drqshadow-reviews

It's fitting that the Heavy Metal movie should be an anthology, given that its source (an extremely long-running European comic mag) largely focused on short, disconnected stories. Also fitting that the film would tap many of the comic's most noteworthy creators to adapt their concepts to the screen. Heavy Metal '81 features work from underground luminaries like Richard Corben, Bernie Wrightson and Moebius, and if those names don't ring any bells, I'd encourage some homework! Befitting its title, the production also splurged on an all-star licensed soundtrack, featuring crunchy, powerful riffs from the likes of Cheap Trick, Nazareth, Black Sabbath and Journey. These really emphasize the dark, dank '70s laser-show aura of the whole affair. The Don Felder tune, appropriately titled "Heavy Metal," is probably the best of the bunch. I can almost smell those musty fog machines.

Atmosphere is one thing this movie has in spades. Proficiency? Accuracy? Those are more fleeting. It's easier to hide the seams in a great comic book, where pesky nuisances like proportion and perspective can shift between panels. On the screen, in a fully-animated format with no blinks or breaks, consistency is more important. Production times (and, perhaps, technological limitations) also demanded a much flatter, less textured animation style. For artists like Moebius, who already work a simplistic, gestural style, that's not such a big deal. Others, specifically Corben, are crippled by the loss of depth and tonality. Imagine flattening a Frank Frazetta! It's a ludicrous idea. For what I'd imagine are similar reasons, the animators relied on obvious rotoscoping to streamline their work. That may have given them a steadier artistic baseline, but the ensuing motion is a little uncanny and lacks the sense of exaggeration that's so exciting in the printed artwork.

Identifiable voice acting is another problem for Heavy Metal. This was a Canadian production and several well-known SCTV cast members pop up in the credits. Eugene Levy and Harold Ramis are here. John Candy plays three unrelated roles, including a sex-starved robot. If that sounds odd and a little off-putting, that's because it is. This material is unabashedly thirsty, for tits and violence alike, and it's weird to hear a friendly, instantly identifiable voice like Candy's in such contexts.

I consider this a highly ambitious miss. The scenes that work really, really work, but they're all-too brief and outnumbered by the instances of laughably bad taste and/or execution. The final product is close, but not close enough to merit a cigar. Here's an example: a few weeks ago, I happened across a fan re-edit that put this movie back into my head. It transplanted the aforementioned Felder song to a different scene, stripping the score and dialogue while tightening the edit to better match the new soundtrack. This version is head and shoulders above the one that actually made it into the movie. There's just no comparison; by further emphasizing the risqué themes, flavorful artwork and pumping rock music, the whole package feels more potent. It may have lost a spoken line or two, reducing the narrative to visual cues, but the enhanced mood makes that a worthwhile sacrifice. It's strange to say this about a film so bawdy, lewd and titillating, but Heavy Metal didn't push the envelope hard enough.

Probably the first horror film, this ancient, influential murder mystery thrives on its eerie, off-putting atmosphere and strange, distinct aesthetic. The story introduces us to a creepy carnival barker, peddling the services of an allegedly psychic sleepwalker in a village fair. Though he's been asleep for two-plus decades, proto-goth kid Cesare can be compelled to crack an eyelid from time to time if bold theatergoers show an interest in learning their destiny. And, as we'll learn, that's not his only act.

Dramatic storytelling was usually pretty limited in the silent picture days, and even mildly complex plots like this one prove the reason why: it's disruptive to interrupt the action with so many text cards. Particularly the highly-stylized, borderline illegible type used by _Caligari_. A little economy and/or ingenuity would've gone a long way in this respect, as I suspect most of the narrative work could've been more simply written, if not completely conveyed through visual cues within the picture.

_Caligari_'s largest significance lies in its visual language, anyway. Surrounded by jagged architecture and nightmarish landscapes, the cast nonchalantly navigates impossible staircases and warped city streets while going about their daily business. Doors open at 45-degree angles. Claustrophobic room proportions seem to inch closer when we aren't looking. Windows, alleys and mountaintops connect in nonsensical, irrational ways. Merely observing from the couch, watching the nonplussed reaction of the world's denizens, is like plowing through a surreal, murky dream of one's own. Which, I imagine, is the point. Many elements of the production, and its performances, would be mimicked and replicated by similar genre films in the years to come. I see a whole lot of Max Schreck's Nosferatu, for example, in Conrad Veidt's lanky, unnatural performance as Cesare, this film's nearly-mindless maladroit monster.

Even as stylish early horror goes, this isn't great. The wild artwork and ghoulish makeup effects are masterful touches, but the story is plodding, the mystery is obvious and the acting is often ridiculously melodramatic. Plus, even at a mere seventy-odd minutes, the film is heavily padded by a load of pointless go-nowhere, do-nothing shots. Horror had to start somewhere, I guess, and _Caligari_ leaves plenty of room for improvement.

It's tough to fairly critique a movie so widely lauded as one of the greats. How does one watch The Godfather with an open mind after fifty years of critical pressure? That goes double for Citizen Kane, given its additional age and notoriety. Older movies can be hard to contextualize, even for those already well-versed in the era's cinematic language. In 1941, Hollywood had only been making talkies for a few years. For Kane, though, I actually see this elder status as a benefit: it does more than just hold up, it holds its own. Eight decades later, Orson Welles's ambitious debut remains engaging and easy to watch, even by modern standards. There's just something about a well-crafted story, told with care and conviction, that never goes out of style. Its plot is colorful and alluring, stuffed with dynamic, rounded characters. Its artistry is sharp and daring, richly designed and strikingly photographed. Each frame is deeply considered and imbued with meaning. There's similar fire and passion in nearly every element. The big cast of stage veterans, eager to prove their worth on the screen. The iconography, expertly crafted and larger than life. The lingering mystery of "Rosebud," befuddling and powerful as a story mover and rewarding as a final revelation. Welles has lined everything up just-so, an intricate web of large acts and small tells that come together to weave an irresistible saga.

Citizen Kane's framing device works extraordinarily well, dispensing a street-smart journalist to puzzle over a magnate's last words while sifting through the spoken record to paint an outline of his life. He segues from one interview to another, capturing snippets of the man's character from all angles, before finally arriving at the conclusion that no single word, no matter how enigmatic, could possibly explain a life so thoroughly lived. He's completely wrong on that count. "Rosebud" speaks volumes about this man: his desperation to be admired and loved; his refusal to really open himself up in pursuit of those goals; his tireless efforts to meet an impossible expectation; his sharp dismissal of anyone who dares challenge his ideals. Unfortunately for our weary newsman, no living soul remains to express these nuances, nor to connect them to the word in question. Without that context, its origins mean nothing. Charles Foster Kane left plenty of observers in his wake - spurned comrades, embittered lovers, jaded employees, jealous observers - but the man they describe is only a projection. The image he wished the world to see, not the one which dwelt beneath the steely shell.

That's a relatively simple story, really. The man who seemingly has everything, overcompensating to satisfy an urge that most of us would take for granted. Welles adds cinematic flourishes, draws magnificent performances from his cast (including himself) and spices it with a tantalizing secret, but this wouldn't be recognized as such a landmark achievement if that main arc weren't so well-realized, recognizable and effective. Put it all together? Yeah, that's deserving of all-timer status. A masterpiece of film.