ROSEMARY'S BABY - Review By Greg Klymkiw - CHRISTMAS GIFT IDEA FOR 2012 #1 - Criterion Collection Director Approved Blu-Ray & DVD

Abe Sapirstein Says:

"This Xmas, HAIL SATAN!

Give the gift that keeps on giving."

Here's your Greg Klymkiw Christmas Gift Suggestion #1 for 2012. Everyone you love will deserve this special treat to celebrate the birth of Jesus H. Christ, Our Lord. It's the magnificent Criterion Collection - Director Approved Blu-Ray (or, if you must, DVD) of Roman Polanski's masterpiece of utter horror, "Rosemary's Baby, brought to you with an all-new, restored digital transfer, that's been approved by director Roman Polanski, with (my favourite) an uncompressed monaural soundtrack. Add the following delectables: a new doc with interviews featuring Polanski, Mia Farrow and Robert Evans; an interview with the author of the bestselling novel the movie is based on, Ira Levin; "Komeda, Komeda", a feature-length doc on the life and work of Krzysztof Komeda, who wrote the chilling score for everyone's favourite cinematic buffet of Satan; A nifty booklet featuring an essay by Ed Park; Levin’s afterword to the 2003 New American Library edition of his novel; and Levin’s rare, unpublished character sketches of the Woodhouses and floor plan of their apartment, created in preparation for the novel.

Can it possibly get any better than this to commemorate Our Lord Baby Jesus being expunged from the virgin loins of Mother Mary? You bet it doesn't. This is the gift that keeps on giving, so give it with love to those you love.

Rosemary's Baby (1968) *****
dir. Roman Polanski
Starring: Mia Farrow, John Cassavetes, Ruth Gordon, Maurice Evans, Sidney Blackmer, Ralph Bellamy, Charles Grodin, Elisha Cook Jr.

Review By Greg Klymkiw

We've all had neighbours, friends, family and/or mere acquaintances who - no matter how well intentioned - just suck the life right out of you. Their ubiquitous presence and meddling (disguised as a helping hand) gets to a point where you just don't want to answer the door or telephone, or in this day and age, go online. In fact, you sometimes even contemplate killing these loathsome, hematophagous hirudinean parasites. And make no mistake, they come in all shapes, sizes and persuasions. Some of them might even worship - yup, you guessed it - Satan!

I must frankly admit I've always had a soft spot for devil worship.

In the movies, that is.

The cult aspect of devil worship is what's probably the most frightening. Val Lewton's The Seventh Victim is probably the first great horror movie to deal with the evil of cults and the insidious way they target their prospective members/victims, then suck them dry. Also great fun is The Devil Rides Out, that great Hammer Horror picture directed by Terence Fisher and starring Christopher Lee as the Satanist-battling hero and Charles Gray (the expert criminologist from The Rocky Horror Picture Show and Ernst Stavros Bloefeld, 007's nemesis in Diamonds Are Forever) as the perverse, evil devil worshipper who's into sacrificing any number of buxom beauties to his Lord and Master. And, of course, nobody in their right mind could ever forget Warren Oates and Peter Fonda in Jack Starret's brilliant and sadly unsung Race With The Devil wherein our heroes try to outrun Satanists in their (I kid you not!) Winnebago.

In the cinematic devil worship sweepstakes, nothing quite beats Roman Polanski's classic big-screen adaptation of Ira Levin's compulsive best-selling novel Rosemary's Baby. Produced by veteran horror director and producer William Castle, this movie was one of the biggest hits of the late 60s and has remained, for over forty years, one of the truly great horror thrillers of all time. A recent helping of the picture confirmed that it's still as terrific as it always was.

Opening under the strains of Krzysztof Komeda's score under ace cinematographer William Fraker's overhead shots of Manhattan, Rosemary's Baby immediately grips you with its off-kilter lullaby to a dead baby (as composed by Erik Satie in a REALLY foul mood) and featuring vocals more at home in an Oil of Olay commercial. The music plays over shots that make New York feel less like a bustling modern metropolis, but rather, some baroque, almost decrepit old world labyrinth of brick - adorned with turrets and rusting water towers.

The camera eventually settles above a gorgeous 19th century building and we soon focus our attention on a newlywed couple, Rosemary and Guy Woodhouse (Mia Farrow and John Cassavetes) who are about to be shown an apartment by the friendly, but slightly weasel-like caretaker (Elisha Cook Jr.). Of course Rosemary adores it, though Guy displays some trepidation over the rent - he's a struggling actor getting by on the occasional TV commercial and off-off-off-Broadway theatrical piece.

Soon they settle into their new home. A series of odd discoveries and strange noises are noted, but not fretted over too much. What there IS to fret about are their neighbours, a childless old couple, Minnie and Roman Castavet (Ruth Gordon and Sidney Blackmer). They seem friendly enough, but insinuate themselves immediately upon the couple - borrowing cups of sugar, endless dinner invitations, dropping by unannounced, recommending (rather insistently) all sorts of things that are really none of their business. Though it drives Rosemary bonkers, her hubby Guy is eating it up and spending all his free time with these batty old people.

A series of tragedies occur. A young woman jumps from the top of the building. Guy loses an important audition, but within days, he finds out that the actor who got the role instead of him has gone mysteriously blind. An old family friend (Maurice Evans) suffers a massive stroke.

Then Rosemary's dreams begin - nightmares, really. An especially horrific dream occurs when Guy purportedly has sex with her when she passes out.

And then she gets pregnant. All should be well. Guy has been offered the role he initially lost. His star begins to rise. The Castavets, with Guy's eager approval insist Rosemary switch doctors and send her to their old friend Abe Sapirstein (Ralph Bellamy), one of the most respected family doctors in the country.

Rosemary, however, is not happy. They've drifted away from every friend who was their contemporary. They are spending endless social evenings with the Castavets, Sapirstein and a whole bunch of old people. Worst of all, Rosemary is getting weaker and sicker with each passing day. Instead of gaining weight, she becomes anorexically skinny. The baby inside of her feels dead. Dr. Sapirstein keeps insisting nothing's wrong and she's forced to ingest a putrid herbal drink that Minnie Castavet prepares under the doctor's orders.

Oh, and then, there's the chanting. Every night. From the apartment of the Castavets.

Clues and research yield to the inevitability that everyone in Rosemary's life is a Satanist and that her baby is being groomed - not for life, but for sacrifice.

Or so Rosemary believes.

Sacrifice would be a blessing.

What's in store for her baby is a lot worse.

As Polanski has almost become the final word in thrillers infused with paranoia, Rosemary's Baby oozes creepy portent and when things get serious, the movie is unbearably scary. Polanski delivers a measured, slowly mounting sense of dread. When the terror shifts into fuel-injected overdrive, few thrillers can only hope to be even a fraction of this picture in terms of pure, unadulterated horror.

Every performance in this movie is a gem. Mia Farrow is suitably gamine and vulnerable, but where she really shines are those moments when WE know she's not crazy, but everyone (other than the Satanists) think she's completely bonkers. Cassavetes as her hubby, oozes slime - almost from the beginning, really. Where he really knocks the ball out of the park are those moments when he displays revulsion at the mere thought of having to touch his wife after she's pregnant. He's almost more frightening than the true evil all around her. Coming close to stealing the movie, however, is former golden age comedy star Ralph Bellamy as the kindly (on the surface) Abe Sapirstein. As the movie progresses, he seldom lets down his guise as the helpful family doctor - he plays it so straight that we begin to suspect he's deeply in cahoots with the Satanists. Some of his advice to Rosemary is so ludicrous in light of what WE see happening to her and what she herself feels, that he becomes the most malevolent of all the movie's antagonists. Bellamy's performance is so astonishing that it might be hard to trust any kindly old G.P. who's coming at you with a hypodermic.

(Oh, and as a sidenote: ABE SAPIRSTEIN!!! Is this not a GREAT character name? All the character names novelist Ira Levin conjured are brilliant, but "Abe Sapirstein" takes the cake big time!)

Rosemary's Baby is as close to perfection as any movie can come - every detail, every dramatic beat, every shudder-inducing moment and every knock-you-on-your-ass horror set piece is proof-positive of Polanski's genius. His work in Rosemary's Baby reminds me of that great speech Violet Venable gives in Tennessee Williams's "Suddenly Last Summer" when she describes her trip to the Encantadas and focuses on the "hatching of the great sea turtles and their race to the sea" and how the "flesh-eating birds ...hovered and swooped to attack" until finally, they turn over the newborn sea turtles in order to "attack their soft undersides, tearing their undersides open and rending and eating their flesh."

This is Polanski in a nutshell. He's the consummate filmmaker and as such, is a predator - rending and eating the flesh of his characters AND the audience.

In Rosemary's Baby, he takes the commonplace and slowly, creepily and nastily drags both his heroine and the audience through a bed of glowing hot coals. It's often the quiet that's so unsettling. When the quiet yields - ever so rarely, but effectively, to shrill, shrieking and almost unspeakable horror - you know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that you're under the spell of a master.

Hail Cinema!

Hail Polanski!

Hail Satan!

CITADEL - Review By Greg Klymkiw - Brilliant, Terrifying First Feature Opens Theatrically in Canada via Mongrel Media

CITADEL: The fears of the disenfranchised (which indeed could be all our fears) drive this creepy and terrifying dystopian shocker .

Citadel (2012) ****
dir. Ciaran Foy
Starring: Aneurin Barnard, Wunmi Mosaku, James Cosmo, Jake Wilson

Review By Greg Klymkiw

I always wondered if I would be able to offer safety and protection to those I love if confronted with the need to choose physical violence. Being an ex-cop/ex-athlete's son, I received plenty of dirty pugilistic tactics in those halcyon days when folks didn't bat an eye over playground scuffles. I eventually put Dad's counsel to use on a particularly vile bully. It worked so well that my opponent's face was exquisitely rearranged and from that point on, nobody, I mean NOBODY, ever bothered me again. I knew I was able to employ similar techniques if it ever happened again and went through life with no worries. But that's ME. What could/would happen if I needed to protect someone else? Could/would I be able to do it again? Would it be different? Worse yet, what if I was not able to deliver the goods? That's very scary. That, I can assure you.

This is a key element permeating Ciaran Foy's stunning feature film Citadel.

READ MY FULL REVIEW PUBLISHED DURING THE TORONTO AFTER DARK FILM FESTIVAL 2012 HERE

SKYFALL - Review By Greg Klymkiw - Daisy Chain o' Mother-Love from Sam "I'm from the thay-uh-tuh" Mendes

I dare you to not puke whilst imagining
Daniel Craig, Javier Bardem, Albert Finney and Judi Dench
locked in a daisy chain of triple penetration love.

Javier Bardem
has just sucked a palate-cleansing lemon
after an especially funky muff-dive on Judi Dench.

Skyfall (2012) dir. Sam Mendes *
Starring: Daniel Craig, Judi Dench, Javier Bardem, Albert Finney, Ralph Fiennes

Review By Greg Klymkiw


Skyfall stinks.

I'm not being a knee-jerk naysayer on this. I wanted very much to love (or at least enjoy) Skyfall in spite of the fact that Sam Mendes is one of the most criminally overrated filmmakers working in contemporary cinema. (I also think Craig's inaugural outing in Casino Royale was terrific all round.)

Surely, I thought, it couldn't be worse than Daniel Craig's second outing as 007. After all, Quantum of Solace (one of the stupidest movie titles of all time) was unconscionably dirge-like in its portentous, scattershot seriousness. As well, the picture was saddled with an incomprehensible muddle-puddle of a script that gorged itself on a surfeit of unfathomable expositional detail that served to explain nothing (at least not to the audience, but probably allowed its boneheaded makers to think they knew precisely what story they were telling).

The narrative landfill site purporting to be a screenplay egregiously drew far too much attention to the film's utter incompetence.

The added bonbons de merde included the following:

1. Horrendously directed action scenes.

2. A Bond girl infused with so much doom and gloom they might rather have cast Carol Burnett being force-fed a few bucket-loads of gin cocktails laced with a variety of benzodiazepines instead of Olga Kurylenko, one of the most beautiful women in the world and a decent actress to boot.

3. Poor Daniel Craig didn't appear to know what movie he was in. Then again, neither did we - save for the almost surgically-grafted dour expression of lemon-sucking on Craig's handsome face to tell us Bond was either in a foul mood and/or constipated.

Is Skyfall worse?

No, but it turns out that Craig's third go-round in the franchise is a mere pubic hair or two better than the woeful Marc Forster directed (if you can call it direction) Quantum of Bunged-Up Waste Matter.

The Sam Mendes abomination has an overall bludgeoning effect that gracelessly pummels its audience into submission which surely accounts (at least partially) for the rapturous reception it's received from both audiences and film reviewers. The other "accounting" for it's popularity is, sadly, of the "no accounting" for bad taste variety.

Mendes is not only an overrated director, he's a magician, though not the kind that creates screen magic, but the sort who truly bamboozles audiences (and, sadly, reviewers) into thinking he's good. He's a poseur of the highest order.

The flashy, fake razzle-dazzle he employed on American Beauty fooled many, but it didn't fool all of us. Whilst camera jockeying the Alan Ball screenplay, he successfully rendered kiddie porn disguised by Edward-Albee-Lite-decimating-the-suburbs. It fooled many, including a lot of people who really should know better.

Later, Mendes managed to bollox-up the fake Neo-noir of Road to Perdition so badly that even Paul Newman was boringly unable to pinch anything resembling a loaf. And please, don't get me started on the abominable Revolutionary Road wherein Mendes completely misread the great book it was based on, playing everything at a fake pitch of hysteria rather the the cold, truthful and devastating manner it should have been played at.

So here we've got a fake being handed the keys to the James Bond kingdom and he's predictably loused it up. The worst sin Mendes commits is not being able to direct action. He's so inept here, the producers might as well have doled out the reins to Blind Pew.

The first two minutes aren't bad.

Mendes cranks up his trademark pseudo-noir as Bond, silhouetted against the blazing sun of an open doorway, slowly enters a long hallway until a patch of light reveals Daniel Craig's baby blues. He discovers a colleague in peril and risks precious seconds of going-after-the-villain-time to tend to him.

And then, the picture goes to hell as Bond goes after the bad guy and we're treated to a Sam Mendes-styled impersonation of Paul Greengrass. The entire opening action sequence has little sense of spatial geography, far too many closeups, a ridiculous number of cuts and only a handful of wide shots to take in the action. Car chase, motorcycle chase, foot chase and finally, spectacular leaps onto the top of a moving train do little more than exhaust us. Mendes essentially cudgels us into submission.

This isn't suspense, nor is it especially exciting. It's cacophony, pure and simple. Once again, we have an action sequence in a contemporary film that fakes its way through - driving the action NOT with dramatic beats, but with sledgehammer cuts. None of them are especially elegant. Always the sign of a director who can't direct action, the cuts seem driven by explosive and/or grating, screeching sound.

During the car chase sequence we never get a clean exterior shot of the car that Bond and Moneypenny are in. (Yes, Moneypenny is a hot young operative in the field.) Mendes peppers the chase with closeups of things the car smashes into from interior POVs, but we never get a sense of the real danger, destruction and urgency.

It's all bluster.

If we must, let us compare this to the chase scenes in William Friedkin's The French Connection or Peter Yates's Bullitt which, as DRAMATIC sequences are imbued with a three-act structure, genuine ebbs and flows, plus, most importantly, a sense of the environment that the cars are careening through. The urgency is very real.

Not so in Skyfall. It's just a sloppy throw-as-much-shit-at-the-audience-and-see-if-anything-sticks hodgepodge rendering poor Roger Deakins's cinematography to little more than a patchwork quilt.

After seeing Skyfall, I randomly selected two Bond pictures from the "Golden Age". One was Diamonds Are Forever and the other was Live and Let Die. In the former I watched and marvelled at the skill and bravado during the spectacular car chase through downtown Las Vegas and in the latter, had to gasp for air several times during the utterly insane boat chase through Louisiana cracker country. Again, like Friedkin and Yates, the action sequences made perfect spatial sense, lots of breathtaking wide shots and ONLY punched in for medium and close shots when necessary to the story.

Alas, Mendes (like Marc Forster before him) is not only inept, but one senses an inherent sense of snobbery and/or slumming during all the action scenes. Only once does Mendes ALMOST get things right during a spectacularly choreographed hand-to-hand fight, gorgeously captured by the beleaguered Deakins in silhouette.

What does Mendes do? What any talentless man of the they-uh-tuhr might do when having to direct mere action scenes. He ends it too quickly for more sloppy closeups, herky-jerky movement and wham-bam-thank-you-m'am cutting for the ADHD-afflicted.

Mendes isn't interested in action. He's more interested in the pseudo-Freudian implications of the tale. The villain, played mincingly, prancingly and annoyingly by he of the bad hair, Javier Bardem, is a former MI6 agent gone rogue and looking to get revenge upon M (Judi Dench) for abandoning him during an operation gone awry. Bond too has similar issues with M. He believes she sacrificed him during the climax of the opening action scene.

And here's the rub, both Bond and Bardem, it turns out, are… wait for it… are you seated?

They're both fucking orphans and M is their surrogate Mummy-kins who betrayed both of them. Oh, they're so sensitive, such delicate "New Men" are these paragons of anti-macho-hood.

Basically, they're big sissy whiny-pants.

The movie is replete with gorgeous Bond girls, but Mendes lavishes his real attention upon Judi Dench.

Judi Dench???

Fine actress, but I'm sorry, she's, uh, old. And worst of all, M is ultimately a crusty twixt the thighs buzzard - a pursed-lipped dowager.

Whom does Bond really want to fuck in this movie? Well, as he seems to show only a passing interest in the ladies, it seems that ideally he'd be well suited to a bit of corn-hole frolics with Javier Bardem (and vice-versa), but what the entire movie seems to boil down to is this:

Bond and Bardem might WANT to fuck each other, but what they really desire is to fuck their mother - M, the oldest Bond Girl in recorded history. In fact, if they weren't on such opposite ends of the law, they might even be suited to some double-penetration action with Dame Judi.

Does this not sicken you?

In the least?

Well, if that didn't quite do it, how about the interminable climax in Scotland with Albert Finney chewing up the scenery as Kincade the Groundskeeper of Bond's family estate Skyfall?

The movie stoops so low as to have Finney blow apart a few bad guys with his trusty hunting rifle and utter, with a chortle and a gruff brogue, no less: "Welcome to Scotland!"

At this point, the even more sickening image of Daniel Craig, Javier Bardem AND Albert Finney drilling Judi Dench's primary orifices of love began to creep into my brain and I gave up. Only Sam Mendes is capable of putting such dirty pictures in my brain. I almost want to applaud him, but think better upon it as I reach for a paper bag to wretch into.

I think, after seeing Skyfall, I shall never again be the same.

Thanks, Sam!

"Skyfall" is in wide release world wide from Sony Pictures.

THE WORLD BEFORE HER - Review By Greg Klymkiw

Award-winning doc The World Before Her opens theatrically

The World Before Her (2012) ****
dir.Nisha Pahuja


Review By Greg Klymkiw

Enrolled in a Hindu camp for women, Prachi icily declares that she'll kill (in self-defence) anyone who's against her religion.

"I am not a Gandhi supporter," she asserts from within this camp devoted to Hindu fundamentalism. "Frankly, I hate Gandhi."

Nineteen drop-dead gorgeous participants in the Miss India Pageant prep for a Bombay Times cover shot. "Oomph factor" is everything. "The look is sexy," says their coach. "Not bitchy."

What, then, is the future for the young women of modern India?

Is it adherence to thousands of years of subservient tradition or finding success through beauty? Is it deepening their love for the Hindu religion through rigorous paramilitary training or maintaining their ties to religion and culture while engaging in the exploitation of their sexuality? The chasm between these two polar opposites couldn't be wider and yet, as we discover in Nisha Pahuja's extraordinary and compelling documentary feature The World Before Her, the differences are often skin deep as parallel lines clearly exist beneath the surface.

All of this makes for one lollapalooza of a movie! Vibrant, incisive, penetrating and supremely entertaining, director Pahuja and her crackerjack team deliver one terrific picture - a genuine corker!

Seamlessly, and at times breathtakingly, we shift back and forth between the contestants of the Miss India Pageant training tirelessly within the walls of an urban Novotel for their shot at fame and fortune and the life of Prachi, firmly committed to a career - as she likes to call it - of serving her God, country and culture and preparing in the rural splendour of the Durgha Vahini training camp for young women.

Both groups of women must submit to the rigours of near-castigatory physical activity - albeit very different forms of it. Prachi learns the art of self defence - how to break a man's arm, how to stave off a knife thrust and turn the weapon against her opponent. The beauty contestants engage in punishing exercise regimens, not unlike the U.S. Marine-like maneuvers the Durgha Vahini women go through and are drilled in movement and precision: how to stand, how to walk. What our fundamentalists-in-training don't have to put up with are the hours of beauty makeovers - the most appalling of which are the burning sensations inflicted upon the beauty-queens-in-training during skin-lightening treatments. Ugh! As a fella, I even cringe at the thought of waxing.

For me, however, perhaps the most phenomenal footage in the entire movie are the differences in the relationships the two sets of women have with their parents. The mother and father of one beauty queen contestant are both so open, liberal, supportive and intelligent that their belief and pride in their daughter is deeply moving.

Prachi, on the other hand, is another story. Whenever her father opened his mouth my jaw kept thudding to the floor with such force and frequency, that if metaphor morphed into reality, I'd need to have major dental and periodontal surgery to restore it back into place.

Anyone who does to their kid what this guy does is an asshole. Yeah, yeah, yeah - it's a cultural thing! Big deal! Besides, a Hindu Holy Man I know had bestowed upon me the gift of an English translation of Hindu religious writings and I might be blind, but I sure don't remember anything in there like the following:

Prachi's evil clown of a father is seen sitting cross-legged, often with a smile on his face and his eyes raging with the fires of fundamentalism as he describes how he has been regularly beating his daughter for years in order to teach her right from wrong. Astoundingly, he admits that if his daughter had to engage in a Holy War and die for her religion, he'd be both happy and proud. He even infers that it would be okay in his books if his treatment was mirrored by a future husband.

When he proudly declares how he cured his daughter at age 12 from ever lying to him again, I came close to losing it completely. Daddy Dearest took a red hot iron from the coals and seared the flesh of his daughter's foot so that: (a) it would take weeks to heal and that every time she limped in pain, she'd remember how naughty it was to lie and (b) that the scar would be a constant reminder of her indiscretion.

I reiterate, my pal of the Hindu Holy Man persuasion, a respected Pandit (or as we often refer to him, Panditji) wished to provide me with a first-rate source of Hindu teachings and philosophies and after seeing The World Before Her, I scoured it religiously (so to speak) to find something resembling the idiocies spouted above.

Nada.

Sadly, when Prachi is interviewed about these events, she seems totally at ease with this - going so far as to blithely admit she prefers her Dad punching rather than slapping her since she's able to withstand the pain from the former and not the latter.

It must be all the military training she gets in the female terrorist camp.

As if I wasn't agog enough, Prachi admits that her father DESERVES to beat her because he let her live when she was born. You see, he considered murdering her as she was female, not male.

The film relates the stomach turning statistic that one million female babies in India are murdered every year due to the fact that male children are preferred. They're bread-winners. Women are, uh, parasites who need to be married off. Beyond some basic servitude, it seems they don't offer much anything else of value.

You know, I might have missed something, or maybe the English translation was off, but AGAIN, I really don't remember reading ANYTHING in the Hindu Holy Writings about murdering one's newborn daughter.

This is barbaric.

Prachi's story both parallels and contrasts wildly with the story of one beauty queen referred to in the film. Her mother was so disgusted that her husband wanted to murder their newborn daughter that she left him. The result, a beautiful, intelligent young lady who went on to claim the crown of Miss World India.

I have a few choice descriptive epithets for fathers like the aforementioned, but I'll allow my usual restraint in such matters to refrain from citing them here.

The bottom line is that The World Before Her is must-see viewing for everyone - men, women, sons, daughters - of all races, cultures, traditions and religions. My 11-year-old daughter watched the movie with me and I can't begin to express how profoundly it affected and touched her.

Even more extraordinary were her observations that: (a) the beauty pageant contestants were also beholden to men the way the "old-fashioned" women were and (b) that both sets of women were making their own choices in spite of being in a world where others want to make choices for them.

You know, I couldn't have said it better myself.

This is a revised review that appeared during the 2012 edition of the Hot Docs film festival. "The World Before Her" is now playing theatrically at the Bloor Hot Docs Cinema via Kino-Smith before rolling out on a platform release across Canada. For tickets and info visit the theatre's website HERE.

PUTIN'S KISS - Review By Greg Klymkiw - Love, Russian Style

Doc earns marks for sticking with its subject for four years, but ultimately feels like it's been overly contrived to present a full narrative arc for a young, beautiful former poster child for "Nashi", a Russian Hitler-Youth-styled group devoted to the glories of Vladimir Putin, Russia's most vile ruler since Josef Stalin.

Putin's Kiss (2012) **1/2
dir. Lise Burke Pedersen

Review By Greg Klymkiw

Russia has almost always been ruled by thugs. Call them Czars, Communists, Dictators, Stalin or the Mob. They're one and the same.

Other than the Butcher Josef Stalin, there is no greater gangster to have taken the helm of the Russian Motherland than Vladimir Putin. Whereas relatively recent rulers like Mikhail Gorbachov and, to a certain extent, Boris Yeltsin, both worked towards democratizing the Soviet Union during the transition from Communism to the post-communist era; addressing the economy, allowing for freedoms of the press and cultural expression and forging greater ties with the west, Putin has instituted a reign of insular Totalitarian nationalism (masked as democracy) and a subtle, insidious return to Soviet-styled colonization of free states (Ukraine being the prominent example).

Out of Putin's thug rule was born the Hitler-Youth-Styled group called Nashi which has been an overwhelming force in extolling the glories of Putin, the superiority of Russian purity, a perverse form of Manifest Destiny (Russian Style, of course), the restoration of Russia as a dominant Eastern world power, the rejection of Western influence and among other heinous activities, spying on rival movements, instigating hooliganism within rival events, not tolerating any criticism of Putin and by extension, the suppression of a free press.

Pure and simple, this is a movement designed to instil the same dangerous nationalism amongst Russian youth and future generations of the Motherland that will, no doubt, see a return to the Stalinist-style terrors of forced Russification in vulnerable states on its borders, colonial control over independent countries like Ukraine, purges and genocides (like those that led) to the extinction of millions of people, the suppression of free thought, a free press and any cultural expression that is NOT Russian and/or toting the thuggery of the Putin line.

In fact, the Nashi movement (the English translation of the word is "OURS!", exclamation mark included) was formed in response to the "Orange Revolution" in Ukraine that resulted in the eventual election of Victor Yuschenko (after his poisoning at the hands of Russian thugs) and briefly scuttling Putin's attempts to place one if its puppets, Viktor Yanukovych in control of the former "colony" of Russia.

Nashi, has recently undergone organizational difficulties, but prior to its current state, the Motherland's Hitler Youth held a huge rally around the Ukrainian embassy in Moscow to congratulate Putin's right-hand thug in Ukraine, Viktor Yanukovych, who imprisoned all his political rivals on trumped-up charges (including Yulia Tymoshenko) and finally stepped into the leadership role after a series of fixed elections.

Lise Burke Pederson's feature documentary Putin's Kiss is a worthwhile effort that examines the phenomenon of Nashi through the eyes of one of its most loyal followers, Masha Drokova, the dynamic young poster child of Russian Youth who became a sensation after receiving a public smooch from Putin himself. Pederson had the means and tenacity to follow Drokova for four years and charted her idealistic beginnings, her rise to power (including a whole whack of perks from the Putin purse-strings), her rivalries with anything or anyone even vaguely anti-Putin and eventually entering into a tentative friendship with Oleg Kashin, a virulent anti-Putin writer. When Kashin is brutally assaulted and left for dead by Nashi thugs, Drokova begins to re-evaluate the man and the movement that was once her very lifeblood.

One can see why Pederson was drawn to following Drokova - she's smart, lively and gorgeous. The camera loves her. What made Drokova valuable to the likes of Putin and Nashi is pretty much the same thing that made her a compelling subject for Pederson's documentary eye.

Alas, what is of value initially, also becomes a flaw the movie doesn't quite recover from. Drokova's appeal is ultimately skin-deep and her rivalry and eventual friendship with the journalist Kashin signals a shift in the picture. At first, it's a welcome one, both narratively and politically, but it becomes clear that Kashin is probably a far more interesting and intelligent subject. While he is not imbued with the strength of a narrative arc as defined as Drokova's (he begins anti-Putin, continues to be anti-Putin and remains anti-Putin), his commitment and intelligence overwhelms the film's primary subject and by keeping its focus on Drokova, the movie feels like it's spinning its wheels.

In fact, Drokova comes across as an actress - a personality born to work the camera. Her gradual change feels false - as if manipulated by the filmmakers, or worse, as if she decides to control this shift herself for the benefit of the cameras. The latter might have been interesting, but it never feels like something Pederson is consciously aware of and/or interested in pursuing.

The movie is ultimately disjointed and unintentionally disingenuous. It's not without revealing moments of yet another shameful period of Russian history, but by its conclusion, one feels cheated with what appears to be an obvious manipulation and somewhat empty-bellied from a mere taste of far more interesting subject matter than the film ultimately delivers on.

The movie would want us to believe it is the story of a woman succumbing to Russian patriarchy and eventually breaking free of the shackles to be her own person.

As in life, however, wanting to believe in something can often be a bigger falsehood than wanting to believe in nothing at all.

"Putin's Kiss" is part of the Hot Docs subscription series "Doc Soup" at the Bloor Hot Docs Cinema. For more info, visit the cinema's website HERE.

Ocean's Eleven - Blu-Ray Review By Greg Klymkiw - Oozing with Post-War Ennui, Lewis Milestone's Ultra-Cool 1960 Rat Pack Original Blows Slick Soderbergh Remake to Smithereens!!!

Does Soderbergh's Remake Have Dean Martin and the Red Norvo Orchestra performing "Ain't That a Kick in the Head" or feature manly advice like "Tell her you love her. That'll hold her for a couple of weeks" or fine romantic come-ons like, "Hey honeyface, I'd like to take you home and spread you all over my waffle" or the Über-delectable-in-her-prime Angie Dickinson cracking to Frank Sinatra with wiseacre melancholy: "We had no home, we had a floating crap game." 'Nuff Said, Daddio!!!

Ocean’s Eleven (1960) dir. Lewis Milestone ****
Starring: Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin, Sammy Davis Jr., Peter Lawford, Cesar Romero, Richard Conte, Henry Silva, Akim Tamiroff, Joey Bishop, Angie Dickinson, Shirley MacLaine, Red Skelton, George Raft, Hoot Gibson, Buddy Lester, Red Norvo

Review By Greg Klymkiw

Right from the beginning of Ocean’s Eleven you know you’re in for a treat! The stunning opening credit sequence designed by master stylist Saul Bass (Psycho), the supremely cool Nelson Riddle score and one legendary star’s name after another all signal a picture that just can’t fail.

And it doesn’t!

This legendary heist caper featuring the immortal Las Vegas “Rat Pack” (Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin, Peter Lawford, Sammy Davis Jr. and Joey Bishop) is probably my favourite caper picture ever. It’s not the best heist picture ever made – that honour would go to Jules Dassin’s Rififi – but Ocean’s Eleven is the coolest.

It’s cooler than cool.

Remade in 2001 by Steven Soderbergh (and followed by two unnecessary sequels), one could even argue that the more recent picture is technically better made. I’d not argue that at all, but in spite of this, Soderbergh’s George Clooney-Brad Pitt et al extravaganza of contemporary star power has nothing memorable about it – nothing at all. You watch it and once it’s over, it passes through your system like so much junk food waste matter.

Lewis Milestone’s original rendering, as wonky, occasionally clunky and definitely dated as it is sticks to your memory banks, not unlike a good wad of honey mixed with walnuts, buckwheat and poppy seeds flung to the ceiling by mad Ukrainians during their Eastern Rite Christmas celebrations. Bits of the glop may drop off from time to time, but unless you chisel away at it like some obsessive unskilled labourer at a construction site, those delectable globs are there forever.

And that’s pretty much what the 1960 Ocean’s Eleven is – a delectable glop of honey mixed with walnuts, buckwheat and poppy seeds! It's sweet, tasty and sticks to your insides.

Detailing the adventures of some aimless old army buddies in post-war America, the picture takes us right into their seemingly insane plan to pull off the biggest heist imaginable – hitting five Las Vegas casinos (The Flamingo, The Sands, The Desert Inn, The Riviera, The Sahara) all at once on New Year’s Eve. Not only does it take a first rate crew, but a good stake and tons of planning. Most of all, the operations require the same precision used in battleground manoeuvres.

This, of course, is where high-roller Danny Ocean (Sinatra) comes in. During wartime, Danny was a crack squad leader of an Airborne Division. He fearlessly led his boys into the fray many times and always got them through unharmed. He’s a genius at military manoeuvres and always on the lookout for the welfare of his buddies. And now Danny wants them to make up for lost time. Post-war America has ignored them and it's time for some payback. As Danny declares, “Why waste all those cute little tricks the army taught us just because it’s a little peaceful now?” Given that his plan is to rip the casinos off as if they were in battle with the Germans and that he’ll be fearlessly leading the way is enough for lowlife moneyman Spyros Acebos (Akim Tamiroff munching scenery with the voracity of several off-the-wagon members of Weight Watchers let loose in a buffet) to stake them.

The fun of the movie is, of course, the WORLD of the movie and not necessarily the heist itself. This is the mistake Soderbergh made with his remake. He trotted out all his stars and proficiently laid out the groundwork and execution of a suspenseful heist. Not that this was necessarily a bad thing to do. The picture worked very well on that level and certainly grossed oodles of money (including the two lousy through-the-roof sequels). What the remake didn’t do (and perhaps couldn’t achieve, due to the fact that Vegas NOW is NOT the Vegas it once was) is create compelling enough backdrops for the movie to be more than an ephemeral hit. When Soderbergh’s picture is long forgotten, I do believe Milestone’s will survive.

For example, the first time we see George Clooney’s Danny in the Soderbergh film, he’s in the hoosegow and frankly it’s just not as much fun to see your hero in prison garb as the first time we see our hero in Milestone’s picture. Our first taste of Sinatra as Danny is utterly, irrepressibly, unbelievably, jaw-droppingly cool – or, like I noted before, cooler than cool. In a swank pad, we’re introduced to Danny and his pal Jimmy Foster (Peter Lawford) getting massages from a couple of bodacious beauties.

I’m taking Sinatra, Lawford and two blondes over George Clooney in prison duds anytime – hands down!

To quote Cagney in Strawberry Blonde, “That’s just the kind of hairpin I am.” Great line, by the way. That’s the other thing Soderbergh’s remake doesn’t have. Can anyone remember a single line of memorable dialogue from the 2001 Ocean’s Eleven? If you can, you’re lying. Or worse, you don't know what a great line is.

Milestone’s 1960 version of this heist tale is bursting at the seams with first-rate dialogue. Some of it is scripted, much of it was ad-libbed by the Rat Pack. When I first saw the movie as a kid, most of my friends and I peppered our speech in the schoolyard with nuggets from the movie. (And in case you lob the old “that was then” argument at me, my own 10-year-old daughter who recently saw the movie is spouting these same lines. Everything old CAN become new again.) One of the more deliciously “offensive” (yet utterly memorable and eminently quotable) lines in the 60s version is when Peter Lawford offers the following to someone who doubts how airtight the heist plan is. Using the ultimate, swinging, cool cat reasoning, Lawford casually remarks: “You can take my word for it. You know I only lie to girls.” Oh, and ladies reading this review are advised that substitution of the word “boys” for “girls” is a sure-fire winner for all occasions. Sammy Davis Jr. also gets a zinger that could be used by ladies in a contemporary context – it’s a hilarious moment when one of the guys doesn’t know how to explain his absence during the heist to his wife and Sammy responds: “Tell her you love her. That’ll hold her for a couple of weeks.”

The other thing Soderbergh’s film doesn’t have is the resonance of the historical cusp Milestone’s version is set on. Situated at the tail end of the post-war ennui AND baby boom and just before the turbulence of the post-JFK assassination, Ocean’s Eleven resonates with the times in ways filmmakers could only dream about in the pre-9/11 world. Even post-9/11, the Soderbergh sequels don't bother with any political contexts.

The biggest differences, though, are storytelling elements of an earlier age seldom being exploited in contemporary cinema – especially sentiment.

When Henry Silva as one of the team-assemblers comes to visit the sad-sack Richard Conte, he’s faced with a divorced dad, just out of stir, who needs to come up with a whack of dough to keep his son in a swanky private military school. It’s about the only “face” he’s got left with his kid. While Conte's character would prefer to walk the straight and narrow, he asks Silva if his cut of the heist will be enough to keep his kid in school. Silva replies that the cut will be enough for Conte to BUY his son a school.

With this particular subplot, there are two sequences so sentimental, yet deeply and almost profoundly moving that Soderbergh, for all HIS contemporary cooler-than-cool styling, would never be able to achieve. Milestone very sensitively directs a visit between father and son at school that continues to move me to tears every time I see it. Sometimes I start bawling like some old grandmother when I simply THINK about the scene. The major tear-squirter occurs when Conte visits his doctor and senses the worst. He asks, “Tell it to me straight, Doc – is it the Big Casino?” And indeed, it is. Conte has very little time to live, as he’s afflicted with lung cancer. He knows well what he needs to do.

This is, frankly, why the movie has all the earmarks of a classic. The characters all have so much to lose and this is what resonates so overwhelmingly. These are things I’ve never forgotten over the years and it’s narrative details like these that contribute to a picture’s staying power. One of the Eleven, for example, works as an emcee in a cheap nightclub where his wife also works as a stripper. Day in and day out, he has to lasciviously introduce her to all the slavering men in the club and even witness slime-bags making passes at her like, “Hey honeyface, I’d like to take you home and spread you all over my waffle.”

The fates of all these war veterans have far more resonance than any of the characters in Soderbergh’s remake.

The great Sammy Davis Jr. plays a former minor league baseball player who has lost an eye and is now working as a garbage collector. When he’s told how brave he must have been in wartime, he responds with melancholy: “The real brave ones don’t come home.” This is followed by an amazing sequence where Sammy sings the title track of the movie – jamming and jiving to pick up the spirits of his fellow African-American colleagues sitting amidst the garbage trucks in a loading dock. It’s not only an opportunity to get one of the great entertainers of the 20th century to do his stuff on film, but render it in a manner that is credible and rooted in the narrative.

The movie addresses the issue of race during this time head-on, and it’s Sammy who gets a crack that must have had audiences of all colours reacting with knee-slapping laughter, but with even more resonance amongst African-Americans. At one point, the Rat Pack is smearing their faces with black shoe polish and Sammy refers to his natural ability to blend in when the power in the casino goes out. He has this great quip: “I knew this colour would come in handy someday.” An interesting side note to this is how Sammy was forced to stay in "Coloured-Only" hotels even though he was playing at swanky joints in Vegas at the time. During the shooting of the film, Sinatra himself put an end to this racism during the film's shooting. Segregation in Vegas came to an end because of this.

Sinatra wasn't called "The Chairman of the Board" for nothing.

One of my favourite moments with Sammy Davis Jr. is the scene where the whole teams is assembled and ready to knock off the Vegas casinos and he announces with equal parts melancholy and pride: “Us eleven cats up against this old city – we’re in overlay.”

Who can write great dialogue like this these days? I can count them on one hand. What actors can even render this dialogue today or, for that matter, even ad-lib it?

And just in case you think the entire movie and every piece of dialogue uttered by Frank, Dean and the rest of the Rat Pack is wildly out of whack and male-centric, the movie delivers some terrific performances from women who get their fair share of truly memorable moments and zingers. Female rat-packer Shirley MacLaine appears in a delicious cameo as a hooker. She rattles off a great line: "I'm so drunk I don't think I could lie down without holding on." Angie Dickinson – in her prime, no less – appears as Sinatra’s ex-wife. When Dean Martin gets a gander at her ravishing beauty, he quips, “You better stop getting prettier every day or you’ll turn into a monopoly.” Truer words were never spoken. Dickinson oozes screen presence in ways most contemporary female stars can only dream of. As for Dean's line, I sure wish contemporary characters could occasionally refer to gorgeous leading ladies that way. Angie Dickinson herself has quite a few zingers. When Frank laments their divorce and claims that all he wanted for them was a place to call home, Angie fires off the following: “We never had a home, we had a floating crap game.”

Ouch!

Of all the Rat Pack movies, Ocean’s Eleven is clearly the best. Sergeants 3, directed by John Sturges, was an okay semi-remake of Gunga Din, 4 for Texas was a moderately enjoyable western comedy directed by Robert Aldrich and Robin and the Seven Hoods was a relatively cool musical comedy in which Vegas stood in for Sherwood Forest and was directed by prime-cut old studio camera jockey Gordon Douglas.

I think Ocean’s Eleven works the best not only because it was the first, but the manner in which it was made was infused with the pure adrenalin of Vegas. All of the Rat-Packers were booked at the same time and playing shows at night, then partying all night and finally, shooting the movie all morning and early afternoon. These guys were primed and they were lucky to have a great old hand like Lewis (All Quiet On The Western Front) Milestone helming the proceedings. Seeing the movie in the real Las Vegas in 1960 with marquees touting the names of Harry James, Red Skelton, Danny Thomas, Louis Prima, Buddy Hackett and others must surely have been a charge while making the movie. Amazingly, it all spews out on celluloid.

I mean, My God! We even get a phenomenal scene with Dean Martin singing the great tune “Ain’t That a Kick in the Head” with Red Norvo on vibes.

Even cooler is the ending. It’s not only a great surprise ending but is frankly, a shocker. As much as the film is entertainment, it’s so rooted in a reality beyond time and place, it’s rooted firmly in the world of Las Vegas – a world where the house ALWAYS wins!

Ocean’s Eleven is a movie that’s as much a part of “old” Hollywood while signalling the eventual “new” Hollywood of the next decade. The movie was clearly more than an ephemeral box office hit. It had influence and staying power. People often forget that this is what can make good movies great.

I’m more than happy to extol the greatness of Ocean's Eleven!

Ocean’s Eleven is available in a terrific Blu-ray transfer through Warner Home Entertainment that preserves the grain while reflecting the picture’s outstanding colour palette. The extra features include a great commentary from Frank Sinatra Jr. (and occasional patter from Angie Dickinson) and the added treats of a Tonight Show clip with Frank (guest hosting no less) and Angie (as his guest) and some decent little featurettes on the great Vegas hotels.

MANBORG - Review By Greg Klymkiw

SERIOUSLY, EH? PROSTRATE YOURSELF BEFORE MANBORG & DINE GREEDILY & GRATEFULLY UPON THE KUBASA PROTRUDING FROM HIS HOLY One-World-Government-Sphincter OR DIE LIKE THE DOG YOU ARE!

In Canada BUY the Astron-6 Short Film Collection HERE
In USA and the rest of the WORLD - BUY the ASTRON-6 Short Film Collection - HERE
In Canada BUY Astron-6's FATHER'S DAY - HERE
In USA and the rest of the WORLD - BUY Astron-6's FATHER'S DAY - HERE
In Canada BUY Astron-6's MANBORG - HERE
In USA and the rest of the WORLD - BUY ASTRON-6's MANBORG - HERE

BELIEVE IT, BABY! BELIEVE IT!

SUCCUMB TO THE GREATNESS
THAT IS MANBORG!!!
Or die, like a dog!!!

MANBORG (2011)  ****
dir. Steven Kostanski

Starring: Adam Brooks, Matthew Kennedy, Ludwig Lee, Conor Sweeney, Meredith Sweeney, Jeremy Gillespie

Review By Greg Klymkiw

The time will come when we are dominated by a One World Government. This will be no mere conspiracy theorist's idea of a New World Order. Art Bell won't be predicting this one!

In fact, the Illuminati are pussy-whupped-momma-boy-teat-sucklers compared to what waits for us just round the corner. As dramatically postulated in the latest production from the kubassa-stuffed-to-overflowing loins of the Winnipeg-spawned hit machine Astron-6, be afraid - be VERY afraid of the future.

Straight from the jaws of Hell comes Draculon (Adam Brooks), a crazed totalitarian infused with a slavering desire to inflict pain. He makes the Dictator combo-platter of Adolph Hitler (former German Chancellor), Joe Stalin (former butcher of ten million Ukrainian garlic eaters), George W. Bush (annihilator of Islam) , Stephen Harper (current Il Duce of Canada) and Michael Bay (Brain Sucker Extraordinaire) look like your kindly Granny Apple Cheeks knitting her umpteenth doily and churning butter.

As brilliantly rendered in the opening minutes of this 70-minute masterwork, you will cringe as our pitiful armies do their best in battle with the demons of Mephistopheles, but even the best of the best of the best of mankind will be no match for the foul, pus-oozing Satanic beasts.

When a brave young fighting man hits the turf and pushes up the daisies, he is mysteriously and miraculously transformed by the mad genius Dr. Scorpius (Adam "Fuck me and a month of Sundays, this guy gets around!" Brooks) into the next best thing to Jesus H. Christ Almighty (or Robocop - take your pick!).

He is, and always will be:

MANBORG!!!

Blending cutting edge technology, Frankensteinian alchemy, Einsteinian science and the mind of mankind's leanest, meanest fighting machines, Manborg (Mathhew Kennedy) has, alas, retained the heart and soul of humanity. Instead of serving Draculon and his evil henchman The Baron (Jeremy Gillespie), he joins forces with three superHUMAN heroes in the struggle to free Earth from the clutches of Hades.

This trio of badass mo-fos includes the wildly pompadoured kick-butt-Kiwi (or Aussie, or Brit, or what-the-fuck-ever-his-deliciously-delightful-accent-is) played by Conor Sweeney, a blade-o-licious platinum-tressed kick-butt, delectably-racked, red-grease-painted-faced babe (Meredith Sweeney) and a melt-in-your-mouth, magnificently buff kick-butt Asian martial artist (Ludwig Lee) dubbed into English by someone who sounds like the offscreen voice artist who dubbed all of Steve Reeves's lines into English in his numerous Italian sword and sandal epics of the 50s and 60s (in spite of the fact that Steve Reeves actually, uh, spoke English).


Needless to say, our heroes save the world. (Yeah, I just released a wet fart of a spoiler.)

The movie is replete with mega-martial-arts, chase scenes on what appear to be ATVs without wheels that fly, Tron-like arena jousts and plenty of shit that blows up real good. Oh yeah, have I mentioned yet that the movie was made for about a thousand smackers, shot on glorious DV-CAM and includes tons of in-camera and rudimentary effects that resemble early 80s community cable blue screen? No? Well, I have now and there's not one damn thing in this movie that looks awful.

In fact, it is endowed with the kind of visual splendour that can only come from filmmakers who love movies and movie-making. Special effects that LOOK like special effects, have always held a humungous soft-spot in my heart. I love knowing that I'm watching a MOVIE. I love knowing the effects are - uh, just that - effects. I love to be reminded that I am in a world that only exists up on a big screen. For me, this IS magic.

The ultimate magic in the movie comes when two babes square off for a cat fight supreme. When one of the babes morphs into a demon, all my hopes and dreams momentarily diminished. Sure, it's fine to watch a babe kick a demon's butt, but for Christ's sake, babe-on-babe action always takes precedence.

But I digress.

As rendered by Steve Kostanski, MANBORG is a fairy tale of cosmic proportions for geeks and freaks the world over. It makes perfect sense that this, and the other Astron-6 works of consummate film art come from the recesses of Winnipeg.

In addition to the asbestos-lined water pipes, an insane need to tear down heritage buildings to build parking lots when the entire city is a fucking parking lot and a bowling alley bearing the name of the late, great Billy Mosienko (who, prior to his death, would man the counter and rent you bowling shoes), the 'Peg (my own former winter city) is not only the geographical-near-centre of North America, but boasts a grand tradition of what film critic Geoff Pevere dubbed as Prairie Post-Modernism.

Filmmakers like John Paizs, Guy Maddin, Noam Gonick, Lorne Bailey and Matthew Rankin forged a path that few in the 'Peg have been able to follow as memorably (though Regina-based cousins like Brian Stockton, Brett Bell and prairie-boy-at-heart Richard Kerr HAVE, in their own demented ways). Kostanski, by the way is a brilliant effects artist and his most recent makeup design is on view in the terrific Xavier Gens sci-Fi thriller The Divide.

Make way, now, for a new generation of mad geniuses from Winnipeg.

They are Astron-6. And though some from this collective of total filmmakers have temporarily (one hopes) left the world capital of napping and Salisbury House Mr. Big Nips for bigger locales, the snug blankets and Icelandic sweaters of the prairies sprouted their grand vision that are and will continue to take the world by storm.

That said, I do expect that MANBORG II will have plenty o' babes catfighting.

MANBORG originally screened at Toronto After Dark 2011 and is now playing theatrically in limited release across Canada. While it'll be available for home consumption, it demands a BIG SCREEN.