Paul

(Dir. Greg Mottola, with Simon Pegg, Nick Frost, et. al., 2011)

Right, well it has been a long time since the last post but I feel entirely justified due to the ending of a Master's degree and the beginning of the job-huntin' season. Anyhow, in the interim I had several potential posts that never made it past the embryonic stage due to such varying reasons as the end of their cinema run (Jurassic Park 3D - it was utterly brilliant and more than I could have hoped), or being too Necronomicon-y (Evil Dead, Evil Dead II: Dead by Dawn and the former's remake, all great in their own way and probably deserving of a full post further down the line). However, what I have decided to discuss is a film that, while better than my initial expectations, typifies the reason I started this blog in the first place: Simon Pegg and Nick Frost's homage to classic science fiction, 2011's Paul.

In the same vein as Pegg's previous writing endeavours (though without the stylistic flair of Edgar Wright), Paul is rife with references to Steven Spielberg's sci-fi of the 1980s - most notably E.T. and Close Encounters of the Third Kind - to the point where I was frantically Googling every minor plot point and background detail to check if yes, yes that was just an obscure reference to an ELO album cover (and if it wasn't, please excuse my over-excited brain). So while I did enjoy Paul, and would recommend you see it if you're a huge sci-fi buff, I have a niggling feeling that rather than add flavour to the simple and well-executed premise of two British man-children (Pegg and Frost) having their road trip interrupted by a fugitive alien (Seth Rogen on top, not-too-Rogen-y, form), Paul's furious insistence on homage perhaps makes it somewhat impenetrable and shallow to anyone not well-versed in vintage science fiction.

Pegg and Frost's script is at least well aware of this, and Paul (the alien in question) claims that most of the time since he crash-landed in the 1950s has been spent helping Hollywood to come up with storylines and iron out the characteristics of Spielberg's own aliens (revealed in a cameo from the man himself, and set in a Raiders of the Lost Ark-esque warehouse). In many ways, it would seem that Paul was the archetype for E.T., one of my favourite references being the former's proclivity towards Reeses Pieces, the sweets (not 'candy,' you Yanks) that lure the alien out from hiding in Spielberg's classic - but all I could really see in Paul's character was an almost carbon copy of Roger from Seth MacFarlane's American Dad!, though minus the sheer crudity of Roger's humour. I'm sure Pegg and Frost had no intention of riffing on American Dad!, their pop-culture sights being set much higher, and they revel in inserting minor - and major - nods to their favourite films and TV shows, and so do the actors tasked with delivering them; Michael Bluth Jason Bateman clearly enjoys his chance to mirror Han Solo ('boring conversation anyway...') just as much as Kristen Wiig relishes that line from Aliens (yes, that line - there's no point even bothering to repeat it).

That conveniently brings me on to perhaps my biggest gripe with Paul, which, to be fair, is really my only one, and that is SPOILERS the reveal that Agent Zoil's (Bateman) boss is none other than Sigourney Weaver. Weaver seems to be making a career out of being the big bad boss whose screen-time only consists of the last couple of scenes, and has no real impact except that, oh my god! - it's Sigourney Weaver! Unfortunately, this means that there was no real doubt in my mind that she would turn out to be calling the shots, despite my entire lack of knowledge of the cast apart from Pegg, Frost, and Rogen. The film wouldn't lose much by revealing Weaver's presence right from the get-go; especially as the main twist at the film's climax is that Zoil isn't a baddie after all. Maybe this isn't really a gripe either - maybe I just want a Galaxy Quest sequel...

I'd therefore recommend that you watch as much 1970s and 80s sci-fi as possible before you watch Paul, or at least sandwich a marathon between viewings, to maximise your enjoyment of it. But, on the other hand, this film's audience is not the uninitiated novice, and is clearly intended for Pegg and Frost themselves; the hardcore sci-fi geek who wants to send a love-letter to the films of their childhood. In fact, their references are so dense that I'm sure many could even be red herrings; Zoil's first name is Lorenzo, and I cannot fathom what impact Lorenzo's Oil could possibly have on Paul...

The Call of Cthulhu

By H. P. Lovecraft, first published in Weird Tales February 1928.

(Dir. Andrew Leman, with Matt Foyer, John Bolen, et. al., 2005)

This blog is supposed to illuminate pop culture references in all their various and sundry forms, from cinema to television to literature. It's high time I finally discussed something from that final category, and I'd decided upon H. P. Lovecraft's most well known novella, 'The Call of Cthulhu' before I remembered that there was a little-known film adaptation released by the Howard Phillips Lovecraft Historical Society (HPLHS) in 2005. However, unlike The Shining and Planet of the Apes, HPLHS have such reverence for the source material that their featurette (only clocking in at 45 minutes) strays very little, if at all, from Lovecraft's tale - therefore I'm going to be mainly talking about the novella as it appears in print; if you can't be arsed to read all 30-odd pages of it, go and support the good folks of HPLHS here: http://www.cthulhulives.org/cocmovie.

'The Call of Cthulhu' marks the first major appearance of what would eventually be known popularly as the 'Cthulhu Mythos,' the most enduring success of Lovecraft's catalogue even if the majority of work regarding it has been written after the author's death; Lovecraft himself never saw much in the way of financial success in his own time. This 'mythos' is centred around the 'Great Old Ones,' primordial beings from other worlds and dimensions that have existed since long before the dawn of man, and are godlike to all intents and purposes -of these, Cthulhu is the most prominent in the popular imagination but others, such as Yog-Sothoth, often appear in the more cult-heavy places. The novella itself recounts the story of Francis Thurston as he struggles to solve the mysteries left by the work of his late granduncle, involving several clay bas-reliefs of a monstrous being, and is told through interweaving narratives found as notes and transcripts among Thurstons papers from various sources including Inspector Legrasse of New Orleans, and Norwegian sailor Johansen. Throughout, Thurston attempts to uncover the meaning of the mysterious word Cthulhu and the recurring chant of Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn - eventually leading him to the nightmarish and existentially horrifying discovery that characterises so much of Lovecraft's horror. 

For Lovecraft, the unknown and, crucially, the undefinable and unclassifiable, are the biggest fears one can face at the beginning of the twentieth century, and he uses every weapon in his arsenal to ensure this is conveyed to the reader. The most effective of these is the word Cthulhu itself and the accompanying incomprehensible phrase; despite the 85 years between its original publication and the present, no definitive pronunciation of Lovecraft's guttural gibberish has been decided upon so if you've come here looking for a phonetic treatise, you can go elsewhere (who knows, HPLHS probably have one...). In his later novel At the Mountains of Madness, Lovecraft achieves his climax in this field, with the narrative centered around creatures who seemingly defy any attempt at categorisation and have many different, contradictory descriptions bandied around throughout - leaving them as a shifting, mutable quantity that form the unsettling core of the novel for both the reader and the characters within. 

With this in mind, HPLHS pull off something spectacular with their adaptation, with the extensive use of bizarre camera angles and deep shadows to prevent the audience from ever seeing everything in shot. This comes into its own in the final act of the film, where (as in the novella), Johansen and his crew stumble upon the sunken city of R'lyeh and Cthulhu himself; in the novella, Lovecraft goes to great lengths to describe the impossible architecture of the island and the effect it has on the senses, and in the film clever props and creative use of camera angles allow the characters to fall into chasms where one would expect flat, continuous ground, or run straight through a solid wall. Cthulhu himself, in all his octopus-faced glory, appears only briefly at the film's climax, and is largely seen only in silhouette or through a thick haze, maintaining the sense of the unknown that is so crucial to Lovecraft's vision. This is the pay-off of the creative team's decision to shoot 'The Call of Cthulhu' in what they call 'Mythoscope;' that is, monochrome black-and-white with faithfully old-fashioned soundtrack and captions - all of the digitally aged to give the impression of a film made in the 1920s or 30s, around the time of the novella's original publication. A lack of proper budget means that Cthulhu himself is a stop-motion affair, which gloriously fits the retro atmosphere aspired to by the film-makers and removes any temptation to fully display him naked before the cameras - as a result, he remains a threatening and unclassifiable horror throughout the film, as he appears primarily in the form of grotesque sculptures and carvings revealed to the main characters, recovered from cultists or remembered from dream visions. 

Indeed, I see the popular consciousness' fascination with Cthulhu is his downfall when one returns to the source material - if the impact and effectiveness of his character and horror is upheld by his inability to be defined, every resurgence of the monster in television or film serves to provide us with a definitive image of Cthulhu that negates Lovecraft's wondrous descriptions. In South Park's 2010 triple-bill 'Coon 2: Hindsight / Mysterion Rises / Coon vs. Coon and Friends,' Cthulhu is accidentally summoned from R'lyeh by BP and ultimately proves to be second fiddle to pure evil and malevolence embodied by Cartman, becoming his minion rather than presiding over darkness himself. Here Cthulhu appears as he often does in pop culture, a gargantuan being, green with a tentacle-covered face and wings; while this is the general gist of what Lovecraft describes, the shifting mutability that characterises Lovecraft's Old Ones is missing, negating the existential horror and monstrosity that Cthulhu is supposed to embody. Granted, Trey Parker and Matt Stone are playing Cthulhu up for laughs, but far more interesting depictions exist in fan forums or on DeviantArt (presumably the latter also contains Cthulhu-based porn, so be warned).

Cthulhu and Lovecraft's surrounding mythos are never really the centre of any parody or homage that they appear in these days, but the names of the Old Ones or the Necronomicon (the Book of the Dead referenced or parodied in such diverse places as The Evil Dead, and The Binding of Isaac) are often used as a shorthand for impending catastrophe and horror, and due to the cult nature of Lovecraft's fiction, are likely to remain largely unnoticed by the casual audience. 

Planet of the Apes

(Dir. Franklin J. Schaffner, with Charlton Heston, Roddy McDowall, et. al., 1968)


It is testament to Planet of the Apes enduring relevance to the popular consciousness that it required a very specific Google search to find this poster, and not one that gives away the twist ending. In fact, the cover of my DVD version has it towering over the title and taking up more space than the apes themselves. The disclaimer at the top of the page states (or at least does at the time of writing) that all my articles/reviews are spoiler-heavy, but I can't quite fathom the person who doesn't know that IT WAS EARTH ALL ALONG. The ruined Statue of Liberty on the nuclear-ravaged beach of the distant future is so culturally ingrained that one has no need to fear ruining Ape's ending for someone else.

What isn't known so well is the actual premise of Planet of the Apes and the series that follow it: setting out from earth in 1972 (remember, this is the product of a pre-Apollo 11 world), astronaut Taylor (Charlton Heston) and his crew crash land on an unidentified planet after two thousand years in cryo-sleep. They soon discover that the local wildlife principally comprises dim-witted human-like beings and vicious apes that enslave the human population and hunt them for sport.Taylor and co. fall into the apes' hands, where they are subject to experimentation from the chimpanzees, scientists in a class-based society with orangutan politicians at the top and gorilla soldiers and labourers at the bottom. Zira (Kim Hunter) discovers that Taylor isn't as intellectually and physically stunted as the other humans and, aided by Cornelius (Roddy McDowall), helps Taylor to escape the confines of ape society and the shady machinations of Dr. Zaius (Maurice Evans) - Taylor succeeds and gains his freedom only to learn what Dr. Zaius knew all along; the Planet of the Apes is Earth, destroyed by humans in the distant past. Hinted at in the film and later in the series (and presumably shown in the upcoming Dawn of the Planet of the Apes), twenty-first century society genetically engineered apes to act as slaves until they revolted and overthrew their human overlords, who had grown increasingly sedentary and stupid over the years.

So far, so pulpy '60s sci-fi. What distinguishes Planet of the Apes from most other contemporary science fiction (with notable exceptions such as 2001: A Space Odyssey) is the sheer amount of work that director Franklin J. Schaffner and his team put into making their world as rich, detailed, and, crucially, believable as possible. The ape prosthetics won a well-deserved Oscar and, while not as realistic as those used in the prologue of 2001, they do a tremendous job of conveying the emotions of the actors underneath. Kudos are due to Andy Serkis and his Caesar in Rise of the Planet of the Apes and all the advances and possibilities made available by motion-capture technology, but I have a sneaking suspicion that the apes of the newly rebooted series will lack the emotional depth and physically provided by something so comparatively simply as a latex headpiece. The apes' technology and culture is an intriguing mix of the classical, medieval, and futuristic - gorilla soldiers wield guns, Dr. Zaius is fascinated by archaeology, but cages are constructed from bamboo and there seems to be a total lack of anything more complex than the most basic of machinery. I can't claim to have read the French novel by Pierre Boulle upon which the film was based, but regardless the creators of Planet's universe clearly put a gargantuan amount of effort into fabricating a believable culture for the apes to live in, one they developed themselves upon the last vestiges of human society.

The inherently bizarre premise of the film benefits tremendously from the star power of Charlton Heston, who had already been a Hollywood megastar for the best part of  decade before Planet, thanks to The Ten Commandments (1956) and Ben Hur (1959). Heston chews the plaster scenery with every line he's given, the impact and gravitas of which is maintained through the remarkable lack of dialogue that characterises the first half hour or so, and even afterwards Taylor remains largely mute until one of the film's most quotable lines, given to Tom Felton as an homage in Rise. After forty-five or so years, Heston's closing diatribe against the hubris and destructive nature of Man seems delightfully cheesy, and is remembered in a more dramatic fashion in the public consciousness, much like the big reveal in The Empire Strikes Back, but has lost none of its pertinence or visual and aural whallop, impressing a bleak view on the closing moments of the film that lasts long after the credits have rolled. The likelihood of the world being blown to hell was of course a huge threat in the Cold War-laden atmosphere of the late 1960s, demonstrating sci-fi's ability to reflect the difficulties and problems of the era.

At the risk of referencing the same shows over and over again, I'll echo Trey Parker and Matt Stone's maxim that 'Simpsons did it,' my favourite reference to Planet of the Apes is from episode 7.19, 'A Fish Called Selma' (1996), in which Troy McClure (voiced by the late, great Phil Hartman) appears in a musical based on the film. Words can barely do this scene justice, so here it is in its entirety:

For those of you who have never seen that before, you're welcome.
I could keep counting every time Planet is referred to, but after Troy McClure, there's very little I could add, certainly nothing to top it.

Highlander

(Dir. Russell Mulcahy, with Christopher Lambert, Roxanne Hart et. al., 1986)

Disclaimer: For the purposes of this review, all Highlander's sequels, TV spin-offs, TV reboots, and associated dross are forgotten (but not forgiven) and as little reference to these putrid insults to the human spirit will be made as possible.

I had originally intended to do 2001: A Space Odyssey this time round, but felt more Kubrick would probably give this blog a pretentious film-buff air that, while representing my vanity and wankerish sublimely, is not how I want to come across to other vain, wankery film-buffs. Instead, here's a film that has garnered praise and pure unadulterated hatred in equal measure since its release: Highlander, something I very much adore in spite of its many, many, hilariously many, flaws.

While countless elements of The Shining are parodied and referenced in their own right, for Highlander one need simply know that 'There Can Be Only One!' (preferably bellowed, oversized and/or ridiculously flamboyant sword in hand, while rotoscoped lightning crackles through the frame). Simply put, Connor McLeod (Christopher Lambert) dies in battle against a rival clan in Scotland in 1536 and discovers he is an Immortal, a group of people who are (wait for it) immortal, and can only be truly killed through decapitation. Enter Ramirez (Sean Connery), a kindly and ancient Immortal who teaches Connor the skills necessary to survive 'The Game:' all Immortals are locked in a deadly competition, where the last one alive wins 'The Prize.' Centuries pass, and in 1986 New York Connor finally faces the Kurgan (Clancy Brown) - the Immortal who failed to annihilate him in Scotland - and wins the Prize which, of course, turns out to be mortality. And the power to read minds and influence people, but that's not important.

So, the plot of Highlander is really rather simple, but the director, Russell Mulcahy (of such acclaimed masterpieces as Resident Evil: Extinction and Scorpion King 2), relentlessly thrusts flashbacks at the viewer, slightly complicating MacLeod's story, especially during the last act, when a scene showing a World War Two-era Connor first meeting his assistant Rachel (Sheila Gish) is rashly inserted before the climax, creating a jarring note that provides little to make Connor or Rachel more likeable so late on in the film. Luckily, the crisp and velvety tones of Sean Connery read us a wodge of text before the opening credits, explaining the general concepts of Immortals and the Game a good half hour or so before his physical entrance into the film.

Which brings us on in grand fashion to the quality of the cast. Christopher (or Christophe depending on the market) Lambert has the broodiness required for someone as sullen as MacLeod was clearly written to be, but otherwise he seems an odd choice. A naturalised Frenchman, Lambert can't pull off a Scottish accent for toffee - clearly Mulcahy and co. decided generic 'foreign' and a suitably bizarre and off-hand remark in the film that Connor is form 'lotsa places' would suffice to gloss over this particular howler. Vocal qualities continue to provide a riot as Connery's Juan Sanchez Villa-Lobos Ramirez is (let me get this right) an ancient Egyptian who has wound up living in Spain for the last few centuries who, and why wouldn't he, sounds like Sean Connery in every bloody role ever. Why they cast a genuine Scot who can't/refuses to do other accents against a Frenchman who can't do Scots defies me, but the two have a genuine chemistry on screen that makes their shared scenes among the very best in the film. Connery's uber-tanned, flamboyant attitude brings humour to Highlander, and is sorely missed after Ramirez meets his end at the hands of the Kurgan. Clancy Brown, awesome as ever though for me always slighty Mr. Crabs-esque, is utterly unhinged and gets the second-best costumes of the film (behind Connery, obviously). The Kurgan is the typical action-movie villain of the late 80s and early 90s; huge, mental, and has an odd name/title, which a cursory Google search tells me is something to do with Mongolia.

Highlander, as I've already said, isn't referenced wholesale in pop culture as one could expect; other than Robot Chicken's 'There Can Only Be One Lohan' sketch (episode 2.24), the iconic yell made by every Immortal upon killing another is near-ubiquitous, and without the surrounding framework the reference to Highlander can often be missed. If you don't fancy watching the whole film just so you'll find yourself doing the same thing whenever it seems appropriate in your day-to-day life - and it is perhaps too often: two people fighting over an almond croissant? THERE CAN BE ONLY ONE - do so for the absolutely smashing soundtrack by Queen. Featuring entirely (bar one) original songs including masterpieces 'I Want It All' and 'A Kind of Magic,' Freddie and the band help to give Highlander the deliciously pulpy feel that I reckon Mulcahy was going for all along. At times it's hard to see how tongue-in-cheek or serious the film was intended to be (I put this down almost entirely to Lambert's poor performance), but Connery, Brown, and Queen elevate the film to something I truly love - hilariously cliched in its own right, wilfully ignorant of common sense, and a whole barrel of fun.

[Edit 18/08/2013: Changed original kick-ass poster to something less awesome, but that actually shows up]

The Shining

(Dir. Stanley Kubrick, with Jack Nicholson, Shelley Duvall, et. al. 1980)




'HEEEEEEERE'S JOHNNY!'

My descent into pop culture begins with this Kubrick classic because of the tremendous parody in The Simpsons' Treehouse of Horror V (1994): 'The Shinning' - my favourite of all the Treehouse of Horror skits, and the whole episode is in my opinion only beaten to the punch of 'greatest Simpsons episode of all time' by 1996's 'You Only Live Twice,' a triumph of supervillainy in smart-casual. In itself 'The Shinning' is perhaps the best parody I have ever seen and first piqued my curiosity to really understand and explore the source material, and, suffice to say, when I finally saw The Shining in 2007 I was blown away by the exactitude of the Simpsons' tone, artistry, and mimicry of the plot.

Whether you've seen the film itself or not, the basic premise and denouement of The Shining is - much like Planet of the Apes (the subject of a future post) - ingrained in popular culture and needs little recounting here. Needless to say, Jack Torrance (Jack Nicholson) is hired as caretaker of the sinister Overlook Hotel while it is cut off from civilisation during the long winter, with his wife Wendy (Shelley Duvall) and young, disturbed, son Danny (Danny Lloyd) in tow. Based on the novel by Stephen King (though differing in major plot points and character motivations), Jack slowly devolves into madness while Danny's telepathic 'shining' abilities develop and Wendy screams. A lot. Throughout. The film culminates with a deranged Jack chasing Danny through a snow-caked maze only to succumb to the cold as his son and wife escape the hotel grounds to (presumed) safety.

The Simpsons' parody is executed almost flawlessly, from the quite frankly terrifying musical cues announcing the chapter changes and days of the week (for me, TUESDAY is The Shining's most heart-stopping moment) to the famously kitsch carpets of the hotel's corridors, everything receives due respect from the writers and artists despite gaining the classic Simpsons twist. Personal favourites include Homer/Jack's confrontation with Marge/Wendy on the staircase ('Gimme the bat Marge, gimme the bat, gimme the bat-bat-booooouuuu!') and Mr. Burns' apathy towards the haunted elevator ('That's odd: the blood usually gets off on the third floor'), although the sheer amount of quality parody in the episode boggles the mind and is an absolute riot from start to finish.

I've harped on about 'The Shinning,' and this is mainly due to the staggering way a mere six minutes of television can so perfectly encapsulate an entire film so iconic as The Shining as it does, as well as offering its own take on the source material. Of course, the film is referenced significantly less explicitly elsewhere: to name a few, in the first episode of Spaced (a criminally under-watched sitcom from the late '90s written by and starring a young Simon Pegg and Jessica Hynes (nee Stevenson)), 'Beginnings' (1999), a pair of twins appear inside a closet much to Tim and Daisy's horror, evoking the image of the butchered twins in the hallway of the Overlook Hotel that Danny stumbles upon. Community's ' 'Biology 101' (2011) depicts Jeff's transformation into a plaid-shirted, extinguisher-frosted madman who attacks the study-group's table with a fireaxe in homage to Jack Torrance's final rampage; Community in many ways is a spiritual successor to Spaced in that so many of its episodes are structured around parody or homage to the point where a failure to recognise the source material can leave the audience flummoxed, unfortunately this aspect was rather lost during season 4 (2013) after the firing of Dan Harmon (here's hoping he can restore season 5 to glory!).

In the film itself, Jack Nicholson deservedly gained a place in pop culture from his subtle (later not-so-subtle) portrayal of Jack Torrance's mental instability, and the immortal line 'Here's Johnny!' while itself a reference to Johnny Carson on US television is a violent assault on the general eeriness and quiet of the film's atmosphere. Admittedly, Shelley Duvall's performance is less striking due to Wendy's role largely consisting of wailing and lacklustre attempts at wielding a kitchen knife, but complements Nicholson superbly in its hyperbole. Danny Torrance remains one of the most chilling children ever to inhabit the silver screen, and the iconic (a word that can be used of almost any moment in The Shining) revelation of 'redrum' and the nature of 'Tony,' the man who lives in Danny's finger, is more disturbing than it is scary, as was surely Kubrick's intention.

The Shining is rightfully a cinema classic, cementing Jack Nicholson as the go-to mentally unhinged character actor and adding to Stanley Kubrick's fantastic oeuvre -one can safely speculate that some of Duvall's tears are due to working with the notoriously exact director - and deserves its place in the public consciousness (truly, I knew even the minutiae of the plot from 'The Shinning'), but in order to fully appreciate the artistry of such references, I urge you to watch The Shining for yourself - you'll never see a hotel corridor the same way again.

[Edit 21/09/2013: Changed image as the previous one had gone haywire]