The Lost

I saw this film in the Sitges film festival. I like very much. It's a very realistic and visceral drama in the same style of David Cronenberg's a history of violence, Clint Eastwood Mystic River or Sam Peckinpah Strays dogs. The direction & the actors are amazing. The dramatic a violence scenes are excellent & the music that accompanies to them it's great & ideal. The edition of this film are amazing, totally moved away of the video-clip style. The photography is in the same quality of the edition of this movie. The character & the acting of Marc Senter is amazing ... it's in the same style of Christian Bale's Patrick Bateman. Great adaptation of the Jack Ketchum book & excellent American drama.

Caught a special screening of The Lost this past weekend at Horrorfind Weekend in Hunt Valley, Maryland where author Jack Ketchum was in attendance. Ketchum introduced the film by saying how impressed he was with the end result. An opinion I share whole heartedly. First of all, the cast is a top notch mix of veteran character actors and relative novices, all of whom are very good at what they do. This is something one doesn't often see in such a low budget project. Many familiar faces grace the screen and talented ones at that. It is the presence of such a cast that sets the film apart from the crowd right at the start. The Lost also has a great look to it. Aesthetically speaking, the film doesn't appear to be as low budget as it actually is. That's an element which can really hold a film back and one which I was afraid might be an issue here. Fortunately the film looks wonderful. As I mentioned, The Lost is a very faithful adaptation of Ketchum's book. This isn't to say that a few liberties aren't taken. Nothing that should offend fans of the book though.

In all, The Lost is a very satisfying film which Ketchum fans should enjoy. Hopefully the film will be shown the appreciation it truly deserves.

An okay indie thriller about the gradual meltdown of a psychotic teenager. It's a solid screenplay bolstered with some excellent performances, starting out with a dirty, gritty authenticity that's reminiscent of classic exploitation flicks of the past. But about halfway through, director Sivertson seems to be possessed by the muse of David Lynch. We have the bad-boy Greaser, the red-lipped femme fatale, the nighttime drives and seedy motel rooms, the graphic sex and violence, the contrast of raucous jazz with grating death metal. Unfortunately it lacks the all-important intellectual rabbit holes and surreal artistry. The tonal switcheroo is kind of distracting, and the second half drags terribly to an over-the-top WTF last act of shameless overacting. Sivertson clearly has talent, and he manages to convey a suitable sense of unhinged psychosis and disorientation. But he needs confidence in his own style and vision instead of cribbing from the playbooks of others.

Jack Ketchum's novel, itself inspired by a true story, provides the basis for this chilling look at the actions of a young sociopath, not giving a damn about anybody or anything, and capable of chilling acts of violence. One day, he murders two young women, and his two friends, despite their misgivings about his character, cover up for him. Cut to four years later, and he's still walking around free. Detectives know he's guilty, but can't prove it. It's only a matter of time until the unhinged young man will explode again, and when he believes the people in his life, including his new girlfriend, are all betraying him or letting him down, the stage is set for a bloody revenge.

This works more like a series of episodes for a while, rather than an ongoing story, and is deliberately paced and character driven. Writer / co-producer / director Chris Sivertson sometimes goes for stylistic flourishes, but more often than not handles the material in a straightforward manner. It manages to be subtly spooky and only towards the end does it really get intense; this final act is shocking in its brutality. There's a bit of titillation (breast shots and full fledged nudity) and a respectable amount of gore at the end. As the movie goes on, one feels more and more uncomfortable in the presence of such a smarmy psycho. Actor Marc Senter is compelling in the lead role of Ray Pye, playing him with an effective mixture of uneasy charm and genuine creepiness. His co-stars Shay Astar, Alex Frost, Megan Henning, and Robin Sydney are also good in their own way, and some excellent veterans - Michael Bowen, Ed Lauter, and Dee Wallace - provide some wonderful support. Lauter has one of his best roles in a while, but it's disappointing to see Wallace's participation basically limited to one big scene. Ruby Larocca and always delectable Misty Mundae play the murder victims in the opening sequence.

One may wish that the ending weren't as abrupt as it is (there's no epilogue of any kind), but all in all "The Lost" is fairly potent stuff that doesn't leave the viewer unaffected. Ketchum really is a master at telling these grim and gut wrenching horror stories.

Seven out of 10.

The Lost starts like a fairy tale. Once upon a time there was a boy called Ray Pye. He put crushed beer cans in his boots to make himself look taller. We meet him with his two friends, Tim and Jennifer, in the campgrounds of a wood. Ray strolls towards a wooden toilet cubicle erected on the hill, the door opens, and a naked girl steps out, quickly apologising as she thought she and her friend were alone. The image is so startling that you know at once this will be no ordinary movie.

Ray has killed rabbits before and decides to kill the girl and her friend, to 'see what it feels like'. Tim and Jennifer, whom he dominates, are coerced into covering up. Four years later, Ray hasn't been caught, in spite of one cop who is determined to make him pay. Ray goes on to much nastier things.

If The Lost teeters on the edge of violence that is so extreme as to revolt most audiences, the question that will hover in the mind of many serious viewers will be whether the end is going to justify the content. Some will not stay that long - in the screening I went to, several people, after a section of intense and escalating violence, walked out at a point where a pregnant woman is stabbed in the back. You have to be able to stomach quite a lot, calmly to consider whether the film, in spite of this, has artistic merit. During the end credits, it says, "If you liked the movie, read the book. If you didn't like the movie, read the book." Ironically, many may not have stayed to this point.

While the film is not a masterpiece, I will argue that it does have considerable artistic merit, even if I feel slightly uncomfortable at disenchanted, gun-toting American teenagers watching it. It delivers both in style and in substance, and if censors want to intervene, that is maybe more a reflection on the people they think might be influenced by it than on its standing as new, invigorating and perfectly valid art-house cinema.

Firstly, the film gets a reaction. Not one of bored disgust - it provokes a gut-feeling, it makes the audience test and question its own tolerance levels. The acting is good all-round, but that of the lead character particularly memorable. His psychotic, drug-fuelled mannerisms stick in the brain like a traumatic encounter. The storyline and editing are stylish. Characters, almost in keeping with the once-upon-a-time introduction, have a two-dimensional quality, like those in fairy stories and we tend to see only traits that are essential to the plot. The characters' development does not go so far as being tongue in cheek or a caricature, but reaches an almost symbolic level where they become ciphers in a particularly challenging onslaught to the senses.

The cinematography and art direction is inventive. There will be switches to high grain film, or unnerving mixes of slow motion, missing frames and superimposed images. The bedrooms of Ray, and also Katherine, a lush that he falls in love with, use vivid reds and blacks to create a surreal effect, and props that include a statue of a black panther. Ray wears black eye make-up, throwing himself into a Bowie-esquire larger-than-life image to give himself an almost god-like appeal to the other, less dominant, teenagers. In contrast, when he finally comes clean about 'the worst thing he ever did', he is sitting dressed in black but on a pure white sofa and background. Katherine, who thinks at first she can 'handle' him, puffs languorously at a cigarette through red lips as Ray talks and she becomes sexually aroused.

Marc Senter's performance (as Ray) is like a turbine that drives the film ever faster forward. The potent soundtrack reflects a cocaine-frenzied adrenalin rush, and even the 'normal' characters offer only some queasy sense of relief. There is 60yr old Ed, for instance, who is in a relationship with teenager Sally; and Detective Charlie Schilling (Michael Bowen), who might seem crazy until you put him next to Ray. Unlike many films that try to capitalise on excessive violence, The Lost wins partly because it is not repetitive. There is nasty violence, quick violence, prolonged violence, mental torture with cruel and violent treatment, 'justified' violence and sick violence. Then there is even offhand violence - "I didn't like you anyway," says Ray as he aims and fires, killing someone with all the casual pride of a sharpshooter at a fairground. (In case you haven't guessed, there is quite a lot of violence!) Supporting scenes draw on popular subculture for realism, such as the rush to flush drugs (grass) down the toilet with limited success when the cops try to bust a party, or the 'friend' who tries to shave an unnoticeable amount of resin from Ray's cannabis delivery. Sensuous, opulent, and recognising few limits, The Lost strains at the sequins to be a cult nasty and succeeds. Even the sex scenes throw in a level of wit not found in the average shocker. "I'm sorry that was a little fast," says Ray after f*cking Katherine the first time. "I've had it faster," she retorts nonchalantly.

While featured songs such as "Drink, Fight, F*ck," might sum up the superficial ethos of the film, it rises well above the trailer-trash slasher that it could easily have become. More concise and elegant than Freeway, more intelligent and visceral than Natural Born Killers, demonstrating a considerable array of talent in its determination to shock that was so noticeably absent in The Great Ecstasy of Robert Carmichael, less high-brow than Irreversible, and more hypnotic than American Psycho. The Lost, however repugnant many people will find it, lives up to its promise of being controversial and worthy of attention by all lovers of the genre.