A Law Unto Themselves

“The cruelest dream, reality”. . . a lyric from The Offspring’s iconic song that shares the same title as this article, speaks volumes to today’s feature. 1986's River’s Edge, written by Neal Jimenez and directed by Tim Hunter, takes a bleak look at the lives of a group of teens growing up in northern California during the MTV generation. Arguably holding a twisted link to Stand by Me, which was released the very same year, this holds the lens to older teens. . . focusing more on the Kiefer Sutherland character’s age group rather the tweens of that feature. A dual analysis could definitely reap some benefits.

Let’s face it, M. Night Shyamalan’s Glass (2019) was always going to find itself in a precarious position. Following arguably his second most lauded film, 2000's Unbreakable, and the unexpected hit sequel to it, 2016's Split, the movie could be considered as fragile as the title itself. For the most part panned by critics, yet more respected by its audience, over the past two or so years, it has become one of those love it or hate it type of features. And perhaps rightfully so, for it highlights both the best and worst of what Shyamalan has offered us over his decades long career – well planned out and most scrumptious visuals, his patented cameos, showing off the sights in and around his hometown of Philadelphia, talky dialogue, as well as those controversial third acts (including those hit or miss twists).

1984's Red Dawn, adapted for the screen and directed by John Milius, has been called many things – ‘the most right-wing blockbuster ever made’, ‘the most violent movie ever made’. . . but, by today’s standards, it is hard to take all of this too seriously (especially that latter statement – things have gotten a whole lot bloodier as time has gone by). An entertaining (if outrageous) B-style movie premise that pulls from old westerns (think High Noon, Rio Bravo and The Cowboys) and guerrilla warfare tactics, this version of 1989 (it is set five years in the future) finds a secret Russian, Cuban, and Nicaraguan alliance bringing with it an unexpected invasion of the United States. . . seen specifically in Calumet, Colorado (this the beginnings of World War III).

Perhaps the most wild and audacious opening ever seen in a giallo, 1975's Autopsy, co-written and directed by Armando Crispino, starts with a rotisserie of people committing suicide in both shocking and outlandish ways. . . only for the camera to then take us into one of the last taboo places in film, the morgue, to show us the bodies piling up in the life of half American/half Italian Simona Sanna (Mimsy Farmer) – this is clearly not the Rome we normally see in movies. Now, you may be wondering what all these bodies have to do with her. . . well, she is a young doctor working on a research project revolving around the difference between suicides and well hidden murders made to look like the former. As you might imagine, it is grave subject matter. . . so much so that she is struggling in her romantic relationship with photographer Riccardo (Ray Lovelock) and is even hallucinating that those dead bodies are coming back to life.

Upon viewing Ad Astra some two years after its initial release, it is not completely surprising that it was a failure at the box office. A film rooted in cinema of the sixties and seventies (you should notice connections to 2001: A Space Odyssey and Apocalypse Now), co-writer and director James Gray (Lost City of Z) takes his time building a familial drama set around space travel. Not the adrenaline rush that was Gravity, nor containing the outward scope of Interstellar, Gray’s story (which he co-wrote with Ethan Gross) looks inward at a man struggling with the bond he has with his father. This man is Roy McBride (Brad Pitt), a successful Major who has always lived in the shadow of his legendary father, H. Clifford McBride (Tommy Lee Jones – perfect casting) – the man to lead the Lima Project to the outer reaches of our solar system (specifically Neptune) to do research on possible extraterrestrial life.

Walking a narrow tightrope between giallo and horror, 1972's Murder Mansion, by then first time director Francisco Lara Polop, pulls from films like The Cat and the Canary (either the 1927 or 1939 edition) and House on Haunted Hill (1959), as well as sources like Agatha Christie’s “And Then There Were None” and maybe even Scooby-Doo, to create a bizarre concoction that mostly works. Opening in a most unexpected way for either a giallo or horror feature, motorcycle meets sports car in a blistering country road race, the former driven by calm, cool, and collected Fred (Andrés Resino), while the latter is floored by cocksure Mr. Porter (Franco Fantasia – talk about a name). Only fueling the fire, sultry fashionista Laura (Lisa Leonardi) is spotted hitchhiking. . . the motorist winning the pick-up over the biker, the chase continuing as they weave in and out of sporadic traffic. . . only for the biker to convince her to join him at their next gas station stop (as Mr. Porter is a tad too handsy).