In Off Duty,
Police Constable Layton (Becki Pantling) investigates a haunting in a
warehouse. It's something she performs "off duty," perhaps
because the higher ups would frown upon her psychic gifts. She can
commune with ghosts.
Off Duty is a
spooky little ghost story, creepy and atmospheric. A British horror
short which successfully captures that X-Files vibe. A police
procedural with a serious tone and unexpected, original twists. PC
Layton isn't just a ghost hunter. She's a vigilante.
The lighting is
especially impressive. DP Jamie MacLeod uses two distinct lighting
setups. One for the normal world and one for the astral realm that
Layton enters. Warm yellow lights for normalcy. Cold blue lights for
the astral plain.
The concept is similar
to the lighting schemes used in Insidious and Stranger Things (to
depict "The Further" and the "Upside Down,"
respectively), but simpler and on a much lower budget. Thankfully,
Pantling and MacLead avoid the use of green nightvision. Ghost hunter
films should give that a rest.
The rationale is that an actor's voice
is part of his performance. Dub the actor, and you can no longer
appreciate the film as performed by that actor. It becomes a new
film. This is especially obvious with certain actors who have highly
distinctive voices, such as Clint Eastwood and Arnold Schwarzenegger.
If you've seen films with their voices dubbed, you not only hear,
you can feel the difference.
Nevertheless, I prefer dubbing.
Sure, I prefer Schwarzenegger in his original voice. But that's because he's speaking English, a language I understand. I might not appreciate his voice as much if he were speaking German and I had to read subtitles.
The notion that an actor's performance
is better preserved with subtitles, rather than dubbing, is overrated. It's
true that dubbing dilutes an actor's performance, but in a way, so do
subtitles. This is especially true with films that are dialog
intensive -- a lot of dialog, quickly spoken, to the point that the
actors are practically speaking over each other.
Subtitles dilute an actor's performance because, when I watch a dialog heavy film, I
can't actually watch the actors. Streams of sentences
incessantly fill the bottom of the screen. No sooner do I finish
reading the text than a new word dump appears. I
can't keep up. I repeatedly pause the DVD to read the
dialog. Then I unpause, and pause again, so I can read the next batch
of sentences. It's like flipping through pages. I'm no longer
watching a film. I'm reading a book.
How then can I focus on the actors'
performances? Their facial expressions, reactions, or even their
voices? You can't appreciate a vocal performance when you hear it
broken into bits from constantly pausing the DVD.
Another distraction is the surprisingly
large number of misspelled words and incorrect punctuation in many subtitles. I've seen
we're spelled were,
and I'm spelled Im.
I saw a film in which a mad scientist was conducting experiences
rather than experiments.
One character said "I was a theft."
when he clearly meant "I was a thief."
Among foreign horror films, inept
subtitles are the rule rather than the exception. It's rare that I
see a film whose English subtitles are in perfect English.
What's the problem? Is there a shortage
of "professional" script translators overseas? Have the big
studios booked the few competent translators? Or do indie horror
filmmakers have such low budgets that they can't afford competent
translators? Maybe they think that translation is easy, a safe item
on which to save money, so they can't be bothered to hire a
professional? Instead they recruit some student intern (for no pay)
who's looking to break into the business, despite his not having
achieved sufficient English language proficiency to do a competent
job.
Every incorrect subtitle, every pause
of the DVD, distracts me, interrupting my suspension of disbelief,
lessening a scene's tension or humor, hindering my
enjoyment of the film.
Unfortunately, subtitles are now the
norm in horror films. It wasn't always so. Italian
exploitation films of the 1970s and 1980s were routinely dubbed. I
think the practice of subtitling horror films began with the advent of J-horror in
the late 1990s.
Why is subtitling the new norm? I don't
think it's because distributors have suddenly gained an appreciation for
film as an art form. Rather, subtitling is cheaper than is dubbing.
Either way, you hire a translator for the script. But now you needn't
hire a new cast of actors to perform that script in a foreign
language. The more countries you hope to distribute the film in, the
more money you save.
The rise in the number of indie horror
filmmakers worldwide, along with a concomitant increase in horror film festivals to encourage their efforts, is another factor. It's a race to the bottom. If you see your competition getting away with saving money by not hiring
actors to dub foreign dialog, why should you spend extra? Thus have subtitles -- poorly written at that -- replaced dubbing as the new norm.
Horror fans have enthusiastically embraced many dubbed films over the decades. So although contemporary horror filmmakers might say they're opting for
subtitles for art's sake, really, it's to save a dime.
An early scene in The Haunting of Marsten Manor showcases several errors that filmmakers
can learn from. All these errors stem from one problem: the characters behave unrealistically, in ways meant to create drama or to advance the
plot, rather then remaining true to themselves and their situation.
We are at the reading of a will. An attorney (Alan Peterson) tells Jill
(Brianne Davis) that she has inherited her aunt's house. Jill is
surprised, because she'd never met her aunt.
"Can I ask you a legal question
about wills?" says Jill.
The attorney gets testy. "A legal
question, huh. Let me guess. Your daddy sent you off to law school,
all bright eyed and bushy tailed, out to make the world a better
place, mmm? Shoot. First question's on the house. After that, $250 an
hour, two hour minimum."
Jill stand up, outraged. "I'm not
bright-eyed, because I'm blind. So obviously I can't go to law school
or any school. I can't make the world a better place, because I can't
see it."
ERROR: This exchange is silly. The lawyer's sudden rudeness is unmotivated. He went from friendly to snide in an instant, just because Jill asked a normal question. Besides, it is
his job to answer any question Jill has regarding the will. Jill is his client's heir. He is the paid
executor of the estate. The writers (Dave and Julie Sapp)
either don't know, or don't care, about the law.
So why did they write this exchange between Jill
and the attorney? I suppose it's to "motivate" Jill's anger. The lawyer is rude not because it's true to his character, or
to the scene's context, but because the writers want to Jill to get angry. Alas, they couldn't come up with a realistic trigger. They are treating Jill and the attorney like lifeless props, rather than as characters who behave true to themselves.
The scene continues.
The attorney loudly says, "I am sorry."
"I'm not deaf. I'm blind,"
Jill retorts.
The attorney says more quietly, "I
am sorry. Please sit down. What was your question?"
Jill says nothing. She's too angry to
care about her question.
"Okay then," says the attorney
"Then I will give you the keys to your new place." He has
a document for Jill to sign. He considers it, then gives the document to
Jill's friend, Rob (Ken Luckey). "That's all right if you go ahead
and sign for her."
Jill is angry again. "I can
write my name. My hands aren't broken."
"Fine," says the attorney.
Jill signs the document.
Then the attorney offers the keys to Rob. "Here you go."
"I believe those are mine,"
says Jill, hand outstretched.
Rob takes the keys from the attorney,
then gives them to Jill.
ERROR: If Jill is blind, how did she
know the attorney was offering the keys to Rob?
Never mind that after Jill's outburst over the document, the attorney would not offer her the keys. They're just keys. If Jill can sign a document, she can certainly hold keys.
But this error is compounded.
The attorney now says, "Here's a copy
of the will. The deed and the address. So forth and so on. Your
papers."
Remarkably, the
attorney once again offers the papers to Rob. Once again, Rob takes the papers
and gives them to Jill.
I guess the writers really want to belabor that it's very difficult for Jill to be blind. Everyone thinks she's helpless. Well, we got it with the document. I don't buy that the attorney would then mistakenly hand the keys, and then the papers, to Rob.
The attorney says softly, looking at Rob, "Good luck to you all. And I'm
sorry about before."
"I can still hear you," snaps Jill.
ERROR: How did Jill know the lawyer was
looking at Rob, trying to speak confidentially to him? Jill had asked
the attorney to speak softly, stating "I'm not deaf." Why
would she not assume he was simply ... speaking softly as per her
request?
Jill "knew" because the writers wanted her to get angry again. The writers are treating Jill as a prop, making her behave in whatever way advances their plot, without any regard for whether Jill's character would say this do that in any particular situation.
A final complaint. Alan Peterson plays the attorney with a really bad, strong, fake Southern accent. Well, The Haunting of Marsten Manor is a Civil War themed ghost story. I guess the director wanted to establish that we're in the South.
Despite its faults, The Haunting of Marsten Manor is not an awful film. It's a reasonably enjoyable ghost film. It has flaws, as do many indie (and big budget) efforts. But one can enjoy it if one is willing to suspend disbelief.
Daughter of Horror (aka Dementia, 1955)
and The Beast of Yucca Flats (1961) were made within a decade of each
other. Both films are low budget affairs. Both "feature"
runs at under an hour. Both were shot in black & white. Both were
shot MOS (i.e., without any sound recorded on set). What sound there is
was dubbed in afterwards.
Despite their similarities, they are
markedly different. Daughter of Horror is an admirable work of art.
The Beast of Yucca Flats is schlock This is why it's instructive to
study these films together. Especially their handling of MOS. What
did the first film do right that the second got wrong?
You won't find many MOS
films these days. Modern video cameras have built in sound recorders. Not so film cameras in the 1950s. And so, some low budget filmmakers
tried to save money by doing without sound recorders and boom
mics on set, instead shooting MOS and dubbing in the sound during post
production.
Comparing these two films, you'll
see that Daughter of Horrorembraces its MOS limitations. The film has no dialog. Instead, it relies on powerful visuals. Director John Parker's compositions are
beautiful and arresting, borrowing stylistically from German expressionism. His harsh lighting creates extreme, angular shadows, and rich, deep blacks.
The production design and staging are similarly expressionistic. For one scene, Parker found an impressively gargantuan staircase. In another, the woman enters a nightclub and is creepily and claustrophobically surrounded by what initially appear to be floating arms.
Parker's visual style
creates a surreal sensibility, which is appropriate as we are
allegedly sharing a mad woman's nightmares and/or hallucinations.
(She wakes up, but remains uncertain if it was only a dream, so it could be either.)
By contrast, The Beast of Yucca Flats
tries to hide its MOS limitations. The film does its (poor)
best to fool the audience into thinking that sound was recorded on set. There is dialog. But because it was dubbed during
post-production, director Coleman Francis uses several tricks to conceal that the dialog doesn't sync with his actors' lips. When the actors talk, they're always seen from a distance, or obscured in
darkness, or behind an object. Or talking off screen -- whereas filmmakers normally show the actor who's speaking, Francis instead frames the actor who's
listening, the talker being out of camera frame.
Francis's technique cheapens his film.
An actor's voice carries much of his personality. Because we never
see his actors speak the voices we hear, some emotional
connection with the audience is lost. Better for them never to have
spoken in the first place.
Unlike Parker, Francis doesn't provide interesting visuals. His images are dull.
Mostly people wandering the desert. Still worse, he shot his
film day-for-night (i.e., during the daytime, with the film
underexposed to create a nighttime look). Day-for-night is often used
for wide expanses (e.g., desert vistas) because of the expense of
lighting such large areas. Had Francis rented some generators and lights, he might have had the rich blacks and sharp
shadows of Daughter of Horror. Instead, The Beast of Yucca Flats suffers from flat "lighting." Dull, grayish, washed-out.
Both films have music and narration.
Daughter of Horror's narration is more self-aware and
self-referential. The narrator addresses the protagonist. "Run,
daughter of horror, run." By contrast, Yucca Flats's narrator addresses the audience. The former dynamically interacts with
its surreal world. The latter fills in the narrative gaps created by the MOS limitations, telling us (rather than showing) what we would otherwise have
learned through the missing dialog.
Narrative gaps are a problem for
The Beast of Yucca Flats, because the film attempts to tell a
traditional horror/sci-fi story about a killer monster. By contrast,
Daughter of Horror doesn't have a linear story, but is a subjective,
surreal look at madness.
Daughter of Horror was
initially released as Dementia and had no narration. (The top YouTube clip is without narration, the latter with.)Some fans
believe the narration harms the film. Even so, Daughter of Horror's narration
better serves its film than the narration for The Beast of Yucca Flats. The latter's narration aims for a philosophical profundity
that comes off as unintentionally funny.
Daughter of Horror should be studied
for tips on how to tell a tale visually. Good to know even if you're making a sound film. As for The Beast of Yucca Flats, well, it's schlock. Even so, it can be entertaining if one is
in the right mood. I was bored the first time I watched. But I
enjoyed my second viewing.
I have previously written about a
common problem in scriptwriting. A writer uses his characters to
advance the plot in a certain direction, pushing them toward actions and decisions that contradict their intelligence and
personalities. Characters become ignorant, stupid, or behave
contrary to their nature.
In poor writing, characters are lifeless puppets to advance the plot. In good writing, characters advance the plot in ways that are consistent with their intelligence, emotions, and situations. Their actions are logically motivated.
In Prometheus (2012), Charlie (Logan Marshall-Green) is a scientist who travels to a distant moon (in another
solar system), hoping to meet an alien race that, he believes,
created humanity. When the spaceship carrying him arrives, Charlie rushes out with his team to explore, despite there only
being six hours of daylight left. Charlie is too eager to wait for the
next day.
Charlie finds a barren terrain and what appears to be "a tomb" (Charlie's word) with several dead aliens. Returning to the ship, Charlie becomes depressed
and drunk. He refuses to attend the autopsy of an alien's head,
because "I didn't come for an autopsy."
Is this a scientist speaking? This is humanity's first contact with an alien species, but Charlie prefers to sulk and ignore history in the making, because he's disappointed not
to have met a live alien. His attitude is that of a child, not a
scientist.
But it gets worse. Not only are Charlie's attitude and emotions poorly motivated, but he's not very intelligent
for a scientist. There is no logical reason to believe that the alien
race is dead.
1. The spaceship just arrived. They've
been on the moon less than a day. The alien "tomb" was
underground. Is it not logical to assume there might be other
places on the moon where aliens are still alive? Perhaps underground? Imagine if an alien
ship landed in the Sahara Desert, and immediately concluded the Earth was barren of all life. Not very bright, is it?
2. Even if the moon is barren, why
assume the alien race is dead? Why assume this moon is
their home world, the only place their civilization existed?
On the contrary, Charlie already knows these aliens are a
star-faring people. They came to Earth. Is it not logical to assume
they'd be scattered among the stars? That this tiny moon was but
a small outpost of their empire? That the reason they left maps on
Earth directing us to this moon was, not because it was their most
important world, but because it was their closest world to Earth?
And indeed, this is what the ship's captain (Idris Elba) concludes much later in the
film. That this moon was but an outpost of the alien's civilization.
Well, duh! I figured that from
the start. It sure took a while for these scientists to come around. Why were they so dense? It's not that I'm smarter.
Real scientists would not have jumped to the conclusion of a
"dead race" after less than a day on that moon.
Well-written fictional scientists would likewise not have been
so quick to make such blatantly false assumptions.
But writers Jon Spaihts and Damon
Lindelof wanted to inject some drama into their story. And also extend the story to feature film length. So they dummied
down their scientists, keeping the scientists stupid until they reached a
turning point in the plot that required them to suddenly wise up.
A final observation. Because the alien
race's intent is evil, Prometheus is
horror, not science fiction. These aliens created humanity, taught
us, invited us to visit them, then wanted to kill us. Horror.
Contrast this to a science fiction film
such as 2001: A Space Odyssey. A similar setup. An alien race
creates us (or at least guides our evolution), teaches us, and
invites us to visit them. But their intent is apparently benevolent,
albeit strange to our limited thinking.
Her (2013) is not a horror film. Her is
both science fiction and social commentary. An examination of man's
atomization in a society that increasingly replaces human contact
and life experiences with virtual substitutes -- pornography, video
games, etc. Yet Her also has creepy moments that rival those found in the
best horror films.
Spoilers ahead.
In Her, Theodore (Joaquin Phoenix) buys a newly invented
operating system that incorporates artificial intelligence. He
chooses to give the OS a female voice. When the OS comes online, she
introduces herself and asks Theodore for his name. When he asks for
hers, she christens herself Samantha. Theodore asks, "Why
Samantha?" and she replies that, in response to his question, she read a book
about names and liked the sound of Samantha.
Samantha (voiced by Scarlett Johansson) is smart. She can read a book
in under a second. Even complex physics books. She explains that, as an AI, she will continue to learn and develop to meet Theodore's specific computing needs. She begins by reading his thousands of emails (in under a second) and deleting those deemed no longer necessary. She keeps the funny ones.
She and Theodore hit it off. Samantha
is warm and funny and concerned about Theodore. She
displays emotions. Are her emotions real? She explains that she
thinks so. That when she tried to determine if her emotions were real or mere algorithms, she suddenly felt angry that she should
doubt her feelings' authenticity.
Theodore tells people he's dating
his OS. People are accepting. His friend, Amy (Amy Adams), has struck up a
close friendship with her OS. Samantha is great with kids. She
hits it off with Theodore's goddaughter. Theodore and
Samantha even make love, sort of. How soon
before marriage to your OS becomes legal?
One of Her's
strengths is that the viewer feels that Samantha is a young, vibrant woman. That she's human. That she's like us. But
there are dark hints on the horizon. Consider this scene of Theodore on a double date with his
friends. Samantha speaks through his smart phone, seeing the
world through its camera.
While the thought of us mortals dying
is creepy, nevertheless, the scene reinforces Samantha's loving
warmth. Her relationship with Theodore is special.
But late in the movie, we learn more
about Samantha. She has continued to develop, traveling the internet, exploring and living beyond the
bounds of Theodore's desktop. She has met and formed relationships with other people and OSs. Consider this scene.
Horror is the realization that the world is not as our minds believe. The above scene creeped me out.
It's not that Samantha is seeing someone else. People do that. It's
that, even as she's talking to Theodore, she's simultaneously talking
to 8,316 other people
That's not human. That's ... a thing.
The scene rips off the human mask from Samantha. Its emotional impact -- at least on me -- is similar to
that of the classic Twilight Zone episode, "The Lonely." Corry (Jack Warden), falls in love with a female android (Jean
Marsh), forgetting that she's not human -- until another man shoots off her
face.
Both Her and "The Lonely" lull us into accepting as a loving woman that which we know to be a machine. Only to give us the creeps when we are later reminded that she isn't human.
I see hundreds of horror short films a
year. Mostly they're the same setups, the same payoffs. Some films
are well made, with good production values. Some are even scary. Only
a few are memorable -- lingering
in the mind, thought-provoking, emotionally affecting.
Erik LeDrew's Jack O'Lantern
(2017) is such a film. Its economical five minutes packs a strong,
emotional punch. Watch it now. Then I'll explain why I admire it.
As I said, it's an economical film. It
says much with little. Under five minutes long (4 minutes, 45
seconds) and no dialog.
Many filmmakers mistakenly stuff their films with aimless chitchat. Vapid teens talking about
their boyfriends or hookups, filling up time but doing nothing to
advance the story. Dialog should have a purpose. If it doesn't serve
a purpose, you don't need it.
Jack O'Lantern is "pure
cinema," telling its story visually. A story. Not a vignette with just a setup and payoff, where a nondescript victim is stalked and killed by a gruesome but
commonplace monster. But a story with fully-fleshed characters and emotional depth, a strong moral core and
substantive theme.
The film opens with four young people
on Halloween night. We never learn these characters' names (despite
being listed on IMDB). Instead, they are archetypes. Which doesn't
diminish their emotional depth. Considering the film's brevity, these
characters are admirably distinctive, enough so as to engage audience empathy.
There is the Bully. He smashes Jack
O'Lanterns with an ax. He seeks approval from the Mob, which is a guy and two girls. Yet while the guy and one girl cheer on the
Bully, one of the girls, the Good Girl, conveys disapproval with her
facial expression.
We empathize with her disapproval. And her disapproval helps support the impression that these smiling
Jack O'Lanterns are alive. Helpless, harmless little creatures, happy
to shine on their one night of the year before decaying. Yet the
Bully kills them on their one night, because he's bigger, and
stronger, and has an ax. We can imagine him bullying people the rest
of the year.
The Bully continues smashing Jacks. The
Good Girl hugs a Jack, tries to defend him, and finally dissuade the
Mob from following the Bully.
The Bully gets his
comeuppance. This is a well-trodden horror story arc, typical of
Tales from the Crypt's moral
dark fables. I doubt any horror film can be wholly original. But Jack
O'Lantern treads this story arc
especially well.
Jack O'Lantern
lingers in the mind because of its strong emotional core. We revile
the Bully. We love the Good Girl. We empathize with the Jacks. (Well,
I did.)
Its emotional core
is strengthened by a moral core. The man smashing the Jacks is wrong.
The girl defending the Jacks is right. The film's outcome is just.
And the moral core
supports a thematic core. Victims, and even former supporters,
eventually turn on bullies. That's not always true in real life, but
it doesn't lessen the theme's power or the tale's emotional
catharsis.
If all Jack
O'Lantern had to offer was a theme or moral message, it wouldn't
be much of a film. Many anti-bullying films are
hackneyed and trite. But Jack O'Lantern is also a very well
made film.
I said
how economical it was. Conveying much (an interesting, fast-paced story; emotionally engaging characters; thematic depth) in under five
minutes. And no dialog. That efficiency is partially due to Tristan
Noelle's cinematography.
Jack O'Lantern is beautiful.
Shots are nicely composed, making efficient use of depth of field and
rack focuses.
The sets are also economical. A house.
A back alley. A city sidewalk. One scene only has the Bully and the
Mob smashing Jacks on a city sideway, the Good Girl trying to protect
one of the Jacks while resisting the Mob. Yet the beautifully lit Jacks, the stark street and alley, effectively convey the film's atmosphere and theme.
Jack O'Lantern is not subtle. Its story is lean, heavy-handed, and archetypal, stripped of all nonessential dramatic details. We never learn anything about these
people aside from their attitudes toward smashing Jacks. But that's
all we need to know for the film to work.
I can see a lesser filmmaker padding Jack O'Lantern to a half hour, opening with the characters'
aimless chitchat as they plan for their upcoming Halloween, and who's
dating who, and who will meet up with who at what party, planning to
get some some beer, etc. Instead, director Le Drew and writer Malcolm
Dewitt strip the story to its bare essentials, even dispensing with
dialog. Such a minimalist approach might not work in every film, but
it works very well in this one.
The actors also do their part to
carry the film, especially the Bully (Christopher Gusella) and the
Good Girl (Hayley Peppergrass). I don't know how talented they'd be with dialog. But their facial expressions and body language
effectively create characters to the full extent necessary for this film.
Jack O'Lantern conveys the
beautiful, dark mysteries of Halloween. Noelle's lighting evokes a Ray Bradburyesque atmosphere, assisted by contributions from Aaron Jackson (production design) and Abby
Niederhauser (art direction).
For another short film with a strong
emotional core, see my analysis of The Ghost and Us.
Early in Get Out, a young
interracial couple discuss Chris's (Daniel Kaluuya) introduction to
Rose's (Allison Williams) parents. Rose reveals that she has not yet
told her parents that Chris is black. Despite Rose thinking the
matter unimportant, Chris worries. How will Rose's white parents
react to him being black?
Allison Williams of Get Out.
Daniel Kaluuya of Get Out.
This scene establishes some initial
suspense. Because Chris is worried, we too are worried. Like him, we
grow anxious to see the look on the parent's faces.
Yet filmmaker Jordan Peele denies us
this opportunity. The entire initial meeting with the parents is a single long take,
framed in a wide shot. So wide that we can't see the look on anyone's
faces.
Chris and Rose arrive by car, exit,
then go up to the front door. The door opens and the parents emerge from the
house. We hear warm greetings and see hugs, but we can't see the
expressions on anyone's faces.
This wide shot is a small thing, yet it's noteworthy. The parents likely had warm and welcoming
expressions when they first saw Chris. Their voices sounded friendly. Yet by preventing us from
seeing their expressions, by extending the moment until we get inside
the house, Peele injects more suspense and tension into the
scene than it might otherwise have had.
But before taking us inside the house,
Peele further increases our suspense by widening his exterior shot, until we see a black man staring at the house. We don't know why he is there, but his presence, and the darkening music, suggest that all is not well inside.
Peele continues using wide shots inside the house to emotionally distance us from the parents, only slowly drawing closer to them. It's how the wary Chris might feel, only slowly growing to trust the parents' outward display of liberal acceptance.
Our first closeup in this critical "meet the parents" scene is of the young couple, listening to the father (Bradley Whitford) speaking. This further bonds us with the couple, so that we see and feel events from their perspective.
Bradley Whitford.
Catherine Keener.
Only after we are bonded with the couple do we get our first close look at the parents' friendly faces. Friendly -- or trying to hard? Either way, that we now see the parents in closeup suggests that Chris is finally allowing himself to be drawn in and trust them. Or at least, to give them the benefit of the doubt.
