An Indie sci-fi film on the precipice of where we might be heading, Creep Box, written and directed by Patrick Biesemans (and based upon his own short from 2022), ruminates on a hybrid artificial intelligence that is both intriguing and terrifying. Following Caul (Geoffrey Cantor), a PHD in psychology and parapsychology at HDTH Corp, he is currently working on a sleek black tech box... a device that can be used to collect the memories of the dead, which are then fused with an A.I. that can utilize the past of the deceased to not only communicate with loved ones, but also gather information that could lead to solving crimes of those who have been murdered.
Let’s face it, some movies don’t age too well, but if they’ve got the three main ingredients – solid writing, visuals, and acting, usually they can stand the test of time. One film that is still as timely today as it was back in 1988 is John Carpenter’s horror tinged sci-fi action film They Live. Welcome to Reagan era America, all trickle down economics, high unemployment rates and rising poverty. Set in ‘any city’ USA, Nada (Roddy Piper) is an out of work drifter looking for a semblance of the American dream. . . a job would be a start. Finally finding some employ on a construction site, fellow hard worker Frank (Keith David) takes him to a sort of shantytown, where the long travelling man can find a warm meal and a night’s rest.
Every once in a while, a film becomes part of the zeitgeist – capturing the spirit and mood of its time, uniting viewers in a shared experience that will never be forgotten. Think Gone With the Wind, Casablanca, The Godfather, Jaws, Star Wars, Titanic, the Lord of the Rings trilogy, Avatar. . . you get the idea. Capturing lightening in a bottle, this shared experience unites moviegoers worldwide, the most recent example, Avengers: Endgame (2019). Whether you love comic book films or hate them, it is hard to argue with what Marvel has done since 2008 (starting with Iron Man). A three phase initiative, with almost too many superheros to name, Endgame is the twenty-second feature in the last eleven years, and, in many ways, the end of this unique vision. Something never done before, standalone and ensemble films have been combined to great effect, grossing (to this point) over twenty billion dollars, and, for the most part, winning critics over along the way.
With a towering warrior frame, Jason Momoa is a rare actor whose size onscreen matches his larger than life build in person (no offense to other stars, but usually, for whatever reason, height is not one of their trademarks). Yet, despite his imposing height and breadth, he is chill and zen when you meet him – a relaxed, calming presence. Momoa has quickly built up his star status, most wholly unaware of his time on Baywatch (44 episodes, no less), often forgotten in his role on Stargate: Atlantis, or his turn in the remake of Conan the Barbarian, most thinking his take on Khal Drogo (on the surface, a savage barbarian, Momoa built a fascinating, multi-faceted character) in Game of Thrones was his first major performance. . . and since, he has made intriguing, surprising, and most importantly, quality choices with his career – splitting time between film and television. Eccentric roles in B movies like Bullet to the Head and The Bad Batch, or selecting the Canadian series Frontier (where he plays a part-Native outlaw involved in the fur trade), fit the man like a glove, personas that meld with the actor, for even his most recent win, that of Arthur Curry, better known as Aquaman (currently, as of January the 8th, 2019, the number one film in the world), could have been considered a risky bet. . . for the underwater superhero has often been the joke of the industry (remember Vincent Chase’s lack of interest in Entourage) – after all, he swims around the ocean talking to fish, yet Momoa (and director James Wan) have made the hero cool again – a slick, at times comedic warrior hero in the vein of King Arthur or Indiana Jones.
What would you do if you knew the end of days was nigh? Maybe you’d relish in your memories of the good old times, or revel in the anarchy going on around you. . . perhaps you’d party the night away, then go out in a blaze of suicidal glory just to spite a foregone conclusion? ? ? These are some of the topics covered in the Canadian understated-apocalyptic Indie dramedy Last Night (1998). Written, directed and starred in by Don McKellar (his first feature film; also the scribe of the fascinating picture The Red Violin), he litters Canada’s largest city, Toronto, with not only trash (and a few remaining stragglers), but also a simple melancholic poignancy, a dry and awkward humour that covers up the anguish that the ‘New Year’s Eve-like countdown to the end’ brings with it. McKellar’s take on the “2000, Seen By” project (which had filmmakers looking at the approaching excitement and fears of the Millennium), had him making the wise choice of depicting 2000 as the end of the world (rather than a current fad that would have it feeling passé almost immediately after the fact).
A Christmas movie that is truly special has that moment. . . that specific sequence magically able to transcend the medium – enlivening our spirits, touching our hearts, rejuvenating the soul. . . a bell ringing – it giving an angel its wings; a humbug of a man able to get another chance at really living life; a family, despite all odds, getting home to their young son that has been left home alone; and, in today’s film, though the ending could arguably be it, a woman brings her newly adopted (orphaned) Dutch daughter to see Santa Claus at the mall, as the little girl truly believes she will be able to speak to him – her mother, knowing that he can’t speak the language, is gobsmacked when he starts to talk to her – bringing so much joy to her cherub-like face. Of course, you’ve probably guessed it, I am referencing George Seaton’s 1947 classic Miracle on 34th Street (he both writes and directs). After a drunk Santa is removed from his post during the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade thanks to the complaint of Kris Kringle (Edmund Gwenn – winning an Oscar for the role), methodical event director Doris Walker (Maureen O’Hara) asks the man to don the suit – filmed during the actual parade.
A perfect example of ‘you can’t outrun your past, present or future’, 1949's Act of Violence, directed by Fred Zinnemann (High Noon; From Here to Eternity), starts with quite the hook: a man, limp noticeable, hurriedly, and with purpose, makes his way through a city in the clutches of the glum night, eventually entering a room that holds a deadly object – a gun. . . hopping onto a bus, it does not bode well. With a deliberate, unyielding presence, Joe Parkson (Robert Ryan – for another one of his great film noirs, see The Set-Up) is the thing of nightmares. . . a stalking figure in trench coat and fedora – the Michael Myers of the noir genre. Ryan, with his lined face, imposing size, and disturbed demeanor, is an ominous heavy – the enigmatic grunt opening a phone book and circling the name of one Frank R. Enley (Van Heflin).