Night Terrors

With a long list of suspects, Lucio Fulci’s Italian giallo Don’t Torture a Duckling revels in its mystery, a small town southern Italian caper that does not, in fact, contain any fowl play – though it does have almost every other aspect of foul play imaginable. Introduced to three tween boys, they are the type of scamps that get into all sorts of shenanigans. Spotting the arrival of some out of town prostitutes, they follow the trail to an abandoned house, keeping informed of all of the sordid action. They see Giuseppe Barra (Vito Passeri), a simple-minded peeping Tom enjoying the view, and he takes offense when they tease him.

Talk about a hook of an opener – an extended tracking shot follows a man from behind as he enters a police station to report a murder. . . his own, and, rather interestingly, it seems as though the detectives were waiting for him. The man – Frank Bigelow (Edmond O’Brien); the film noir, D.O.A., a 1949 mystery directed by Rudolph Maté (a man who made several quality movies, though is better known for his superlative work as a cinematographer – think of Carl Theodor Dreyer’s two silent masterpieces The Passion of Joan of Arc and Vampyr, or later, Alfred Hitchcock’s Foreign Correspondent, Ernst Lubitsch’s To Be or Not to Be and Charles Vidor’s Gilda). Bigelow narrates his story to the men, transporting us back to the beginning of the tale.

Sending a cold brisk current down the viewers’ spine, Taylor Sheridan’s Wind River is a darkly piercing mystery crime thriller with an old school western vibe. Providing the film with a unique spin much like another story he penned, Hell or High Water (which earned Sheridan an Academy Award nomination), the motion picture has the feel of a traditional western updated with modern topics and themes. Like a John Ford epic, you’ll find a posse searching for answers, characters chock full of bravery, a sort of wild lawlessness, and picturesque yet harsh locales, though this is not set in the blistering deserts of the nineteenth century wild west, but rather on an Indian reserve in present day Montana, where the chilling wind blows a substance no less forgiving – snow.

A man – lonely, laconic and quick to anger. A woman – cool, collected and in hiding. Both live in the same apartment complex in The City of Angels. Murder brings them together, but will it keep them together? Written by Andrew Solt and directed by Nicholas Ray, In a Lonely Place immerses us within the world of a Hollywood screenwriter, the rough-and-tumble, explosive Dixon ‘Dix’ Steele (Humphrey Bogart – who also produces the film); an apropos name to be sure. Struggling with a multitude of demons, he is quick to anger and even quicker to act. Despite not having a hit since before the war, he is given a solid opportunity by his agent, Mel Lippman (Art Smith), who asks him to adapt a novel. Seemingly uninterested, he invites the club’s hat-check girl, Mildred Atkinson (Martha Stewart. . . not that Martha Stewart), to his home to summarize the book for him (as she has just finished reading it). Following their business, he sends her on her way, directing her to where cabs usually gather nearby.

Director Chan-wook Park, a visual mastermind who concocted the intoxicating Stoker in 2013 (a loose remake of Alfred Hitchcock’s superb Shadow of a Doubt), his first, and to date, only English language film, follows it by putting his talents into making another striking, intricately plotted psychological mystery/thriller in The Handmaiden. Loosely based upon Sarah Waters’ novel "Fingersmith", the filmmaker moves the tale from Victorian era England to 1930s Korea – which is under Japanese colonial rule. Divided into three parts, he utilizes the technique to great effect, providing us with only part of the story each time. In many ways it’s like being given a puzzle with only the edges to start with, so we think we understand what is going on, as we have been given the outline, but only truly gain a stronger appreciation of its complexity and beauty when provided with the pieces that fill in the whole picture. Park’s unique style slowly divulges the true essence of this film by providing alternate angles, different perspectives, flashbacks and flash forwards (those essential remaining puzzle pieces).

Though The Lady in the Car with Glasses and a Gun provides viewers with a pretty good idea of what the basic plot may be about, it is much more difficult to pin down. The French film, directed by Joann Sfar, is rather divisive, the type of love it or hate motion picture that is rarely made in this day and age. A beautifully visual dreamscape of a film, it pays tribute to surrealist movies of both the silent era as well as the sixties and seventies. Think Belle de Jour and Valerie and her Week of Wonders. It is also somewhat like a neo-noir, as well as an old school mystery thriller, à la Diabolique or Vertigo. Sfar utilizes a bevy of shots, angles, split-screens and other pieces of cinematic trickery to draw us in. It is like watching something made by Brian De Palma, Luis Buñuel and Alfred Hitchcock – clear aspects of each director can been seen, creating a certain visual aesthetic (we may have to throw in a little Guy Ritchie to boot). It bounces around in your head, bringing to mind horror (gothic and Giallo), fantasy, crime, drama, while also having a sort of fetishist vibe – on top of all of the other things mentioned above.