Dorm: Youth in Transition
At first glance, Songyos Sugmakanan’s Dorm might easily be dismissed as another tired Asian ghost story. But first glances can often be misleading, and in the case of Dorm, downright wrong. Yes, there is a ghost in the dorm, but there are also real live kids in the dorm, kids who think, feel, and dream.
Chatree is there, but not by choice. One night over dinner, his father announces that he is sending Chatree to boarding school. Without a word, young actor Charlie Trairat displays shock, sadness, and anger with only a pained look on his youthful face. This is an actor in command of his craft.
Ms. Pranee greets the family at the entrance of the school, immediately presenting a daunting force charged with the care of the boys. A sad, lonely woman, Pranee spends each night alone staring into a mysterious desk drawer, tears streaming down her cheeks as the record player sticks on the same classical note. Yet during the day, she is the evil nemesis, the Nurse Ratchet of this asylum.
But in the dorm, nothing is as it seems, and as the story slowly unravels, one secret after another reveals a complex, touching story of one child’s struggle to maintain his identity under the weight of betrayal and lies, one woman’s never-ending anguish over her deadly mistake, and one boy’s tortured soul and its attempt to right what went so terribly wrong.
At its heart, Dorm is the story of Chatree and Vichian, two lonely boys looking for companionship amidst the chaos of youth. Vichian is the teacher in this relationship providing the younger boy experiences that will forever change him. Chatree is consumed with his own problems, drowning in anger and hate. But Vichian wakes him up, shows him the world outside his head, and unleashes the man within.
The horror of Dorm is not in its ghosts, but in its truth of the human condition. There are no villains, no demons, and no evil forces. There are only life’s little tragedies. And in the end, it is the little tragedies that push each of us into adulthood, that steal our innocence and seal our fates.
TBOR: Cinderella Man
Sometimes we are caught in a moment we do not yet understand. Locked within ourselves, spinning round and round and trapped within the force of the whirlpool, we insulate ourselves from the pain and imagine it is coming from the outside. Hiding away like this, wondering if what we feel is normal, we yearn for spontaneous emotion, some real feeling to come flying out, uninhibited.
This was where I was when I was a kid. I was 15. I learned early to “think before I spoke.” And I kept thinking and thinking until I really wasn’t sure that I even could speak. I could talk, and I did talk; but not at home, where a little brother is supposed to learn how to communicate, how to be understood. But I never really spoke, not until later.
I spent a lot of time in my room that summer, lying on the bed and staring out the window. The canal provided a temporary diversion and model cars provided another. But I was never very good with glue, and my cars always looked rushed and sticky. I watched a lot of horror movies, too. I found in the darkest movies the same lonely, misunderstood hearts longing for the means of connection. I thought I was too sensitive. I thought that because I hurt for the faceless old lady run over crossing the street and the 6 year old boy abducted and hacked to pieces, that I was somehow weaker than others. So I found in movies like Hellraiser, Basket Case, Rawhead Rex and Evil Dead II that I could fear for and agonize over every death, every senseless murder and really feel that it was ok to feel.
I surrounded myself with the horrific images displayed on the cover of Fangoria Magazine. Every month I’d make sure to have enough money to buy it. I’d ride my bike to Ted’s, about a mile west, and scan the magazine rack, slowly, from right to left, careful not to skip any magazines along the way and spoil the surprise too quickly. It was only a couple of years ago that finally subscribed; but I still hit the magazine section everytime I find myself in a bookstore, just to see what the newest cover looks like as it stares back at me from the rack.
I tried to write; I started lots of stories, always with some horrific premise, like the one where the little boy stares at the ceiling kept from sleep by the faint screams coming from somewhere inside the walls and another based on a still recurring dream in which a plane crashes silently into my backyard. Survivors wander aimlessly among the wreckage as fires burn around them. In each of the stories, the narrator is a young boy, alone and innocent, finding the world around him just as deaf and blind to his thoughts and fears as the victims he is trying to save. The narrator wants to be the hero, believes that by discovering the missing child or saving the dying victim, that somehow all that lies buried within his heart will be made real.
There was music, too. My musical tastes were forged under the influence of my brother, mostly what is today considered classic rock; he listened to bands like REO Speedwagon, Hall and Oates, Journey and Meatloaf. Sometime before he left for college, he introduced me to Pink Floyd. I have memories of hearing “Another Brick in the Wall” on the radio as far back as Sunset Park; I was 11 when Pink Floyd’s The Wall came out, but I have no clear memories of knowing who was singing or what I was listening to. But I do connect the title song to walking down the sidewalk along an endless mass of concrete townhouses toward the neighborhood swimming pool. So it was pretty early on that I began using music to make my connections to time and place.
Junior high school played to a soundtrack provided by Survivor. When I was 10, Rocky III’s Eye of the Tiger unleashed a fury of electricity that inspired me. In lyrics, for the first time, I found a philosophical thread that provided me with the idea that by desire alone I could achieve my dreams. My relationship with Survivor, at that time the only band that I could really call my own, lasted throughout junior high. Their ’86 release, When Seconds Count, provided Man Against the World and Rebel Son. I didnt know it then, but soon I would understand that the messages in these songs were connecting with me on a level I could not have known existed.
And there I was, the summer of ’87, the summer before I was to enter high school, alone in my room. My brother was away at college, my friends from junior high school miles away from the house we were recently forced to rent, and my mother and father, in spite of my protests, living together under the same roof once again.
to Rush fans; and maybe everyone else too
Although Rush is one of the best selling bands of all time, behind the Beatles and the Rolling Stones, Rush fans are typically hard to find, seemingly lost in the fringes of the city. But, obviously, there are millions of passionate Rush fans in every city of every state and around the world.
I have more recently come to realize the reason for this. All that is Rush lies in the band’s ability to articulate the ideological make-up of the middle class as we struggle to remain independent of predetermined social constructs. From Fly By Night to their most recent single BU2B, Rush remains wide eyed in the marketplace, stubbornly resisting the force of collective man, relentlessly pursuing truth beyond insulated borders.
Rush continues to have the courage to explore the world through their eyes, but more importantly, for themselves. We are Rush fans because we are all living the life of middle class man; each of us fiercely defending our individualism by searching independently for that fountain in the east, all the while finding comfort in knowing that 3 kids from our home town, right here in Middletown, are doing the same.
Adam Green’s Frozen: Feb 5
Amateur Focus: Call for Films
DEMAND PARANORMAL ACTIVITY IN YOUR HOMETOWN
enter your film now
Darker Side of Film is looking for amateur films for Amateur Focus III. If you have made a horror, science fiction, dark comedy, or dark fantasy with a bunch of friends, then you are an amateur filmmaker.
Enter your film now for a chance to be featured in DSoF’s monthly series, Amateur Focus. The winning film will be featured here and receive Wes Craven’s original Last House on the Left Rob Schmidt’s Wrong Turn DVD.
If you have a film to enter, you can leave a comment below, email drewsg@hotmail.com, or direct message me through twitter.
Good luck.
Drew Golburgh/Darker Side of Film
Amateur Focus II: Our Days Are Numbered
Emergency Alert System scrolls across a red banner in the center of the screen. Static and fuzz give way to a channel 10 news reporter describing the chaos around him, “the dead are walking.” Suddenly he is shoved aside; a United States Army soldier speaks into the camera, “The President of the United States has declared martial law; you need to get in your houses…” Machine gun fire erupts nearby.
Coven De La Cruz was “a little nervous” about writing, directing, and producing his first film. But armed with a strong vision, a tight crew, and a bag full of good advice, Coven set about making his slick zombie short. Clean, crisp, and tightly constructed, the opening segment of Our Days Are Numbered presents a young filmmaker in control of his craft.
And showcasing his craft is clearly what writer/director/SFX artist De La Cruz has intended for his first effort. A brief title sequence, including a clever animated credit for Coven’s Condemned Productions, is followed by interesting shots of blood covered walls. The glistening stains appear freshly made, setting the stage nicely for what is to follow.
Yet another entry into the found footage category, we first meet Andy, Casey and Ken through the lens of a security camera as their pick-up truck enters the frame. Parking their smoking truck just before an ominously abandoned hearse, Ken begins recording the last days of this apocalypse. “Basically, we’re in the middle of a big, fucking shit storm,” Andy says. He then explains the last 5 weeks goings on and how they managed to survive. Then tells the camera, “We’re thinking about moving to another town, or some shit…the zombies aren’t like they are in the movies; they’re real fast.” This segment, though, seems rushed and clunky and nearly derails the momentum.
But this one misstep is only a bridge to the final destination; Our Days Our Numbered is really a teaser introducing the many talents of Mr. De La Cruz. Casey thinks there may be survivors hiding in the hearse. What is clearly a cheap scare tactic is in the end an effective transition into the films climactic conclusion. Zombies, zombies, and more zombies race toward our heroes; a zombie clown takes a screwdriver in the forehead and another takes a bullet engraved with a special message (fuck you). But amidst the chaos, Casey is bitten; thus providing the film’s emotional hook.
It is all fun and playfully presented. The music, by Warthrone, adds a sense of frantic dread to the goings on, but it is the inventive use of film magic that ultimately propels Our Days Our Numbered. Coven De La Cruz has a vision, but he also has the artistry to make more from less. And as the end credits roll and Warthrone pounds out their vocals, De La Cruz treats us to more delicious zombie feasting.
The final spoken line of the film, “I love you,” is a nice touch, a special message to his audience. And if Coven is able to parlay this effort and deliver to genre fans the gore, the make-up, and the carnage in his next film, The Days Before, that he displayed in this film, then soon he will be hearing the same words from a large core of screaming fans. [De La Cruz is currently shooting The Days Before, a prequal to Our Days Are Numbered, in full HD somewhere in VA]
Breathing Room [DSoF at BtDH]
What would happen if you put 14 strangers in a room, equip each with deadly collars, warn them of the killer instincts of a select few, and then turn out the lights? This scenario should sound familiar; it has been done better in movies like Cube, Fermat’s Room and Battle Royale. However, co-directors John Suits and Gabriel Cowan’s first movie, Breathing Room, should be judged less on the originality of the premise and more on the skillful execution of the action.
Tonya awakens in the Breathing Room to learn that she is the 14th and final contestant in the game. A slip of paper warns her that “player 5 does not tell the truth.” What is she to think? How can she know what is real? She quickly discovers that Lee, contestant six, has assumed the leadership role and is working hard to keep everyone together. But there are dissenters, those who cannot be trusted to follow the rules; those whose only concern is to remain hidden. The host warns them all, “Rules are rules my children. Choose your fate or have your fate chosen.”
Please read my full review at Beyond the Dark Horizon.
Dark Ride [DSoF at Fango's Gorezone]
Leatherface, Michael, Jason, Freddy, Pinhead. Over the past four decades, these names, some of them our friend’s names, some of them merely physical descriptors of their unique attribute, evoke vivid images of carnage and death. But they also represent a renaissance in horror, a rebranding of the dark genre that now, 30 years later, is under assault by a scared and timid Hollywood industry. In sequel after sequel, these madmen dispatched their victims with imaginatively staged brutality while revealing more and more of their tragic back-stories. Ultimately, however, their goals remained simple, their motives basic.
In 2006, Craig Singer (Perkins 14) introduced to a new generation another simple minded killer, Jonah. Deep within Asbury Park’s very own dark ride lurks a porcelain doll-faced maniac waiting to rip the insides out of unsuspecting children. Dark Ride opens 20 years in the past. Twin girls sit securely in their cart as it smashes through doors, slows to a deadening pace, and jerks around hidden corners. Just as the girls begin to relax and enjoy the thrilling scares, one sister is violently ripped from her seat. But the car continues on its path, leading the terrified twin past her disemboweled counterpart and her baby faced executioner; it is a chilling introduction.
Please read my full review at Fangoria’sGorezone.
The Crematorium in Shallow Graves #4
Growing Out
Tom (Michael Hampton), an aspiring singer/songwriter, has just been fired from open mic night. Walking aimlessly down the street, he comes upon a house.
Aunt Elora’s house looks a lot like Tom’s grandmother’s house, except for the one armed man singing and strumming the guitar on the front stoop, the cobweb and dust filled rooms, and the dead bird on the kitchen floor. But none of this, not even the mysterious old woman imprisoned in the upstairs bedroom in demand of pastrami on rye cut straight, “not diagonal,” each day, can dissuade him from accepting free room and board (“aint nothin’s free,” Vernon says) in exchange for a little cleaning and room service.
Please find my complete review in the August issue of Shallow Graves Magazine on sale now.
Fermat’s Room
“There is a true land and a false land. Those in the true land always tell the truth. Those in the false land, always lie.” In Fermat’s room, the difference between the two exists within the 4 walls of one shrinking room, where four mathematicians have been brought together by a mysterious host to solve a great enigma. Once inside the meticulously designed room, tension mounts as the walls begin to close in around them. As time and space run out, the four participants must solve complex riddles while contemplating the mystery and motive behind their predicament.
Clocking in at just over 90 minutes, Luis Piedrahita’s Fermat’s Room is a fast paced, clever exercise in desperation, studying man’s intellectual capacity under incomprehensible duress. Fermat’s room is not for everyone, though, and Piedrahita reveals as much when over black screen, a voice says, “Do you know what prime numbers are? If you don’t you should leave now.” Somewhat tongue in cheek, this is a warning to viewers of the mind boggling mathematical madness that will follow.
Please find my complete review in the August issue of Shallow Graves Magazine on sale now.
The Objective
Daniel Myrick, one half of the Blair Witch Project team, has been very active producing such notable films as Rest Stop, Tony Krantz’s Sublime and Otis, and executive producing The Presence, a ghost story starring Mira Sorvino and Shane West. As a director, however, aside from three obscure direct to video productions, The Objective is Myrick’s first theatrically released film since Blair Witch.
Disguised as a supernatural ghost story set in the desert of Afghanistan during the current war, The Objective comes complete with video camera point of views, sounds emanating from invisible forces, and strange wooden triangles appearing suddenly in the isolated desert terrain, all of which evoke an odd feeling of déjà vu.
Please find my complete review in the August issue of Shallow Graves Magazine on sale now.
Whiteout: [DSoF at Shallow Graves]
It is 1957. A soviet cargo plane heads toward the North Pole. The pilots decide to enact their plan early. Moving toward the back of the plane, the co-pilot attempts to kill the human cargo. A gun fight erupts, killing everyone on board and sending the plane plummeting to the icy surface. Before the main titles appear, we see a locked wooden box still in tact.
Cut to present day Antarctica. Dominic Sena’s Whiteout, based on a graphic novel by Greg Rucka and Steve Lieber, presents Kate Beckinsdale (Underworld) as U.S. Marshall Carrie Stetko. Following her off the plane, into the station, and then into her living quarters, we get to watch her remove her heavy winter gear piece by piece, run her hands through her hair, remove her sports bra, and turn towards the shower. As she bends over to turn on the steaming hot water, Sena begs us to stay. By granting us a close up of Ms. Beckinsdale’s beautiful backside, he must be apologizing for keeping her covered in heavy coats for the rest of the movie.
Please read my full review at Shallow Graves Magazine.
