Hell House, LLC / **** (2015)

The story goes, as it must, through the grinder of utterly dependable formula: a terrible and inexplicable event occurs to people, and years later the footage of the victims winds up in the hands of mystified onlookers. This is the initial pitch made by “Hell House, LLC,” yet another entry into the “found footage” division of horror films, where the accounts of would-be victims are well-documented by the cameras they hold. This time, the prey has abandoned notions of searching for vengeful witches or spiritual hauntings and have come to, basically, document something less ominous – that is, putting together a local Halloween attraction in Abaddon, New York. Unbeknownst to them, alas, the abandoned hotel that comes to be the site of their frightful venture is more than just dark rooms filled with strange noises and creaking floorboards. It seems to permeate some sort of threatening energy. Sometimes, the viewing lens will even spy this possibility – shadows in corners, symbols etched on the basement walls, figures moving through doorways, and Halloween props that move entirely on their own. Did they bring some sore of malevolence in there with them, or was it always there, lying dormant? Some wisely suggest leaving behind the project, but one stubborn proprietor refuses, leading to a chaotic and frightening opening night in which 15 people pay with their lives, including most of the original managers.

We Are Still Here / *** (2015)

Families trapped in the throes of grief have been lured in by more haunted houses than you can fathom, and in nearly all cases their tragedies supply an emotional shield that supernatural horrors mistakenly see as an exploitable weakness. Perhaps that’s because ghosts and demons just don’t understand how human nature works – that for every terrible event or shocking impulse, a person’s sense of fear is tightened by an exterior that hardens with time, allowing its wearer to face an abyss that couldn’t possibly match the pain they’ve experienced. There are some, however, who wear their suffering like an open wound, and certainly the evils of an alternate plane are eager to feast off whatever they can. Meanwhile, the dangerous entities that lurk in the house of “We Are Still Here” have a more sinister agenda: every 30 years they awaken from a slumber and devour the souls of any family living within its halls, as vengeance for a terrible act that was committed on them a century prior. Apparently, time does little to diminish grudges, especially when you’re in a dimension that ought to be free of earthly attachments or emotions.

House on the Edge of the Park / 1/2* (1980)

While most defiant ideas for films are usually seized by the underachievers, few directors ever openly admit to being conductors of substandard rip-offs. Part of me would challenge that possibility if I ever came face-to-face with Ruggero Deodato, who in 1980 made one of many “Last House on the Left” clones and, by all traditional measures, used the screen as an open admission of his failure to equal its painful austerity. Craven’s notorious debut was hardly an original commodity – famously, its premise was based off a folk legend first used by Ingmar Bergman – but it so thoroughly embodied the nerve and conviction of its creator that few who saw it found it unworthy of notice. It was a film that lived and breathed its soul-shattering horrors. A great number of would-be understudies justifiably saw it as one of the main precursors to the genre’s sharp transition from supernatural absurdity to real-life misery, and some like Deodato were compelled to replicate the measure in more direct homage. But his “House on the Edge of the Park” is not simply a paint-by-numbers exercise. That might have been a lesser offense. No, this is a movie so listless and deceptive that we don’t dare call it bad, lest that imply anyone watching cares enough to show a faint hint of loathing.

Last Days / ***1/2 (2005)

Three movies in Gus Van Sant’s filmography make up what is commonly referred to as his “death trilogy,” and like similar multi-picture endeavors by Ingmar Bergman and Lars von Trier they are linked less by story or characters and more by deep thematic echoes. But to describe the material in them as being just about “death” would be to simplify the nature at which they originate; while death itself awaits many of the important players, it is the journey towards it that stirs uncomfortably in the mind of their curious author. Consider the long and arduous walk towards nothing in “Gerry,” or the almost haunting silence preceding the chaos of the final hour of “Elephant.” Van Sant’s theory is not that some are meant to die young or tragically, but that they often do so because of a decay in stability brought on by lifelong alienations – many of them either self-imposed or clandestine. In these worlds, taking one final breath well before the mortal clock has wound down may just be a release from a routine that has already killed their goal to persevere.

The Florida Project / **** (2017)

A young girl, full of mischief and fire, moves through a low-rent  neighborhood with an impenetrable enthusiasm. Her friends accompany with almost nonexistent parental supervision, and often find themselves caught in situations that test their safety. A motel manager, a gruff sort insistent on rules, nonetheless observes their antics from a safe distance, perhaps because he senses the inability of others to respond to the dangers that inhabit their periphery. A scene involving his intervention with an old man emphasizes that prospect; as the stranger engages with the children as they are grouped around park benches, no parent is around to detect, quite obviously, that he is a predator. Do they in some way depend on his observations, however quietly? Or are they completely ambivalent? Or worse yet, just don’t care? There lies one of the many pointed questions in Sean Baker’s remarkable “The Florida Project,” where the whimsy and enthusiasm of the young stars is cast in a shadow created by adults who are too restrained by their poverty to sense the difference between a good and bad decision (assuming they make one at all).

The Room / zero stars (2003)

Among a cluster of eccentric personalities that found their way behind movie cameras in the recent years, few have developed the notoriety of poor Tommy Wiseau. His is an identity that seems like it might have been invented in a laborious, almost masochistic imagination; soft-spoken in what could be a muddled Polish accent, here is a man of suspicious origins (not to mention independent wealth) who found success in San Francisco as an entrepreneur, possessed fragmented visions of grandeur and went on to fund his first movie entirely out of pocket in a time when independent cinema ebbed high in public demand. That result, “The Room,” has earned infamy as one of the most legendary aberrations of recent times, inspiring eventual cult status and ongoing obsessions in the minds of those who gravitate towards the common fodder of midnight movie revivals. Their reasons are not difficult to decipher; the mess before them was so utterly miscalculated in its inconsistent spontaneity that one could only laugh at the result, however uncomfortably. Even Ed Wood only went so far in his ridiculous indulgences. But is anyone who experiences Wiseau’s passion piece really admiring the disaster before them as some kind of audacious endurance test, or are they laughing at the expense of someone who doesn’t appear to know better?

A Serbian Film / no star rating (2011)

There exists a hard, bitter audience for the likes of “A Serbian Film,” one of the most graphic depictions of human suffering I have ever seen committed to the screen. I am not among them. Perhaps that is because I was trained in the more tempered observations of film directors who found horror in the ability to make you jump without expectation, or shrink into your seat while the notes of the screenplay played your emotions through equal measures of silence and dread. Shocking brutality in itself was never enough – it was only the final outlet of the terror, a reason we were so terrified by the idea of evil villains capturing those who were running and screaming in the opposite direction. But for those who will look at Srdjan Spasojevic’s nihilistic plea against the pornography trade and find it engaging outside of the nightmarish cruelty, I salute them: not only do they have the stomachs to stare back at the frames with deadpan focus, they also have the distinction of being the byproduct of irreversible damage to the senses. For that, those individuals earn both my astonished bewilderment and my sincerest condolences.

Clown / 1/2* (2016)

One of the tragic realities of horror movies is rooted in the cause of sound moral judgment: a story in which very young children are destined to be slaughtered is rarely deserving of redemption. Varying degrees of that estimation have been seen on the big screen over the years, ranging from minor offenses (“Pet Semetary”) to more garish excursions (“Dinocroc”), but only those that move to the metronome of a compelling perspective can bring those sorts of risks back from the brink of despair. Jon Watts’ “Clown,” recently released after lying dormant in a studio vault for over two years, does something even more unforgivable: it goes well beyond sound psychology and hammers its point right to the spinal column of senseless and graphic cruelty. Thoroughly strange and shocking, the movie tells the story of a man who puts on an old clown costume and discovers, quite unfortunately, that it once belonged to a horrific demon known for devouring children, ultimately cursing him to the fate of possession. Meanwhile the movie exploits the nature of this idea by shamelessly dangling young victims in front of his ravenous face – the first of which is a 4-year old boy, who is so fascinated by the clown before him that he mistakenly attempts to make friends by barging through the front door while running buzz saws are set up the living room. Any further contemplation of this particular scene isn’t just grotesque, but vehemently depressing.

Embrace of the Serpent / **** (2015)

A shaman stands fixed at the edge of a river embankment, his posture denoting tireless confidence. The forest behind him rests as a blur of deep vegetation and ominous noise – a towering portrait of natural order. Closed within that image is the soul of a man at war with the ideology of others; as the last known of a tribe thought slaughtered by missionaries, his skin is hardened by encounters with foreign tradesmen that seem interested only in exploiting the treasures of the Earth. Then a canoe carrying two passengers drifts in nearby, containing a pair of friends from different worlds (in his eyes, a civilization built on destruction). One is a former being of the forest who has abandoned the embrace of nature in favor of more sensational influences; the other, born in a world far beyond the trees, has wandered into it seeking adventure and discovery, no doubt with some level of misplaced elitism. But he has fallen ill amidst the search for a legendary item, and this lone warrior of the jungles – known as Karamakate – may possess the key to both its whereabouts and his own recovery from an ominous fever. But does the native have any sympathy to offer in this man’s hour of desperation, much less the basic desire to help?

Hello, My Name is Doris / *** (2016)

Like fine wines uncorked from a lengthy shelf life, a great actor has the capability of disappearing from view and then resurfacing with surprising potency, inspiring us to fall in love with their dependable brand of charisma all over again. We seldom recognize the possibility as a reliable prospect, and perhaps that speaks just as much to the narrow focus of modern Hollywood as it does our own cynical expectations. Many of those thoughts crept into my mind as I watched Sally Field on screen in “Hello, My Name is Doris,” a movie she possesses with the utmost zeal. Should we have believed that this brilliant woman, a vibrant presence, would have faded quietly into oblivion? Who’s to say she was not destined to persevere against the ageist trend that dominates the industry? A lengthy departure from film that saw her dabble predominantly in major television dramas has done nothing to diminish any of her abilities, and there are moments in the movie where our admiration isn’t so much about the likability of her character as it is the refreshing candor of its portrayer. “Norma Rae” may have announced the arrival of one of the great screen stars of the 20th century, but here is an endeavor that validates all of those early proclamations in immense clarity.

Amorous / ** (2014)

Generally speaking, a movie must usually be tasked with two primary objectives: setting a scene, and then filling it with plot and characters. Joanna Coates’ “Amorous” has the former down to a science; the camera catches images within the lens that are evocative and spacious, and serve the purpose of creating a world well suited to what is about to transpire. Then the question becomes one of direct concern: what exactly do these images mean to the faces that are about to populate them, and what must drive them beyond the necessity to be caught up in all sorts of random frivolity? The four leads, each of whom have come together after apparent alienation in the big city to lead a life of contentment in the English countryside, are less displaced by a sense of cultural alienation and more caught up in the confusion of the impulse. They don’t even seem eager or happy to wind up where they have arrived. And that’s troubling for any audience that is attempting, wholeheartedly, to find an entry point into this story in order to generate empathy or general interest in what transpires. What they get is not so much a study of characters as it is a simplified examination of behaviors, all of them too far out of context to be the source of any significant dramatic depth.

The Wild Parrots of Telegraph Hill (2003)

The rhetoric of commoners would have you believe that animals only occupy the personalities we attach to them, but more perceptive minds know better: they can sense the gears of attitude lurking underneath a trajectory of common instincts and silent routines. Part of what attracts us to such creatures – be they pets or otherwise – is that they know how to hold their own in a world of conventional disinterest, often catching our notice by acting in such a way that is indicative of some kind of internal spark. Sometimes that comes in the form of relentless affections, other times strength or defiance. The constant is that there is a necessity in them to be noticed, especially if it relates to their very survival or comfort. How perceptive they must be to have so thoroughly sharpened their associations with human beings over the centuries, especially as it has been instrumental to their endurance in a world that continues to offer new dangers at every given moment.

Mr. Holmes / *** (2015)

The general perception of Sherlock Holmes is that he was a man of impeccable observation and droll sensibilities, often wandering through his story arcs with tongue-in-cheek self-awareness. His legend is embellished further by rather silly devices of presence: a deerstalker hat that was traditionally worn by men in hunting parties, and a long pipe that was as absurd as it was overkill. To any who might have read any of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s yarns about the British detective and his loyal sidekick Watson, his was a persona that leapt from the pages as if a cartoon trapped in live action backdrops. And yet we admired him tremendously in spite of his more zany values, mostly because he legitimately was good at what he did, and we believed he did it all for the sake of bettering the world. Those core qualities are replicated in the underlying narrative current of “Mr. Holmes,” but something starker has crept into those realizations. Old age changes men as fast as the tide changes a shoreline, and what once was the visualization of an all-knowing detective has become a portrait of a frail man seeking penance for wrongs that seem to cast ominous shadows.

Undocumented Executive / *** (2013)

“Undocumented Executive” is about an illegal immigrant from Mexico who wanders north of the border to visit his feisty sister, gets a job interview, is mistaken for an accounting applicant and winds up with a cushy job in one of the most convoluted idiot plots of recent memory. You know of the sort I refer to: the sort of premise in which all mysteries and misunderstandings can be corrected with simple explanations, if not for the fact that one key person in the mix is a complete boob. For a story like this, the instigator usually comes in the form of a supporting distraction – in this case, a secretary named Marlene (Candace Mabry), who spots a well-dressed Latin man in a hallway and somehow never picks up on any of the obvious cues. Does the suit provide her with a generic assumption that contradicts all other reservations? Does she not easily sense his limited English skills? What exactly would give her the idea that he is there to interview for an accounting job, especially after she is unable to find his resume or cover letter in the ensuing encounter? In more serious movies, intelligent characters would discuss her in long, sad monologues.

Blood Glacier / *1/2 (2013)

Had “Blood Glacier” been made from within the big studio system, audiences would likely be hailing it as the worst film ever made; but in the hands of an amateur B-movie director who operates from a place of calculated silliness, it at least inspires uproarious howls of delight – especially if you are a viewer that has any kind of background in science. In some twisted way, it all comes down to intention. So many rules about human and animal biology are broken in this zany creature feature that it calls into question the sanity of the writer, Benjamin Hessler. Was he under the influence of illegal substances when he concocted this absurd premise? His audacity becomes our pained amusement, and for 98 jaw-dropping minutes we watch on – sometimes with horror, other times with laughable shock – as a story about hybrid mutants slithers around on screen as if in the final throws of dramatic suffering. This is one of those endeavors that will no doubt endure the test of time on viewing lists of very ambitious bad movies.

Filth / * (2014)

There is no small irony in the central office of Edinburgh’s police bureau containing a poster for “2001: A Space Odyssey.”  Instantly distinguishable through a myriad of psychotic images that pound away at you with the force of a violent criminal, the proverbial thumbprint of the great Stanley Kubrick weaves through most of “Filth” unrestrained, leaving behind the echo of despair that seems directly lifted from his great “A Clockwork Orange.” Even the main subject, a corrupt and unstable vessel of hostility named Bruce (James McAvoy), directly recalls the Alex character from that film; as he abuses his way through the grind of life unchecked while absurd fantasies overtake him, there is the sense that his path has been written, quite clearly, in the same familiar shadows that Malcom McDowell danced in for his own devious performance. Does that suggest there is a reason to mimic the Kubrick ideals even now, so long after his imprint was left behind? If it does, then it is clear that no one involved in this movie studied much in the way of basic film composition, much less the stylistic undertakings or powerful subtexts of the greatest of film directors. At one point, when a therapist refers to the disintegrated Bruce as nothing more than “filth,” there is no profound realization; instead, all you want to do is nod your head in hopeless defeat.

Nymphomaniac: Volume II / *** (2014)

There is a critical scene in “Nymphomaniac: Volume II” that is as close as one is likely to ever come in finding a central point for its damaged protagonist. It involves the character of Joe (Charlotte Gainsbourg) climbing a steep hillside and finding a wilted tree jutting out at the peak, its shape altered by many years of piercing winds that have swept over the ridges with unforgiving power. Immediately she identifies with this odd creation, a shell that has been molded by elements sweeping past its branches for its entire earthbound existence. “That tree is me,” she tells the intrigued Seligman, who for the past several hours has absorbed the details of her strange but adventurous life. Her projection is the result of an early lesson by her father, who believed all trees reflected the character of our human souls. Yes, but does a tree have the will to decide where it grows? Can it simply alter its existence if it does not find comfort in the harshness of the world around it? For this one woman, that metaphor casts a beam of insight into explaining why she has arrived at this one critical point of existence; for us, it suggests a mind oblivious to the chain reactions of fate, and the refusal to find (or even desire) change that may present less bleak circumstances.

Nymphomaniac: Volume I / ***1/2 (2014)

When it comes to the human sensations that seek to consume us, sex is often the most destructive. If our passions have the capacity to unravel temperaments, then intercourse with another can send ripples through all facets: physical, emotional, even psychological. It inspires a wide range of dissonant emotions, ranging from joy to satisfaction and even pain, occasionally in succession to one another. Pleasure at its primal core is an earthly luxury, but there exists a boundary at which that privilege becomes outright addiction – some are so absorbed by the excess that it fragments their perspective. And yet the degree to which one seeks sexual release in high increments may in fact reveal a side of our human nature that is rarely recognized: the concealed part of our psyche that craves chaos and disregards control or consequence. Consider this fascinating paradox when the characters of “Nymphomaniac: Volume I” are on screen – do their carnal conundrums exist because they submit to incessant physical stimulation, or is there a darker nuance unravelling them in between orgasms?

Shortbus / ***1/2 (2006)

The first moments play like an invasion into the bedrooms of strangers. The camera cuts between three distinct romps: in one, a lone male films himself on a handheld digital camera attempting to engage in auto-fellatio, and the frame reveals the full package. In the next, a couple experiments with varying sexual positions as if attempting to outdo the Kama sutra, and the penetration shots are genuine. In the third, a woman dressed in eccentric dominatrix garb verbally abuses a man for money, whips him, clamps his nipples with clothespins and reveals a gaze of dismay when he winds up having an orgasm on her headboard painting. What do these three scenes exemplify, other than a shockingly frank attitude about the sexual bravado of its characters? For “Shortbus,” the answer is not nearly as simple or one-dimensional as the surface would suggest. This isn’t an exploit into pornographic ideals, but a movie with genuine ideas that are completely freed from political correctness in a time when society continues to fear absolute truths about our individual desires.

Lo / **1/2 (2009)

Sometimes it makes more sense to let go than to pursue that which is out of reach. Justin (Ward Roberts) could have used such a lesson long before the opening of “Lo,” when his quirky relationship with an enigmatic girl named April (Sarah Lassez) reached a fever pitch before ending under very unfathomable circumstances. What halted their ill-fated nuptials is only one of many minor points of backstory in a flashback-minded movie, but this much is key: the mysterious book she left behind becomes an important link to her current whereabouts, and it allows a door to open that only the most dedicated ex-boyfriend would dare step through. That, or the most naïve.