The Spaceman has left us. Like E.T., he came into our lives, enriched them, got drunk, and returned to his home planet. “Space Ace” was a character. Everyone in Kiss was a character, but the Spaceman always felt like the most irreverent, carefree, and fun member of the band.
Every time a new Oz Perkins movie comes out, I get excited, and every time, I leave feeling like I watched a missed opportunity. I loved the look and style and dark humor of Perkins’ King adaptation The Monkey, yet it left me cold. The same goes for Perkins’ sleeper hit Longlegs, a dark, beautiful film with whispers of Fincher’s Se7en, dripping with chilly PNW atmosphere but ending in a ho-hum conclusion. Perkins gets so close to making classics, yet perfection remains elusive. I Am the Pretty Thing That Lives in the House is no exception.
I was playing Resident Evil Village the other night, being chased around a spooky mansion by a giant, busty vampire lady, when I started thinking about the Resident Evil franchise as a whole. Since 1996, there have been ten core games, twenty-something spin-offs, seven live-action films (with a new one due next year from Weapons director Zach Cregger), and a ravenous fanbase ready to devour it all. And to think, it all began life as a remake of Tokuro Fujiwara’s 1989 horror RPG Sweet Home.
Last month, Amazon MGM announced a new Amityville film to be helmed by David F. Sandberg (Lights Out, Shazam, Until Dawn) and written by Ian Goldberg and Richard Naing, who wrote The Conjuring: Last Rites. The film is said to be a reimagining of the original 1979 film and I can’t help but wonder if this is a desperate attempt for Amazon to have their own Conjuring series. I say “desperate” because the Amityville name has been dragged through the muck by so many indie releases and spinoffs it’s lost all meaning to horror fans.
Welcome Girls and Ghosts (Boys) to yet another Shocktober! This year’s theme is G-G-G-GHOSTS! Yes, in honor of movies like The Conjuring: Last Rites and Good Boy (neither of which we’ll be covering) Shocktober is now Shock-BOO-ber. Which is a great name for an adult film. I could spitball some ideas for that but instead lets put on our proton packs, place our fingers on our planchettes, and dive into the Further!
It’s been a rough year for rock star deaths. Just this summer we’ve lost Brian Wilson, Sly Stone, Ozzy Osbourne, Mick Ralphs, Bobby Whitlock, and George Kooymans, to name a few. One name that almost slipped by me was the passing of Supertramp founder Rick Davies, who died on September 6th from multiple myeloma at the age of 81.
Another year, another Criterion Month, already a fading memory, soft and delicate, like a confessional whispered into a tape recorder. Much like Glen records his subjects speaking of love and intimacy in Andrew Haigh’s subdued romantic drama Weekend. Yet again, I’m saying farewell to Criterion Month with an Andrew Haigh film, despite my ongoing struggle to articulate what it is he does best: people talking.
