’s it...

Why I Love: Last Night

If you’re reading this today, then I regret to inform you that according to some babbling calendar obsessed idiots, you were probably not chosen to ascend into heaven and avoid the upcoming rapture scheduled to run until October. Clearly, you were Left Behind, but so was Kirk Cameron so who are you to feel insecure?

I love me a good rapture, just as much as I love the underrated Mimi Rogers film, The Rapture. But that’s a story for another day, and since we’ve apparently got another 5 months of movie watching left before Paul Bettany fights a bunch of angel zombie things (or something), let’s shift to a more cheerful 100 minutes of apocalyptic warmth, recommended successfully some months ago from my blogging pal Shiftless (blog here), of whom I shall be eternally grateful to.


Don McKellar’s 1998 black comedy(ish) Last Night is one of those extraordinarily unique little films that sits with you like a fine glass of red wine (the good kind, not the crappy one gargled down by the main characters). It’s funny but not in a quote-it way, touching but not sentimental, and ultimately, incredibly special in a manner entirely its own.

The story takes place in an unnamed Toronto on the last day of the universe. For reasons never explained, the world will end at the stroke of midnight, a fact that the general populace has known for the last few months. This being Canada, the civilians seem to take it in stride.

Director McKellar plays Patrick, a sad and closed-off widower trying to go out with the world in peace and solitude. That doesn’t happen. Instead, Patrick is forced into human interaction at every turn, from an awkward ‘Christmas’ dinner with his parents and sis (my girl crush Sarah Polley), chance meetings with old pals (strategically horny Callum Keith Rennie, an old high school French teacher, a nerdy pianist school chum) and most importantly, the tense soul that is Sandra Oh. 

Sigh, you’re thinking, apocalyptic meet-cutes that might call to mind Grey’s Anatomy? Settle down, left behinders. Last Night is quirky but not in the annoying indie way, even if it is indeed a quirky indie. It’s easily the most cheerful end-of-the-world story I’ve seen, but that doesn’t mean the film is all sweet maple syrup and red vines. 

Take some of the supporting characters, all of whom are and have been very aware that the clock is ticking. Some have planned each final minute, like Rennie's scheduled nearly nonstop sexcapades to act out every fantasy he's ever had. One such bang involves the aforementioned French teacher, who follows an afternoon of passion with an awkward conversation with another former student Patrick and spends her last moments entranced by a piano player's scarcely attended concert. There's something sad or beautiful, or maybe not at all sad and beautiful about this minor character's trajectory. 

Then there's the demigod of Canadian film, David Cronenberg putting in a subtle, sympathetic performance as a single middle-aged man who chooses his final day to go to work, make his calls to answering machine after answering machine assuring the city that the gas company is still working, then head home for a tub of ice cream. As a lifelong fan of Cronenberg's sadistic gynocologists, belly VCRs, nude Russian bathhouse brawls and armpit vaginas, it's eerily refreshing to watch the man exist in such an ethereal scope on film.

Last Night is sort of an ensemble film, though only in the sense that virtually every speaking character comes off as an actual person. We don't get more than five minutes of dialogue from Sarah Polley, but within her brief scenes, we believe her and Patrick to be siblings, not overly close but connected nonetheless. We know from one line that she's spending the end with her boyfriend, probably a former ex who maybe went a little crazy once the world's stopwatch was activated. It's enough.

Patrick is ultimately our lead, although McKellar is wisely subdued. He's a sad man, one greeting the apocalypse without much of a reaction until he meets Sandra (Oh), the kind of flaky but earnest woman whose life would probably have had far less meaning were it lived to its entirety. Oh is absolutely wonderful as a tense wandering wife searching for her new husband (one clearly married in the throws of the apocalyptic fever). Her goal? To shoot him in the head at the stroke of midnight as he does the same for her. The apocalypse, you see, stirred something different up in Sandra: defiance. She got pregnant soon after the announcement, simply to see if she could. She ties the knot and buys a gun just so that it's her decision to die and not the world's.

The first time I watched Last Night, I was touched and amused. Upon second viewing, there's something about Sandra that I find fascinating. None of us can say with any certainty what we'd do with our final months on this planet, and perhaps what I love about Sandra's choices is that I get the sense she never expected THESE would be her decisions. Something about the ticking clock activated this sense of anger and need inside of her.

"Tell me something to make me love you," she pleads (rushed, not romantically) to Patrick as the clock hits 11:58. It's a wonderfully quotable line, funny in its absurdity, tragic in its impossibility, and utterly believable in the rather unbelievable situation of Last Night. 

I haven't even gotten to McKellar's fantastic use of music or the fact that the sun hauntingly shines throughout the entire evening. Or the gleeful plethora of unusual cars (Callem's mint-green classic and my father's personal favorite, an AMC Pacer). The funny, if slightly unsettling female jogger who runs through town and announces the time left with more cheer than the Battle Royale television star. 

Last Night might not be a masterpiece of filmmaking, but it simply hits me in a way few films can. This may very well be a case of personal taste, though even that leaves me mystified. There's nothing in my life that I particularly connect to the characters of this film, and yet when I watch or think about it, I find myself breaking into warmly comforting smiles and tears. We're used to end-of-the-world tales following messianic survivors, leather-clad bandits or go get 'em heroes. In Last Night, there are no superstars or villains. There are no miracles. There's just us, men and women choosing their lives as they want to live them, even if it's a matter of minutes before eternal death. I don't know why I find that so powerful, but it's films like these that make me happy to be here.

Horrible Non-Horror! Left Behind: The Movie

There are some types of people I find endlessly frustrating and equally amusing. We’ll call them psycho doomsday religious folk.

Sometimes they stand next to me on the subway, ranting and raving about how children are turning to iPods and homosexuality because they’ve forgotten the word of Jesus. Shame on all of us for not remembering how that nice young crucified man so detested iPods and homosexuals.

I have no problem with faith. We’re all entitled to believe or not believe whatever we wish, however silly it may seem to others (like me). But there are some aspects of religious zealots (namely the mass unwarranted judgment imposed on others) that truly irks me, including the concept of today’s gloriously awful feature, Left Behind: The Movie.

To begin, you have to adore any film that adds “The Movie” after its title. Because it’s already assuming a certain level of stupidity from its audience. Honestly, I find it adorable.

Quick Plot: Our story opens at 6PM in Jersalame. Then the credits roll and the new time card reads ‘6:03PM.’ 

Am I crazy, or is that hilarious?

Anyway, Kirk Cameron plays Buck Williams, a reporter, despite all associations with his name reminding us of cowboys or porn stars. On his returning flight, something wacky--or Langolier-ish--occurs when a bunch of passengers simply vanish, leaving their clothing and relatives behind. This appears to be a global phenomenon, one so dramatic that martial law is immediately declared.

So who disappeared, and who...dramatic piano tones...was LEFT BEHIND (the movie)? Hint hint: all empty clothing may have included a crucifix.

See, the Christians were rescued before the upcoming (7 years, according to some characters) rapture, leaving their loved ones alone and doomed. Unless they start reading the Bible, like goofily named pilot Rayford Steele. Meanwhile, a slick Russian politician slithers his way into world power minutes after Kirk Cameron has a religious epiphany in the UN bathrooms. 

Oh, and a bunch of stuff explodes along the way.

Here’s the thing about Left Behind: The Movie: the extras are way more entertaining than the film itself. Take, for example, a featurette wherein actress Janaya Stephens enthusiastically  announces how this is “the biggest and most ambitious Christian movie ever made.” Then just imagine her sadness at the $200 million plus gross of The Passion of the Christ (a real horror movie if there ever was one).

We also get to hear red carpet interviews with a few Hollywood stars (including the guy from The Michael Landon Story!) which is mostly useful for learning what actors are also scary and religious (Lacey Chabert, Hunter Tylo, Demonic Toys’ Tracy Scoggins). By far my favorite part though is Stephens' stiff reading of “The producers knew they would have to go big.”

Cut to a bunch of things blowing up.

Yes, dear Hollywood, that is how you reel in the rowdy teens and convert them via Kirk Cameron. Poor Kirk. I’ve never seen an actor in more pain than watching the former Mike Seaver pretend (I won’t call it acting) to be a non-believer. It's a relief when his character (Buck Williams, say it without laughing please) finds God because finally, Kirk can at least play his type and draw out some form of believability.

Lessons Learned

The UN’s no picnic

When you meet Kirk Cameron, the best thing to always say is ‘Nice hair!’

Beta fish will be left behind

One sign of showing your Christian solidarity is to remove your scandalous nose ring. Jesus hates those

The best place to have a religious conversation is a very clean public restroom

Rent/Bury/Buy

My biggest beef with Left Behind (it’s a movie) is its painstaking dullness (despite “big” explosions). The antichrist gets nothing special other than awkward slo-motion (but not really slo-motion, it’s fast slo-motion which somehow seems sacriligious). The rapture is saved, presumably for parts 2 and 3. The fact that they’re streaming on Instant Watch is even more frustrating. Now I HAVE to watch them, and not in order to save my soul.

So do I, from a bad film perspective, recommend Left Behind: The Movie? If you’re the type of person who finds yourself chuckling at Sunday mass, then perhaps. More importantly, I can’t urge you enough to watch the featurettes on the “Special Edition” DVD. Hey, they even toss in a scene from a Gary Busey Christploitation! That alone might make you a believer.

And You Thought Your Commute Was Rough

As stated before, the outcry over Lions Gate’s shelving of Midnight Meat Train riles up a nerve in my defenses. It’s not that I support a major studio burying an original horror film in dollar theaters and DVD bins; I just wish all the boo hooeing by genre fans was aimed at a worthier movie.

And now, having watched Maurice Devereaux’s End of the Line, I have even more reason to dislike that other subway slasher, because here’s a unique, timely, and actually scary little horror far more deserving of Internet campaigns.

Quick Plot: A young psyciatric nurse named Karen (Ilona Elkin) sadly accepts the news that one of her patients has thrown herself in front of a subway. Muffins and freaky drawings from the late woman’s files  provide little comfort, and things only get worse when Karen’s subway ride becomes the kind of nightmare every commuter fears. First, there’s the creepy homeless guy leering over her shoulder, followed by the fact that--much like my last night’s commute in the freezing cold--the train seems to be running on a random and inconsistent schedule. To make things worse--okay, horror movie worthy--the train soon hits a delay and Christian fundamentalists with the world’s best cell phone reception embark on a crusade to “save” the souls of fellow straphangers.

Because I love a pleasant surprise and love you, I’m digging out some roadblocks to stick right here:

As a warning: I want to discuss this film, but what made my initial viewing so enjoyable was, in part, the fact that I knew very little about End of the Line. While it doesn’t have a Martyrs-style switcheroo, there is something really neat about some of its unexpected plot developments so if you haven’t seen the film, YOU SHALL NOT PASS.

Or something. Just skip to Rent/Bury/Buy and come back after you’ve followed those instructions. Don’t make me page you.

SPOILER SITY

A disclaimer: There are probably just a handful of subjects I find more fascinating than Doomsday cults. There’s something so strangely horrifying about human beings surrendering everything that seems to make them who they are for some undefined greater being pent on eventually destroying their very existence. Also, I ride the subway every day and am constantly imagining a variety of horror movie scenarios that could occur at any given stop. For these reasons, End of the Line was quite possibly made for me.

Devereaux’s portrayal of the religious fanatics is eerie for a bucketful of reasons. Yes, it’s creepy to see nice middle aged women stabbing straphangers with crucifix knives that belong in a Children of the Corn playpen. It’s also unnerving to note the Hilter Youth-esque jumpsuits and at-peace smiles on every murderous character’s face. More importantly, Devereaux seems to ground the cult in popular Christianity.

I want to tread lightly here and try my best to not make any of my mere blogging comments into attacks on religion. I have no issue with anybody living a life based on personal faith, but those who try to force it on you when you just want to listen to a cuss-heavy podcast on the subway or trick-or-treat for candy rather than doomsday pamphlets aren’t just annoying; they’re judging you by essentially demonstrating that they believe you’re not worthy of heaven. I appreciate how End of the Line’s fanatics wanted to actually help their victims, straight down to apologizing when mass suicide had to take priority over fatal stabbing. 

Back to the controversy I can’t seem to put into words, doomsday cults--and any religious sect that has an end date in their pre-determined future--are terrifying because their members simply can’t value this life as much as the next. If, for example, a world leader believes in the possibility that The Rapture will occur and that when it does, he’ll be judged worthy, what’s to stop him from pushing the button to detonate the next world war? The characters of End of the Line are so confident in their beliefs that none of the physical pain they cause registers as anything other than God’s will. It’s not their actions that makes this a frightening film; it’s their complete lack of regret.

At first, the final moments bothered me as a trite betrayal. Since The Believers and Frailty, I’m far less surprised to discover that the crazed extremist characters in a genre film were right, and more importantly, I’d have been a tad annoyed to feel as though I misjudged everything onscreen for the previous 100 minutes. Thankfully, Devereaux’s ending was far more clever than I had initially realized. Upon listening to some of the extras, it became rather clear--even if nobody is willing to fully admit it--that the sneaking suspicion I had was right: there were no demons. There were, however, some powerfully mixed muffins eaten throughout the film by every character we notice see visions of rubbery monsters, mouthless ghosts, and tunnel dwellers dirtier than mole people. Pass the electric Kool-Aid, we’ve got some tasty spiked pastries that need washing down.

High Points

Although End of the Line doesn’t go too far into the backstories of their villains, the cult members are still individually drawn with the kind of precision rarely seen in horror. From the suddenly unchaste Sarah to the conflicted teenagers, the choice to show that some parishioners had actual doubts added a more human layer to the killings. Gray is always more interesting than black and white, particularly when it comes to morality.

I’m normally immune to jump scares, but for some reason, the very first pop made my drop my nacho

For the most part, Devereax has his main group of protagonists react to the horrors with refreshing believability. As much as we in the audience know to stab first, ask questions later, if any of us couch potatoes were actually in this kind of situation, we would probably find it near impossible to beat a teenager to death with the crowbar quivering in our hands. I appreciated that the commuters were genuinely conflicted over having to resort to homicidal violence. Even the young stud--the first man to kill--spends his last few moments asking for reassurance that he did the right thing. 

Similarly, none of End of the Line’s characters demonstrate the kind of superhuman survivalism often summoned in these types of films. Their action sequences are messy and chaotic, consisting simply of frightened people swinging hand tools at stab-happy Christians. Since we’re not watching SWAT team members or retired boxers, this makes perfect sense

Low Points

Overall, the performances are adequate and nobody stands out to drag the film down, but it also feels as though none fully step forward to add anything overly special to their characterizations

Once I put some of the pieces--or crumbs--together, I was a little more accepting of the final shot, but I still found the last ghastly baddies to feel a tad too Halloween porch ready

Lessons Learned

If you want people to join your cult, perfect a recipe for hallucinogen-laced muffins

1980s style punkettes are pretty damn fierce when the going gets tough

Mental patients are quite talented when it comes to colored pencil artwork. Look at that shading!

Ironically enough, nobody can complete an abortion faster than a Born Again

Always keep mace accessible when riding the subway. You never know when you’ll have to escape the clutches of a horny priest hung up on virginity and the fact that he resembles the homeless love child of Paul Bettany and Quentin Tarantino

In order to seduce a virginal fundamentalist, the secret is to kiss her earlobe

Rent/Bury/Buy

End of the Line is a definite watch, and a possible buy if you find it the right price. The DVD is loaded with extras, including a coy but interesting commentary, thorough making-of featurette, and a few more goodies. It’s not a film I’m return to often, but the original concept and spirited execution defnitely merits a revisit somewhere down the, ahem, line. More importantly, be on the lookout for Devereaux’s next film. Not only does he tell a good story on a meager budget, he also has mastered the art of referencing other masters without being annoying about it. One of my biggest pet peeves in indie horror is when directors think it’s cute to use a famous horror director’s name for a character. It’s not so much a wink wink as it is a smacking-you-in-the-face-with-a-frying-pan-emblazoned-with-an-obvious-reference-on-the-bottom (think “Dr. Savini” from The Dead Next Door). You don’t name a character Argento; you name him after the main sound mixer for a bunch of Argento films. That's the sign of a promising filmmaker.