It is quite fitting that a week with lots of ups and downs would conclude with a film that mirrors that sensation.
WEEK TWO - GROWING PAINS
October 12
On the basis of its premise alone, Deadgirl is never going to be not without moral outrage, no matter tastefully done the sex and the violence could be directed, no matter how artful its thematic and philosophical questions and quandaries are handled, and no matter how good the film could actually be. Not that horror isn't known for crossing the line, but a film like Deadgirl tapdances on the line while calling your sister a slut and flipping everyone off with manic glee. Yes indeed, a film like Deadgirl is bound to have more detractors than it will have fans. And you can count me in the latter category, not because of any moral outrage I have towards it, but because it's actually a pretty shoddily put-together film, despite a couple of solid victories in its favor.
The first victory is an effective role reversal. As I mentioned, one of the boys, J.T. (Noah Segan), is the one that feels that the Deadgirl, as she is dubbed, is a gift that is to be cherished, or whatever passes for cherished in his book of beatings and rape on a being of questionable sentience. The other, Rickie (Shiloh Fernandez), is the morally conflicted youth, whose own romantic frustrations compound matters further for him, as this is the last thing he needs in his quest to woo the girl of his dreams. What the film does is it takes what we would normally identify as the hero in normal circumstances, in this case Rickie, and makes his actions unquestionably villainous. He's not aware of how much he makes things worse, of course, because in his mind, he's doing good things. Selfishness is funny like that, as every action he takes is to the detriment of the other characters, every irreparably damaged relationship of his own doing. In a film populated with unlikable characters, the hero is the worst one of all, since he has nothing to rely on except a delusional outlook of how life ought to be for him, rather than facing the reality of what it actually is, and expects to be celebrated for it. J.T. is unsympathetic as a result of his unscrupulous nature, but at least he knows that and is content with it. Even if the film spells it out a little too much in its ending, it's the film's one thematic victory, and it's a big one.
The other victory is Jenny Spain. As the titular character, she spends her entire role naked, and has all sorts of bad things happen to her, both sexual and violent. Lesser performers would have crumbled under the physical demands of such a role, but Spain practically soars to the occasion, selling the hell out of her part. Her stare, in particular, is a vital asset: she needs to sell the vacancy of her condition, but also that small little spark of possible sentience that makes you wonder what's really going on in that head of hers when she's being violated, regardless of what side of the fence you're on with said violations, and because of Spain's commitment, she makes that stare responsible for her being the most fascinating character in the entire film, despite not getting one single audible line of dialogue. She doesn't appear to have done much outside of this film, but I hope she knows what a great job she did in a role that would have destroyed lesser actresses.
As mentioned, the film's script has one major thematic victory to its credit. Against it is everything else, as the plot progression often renders the story sluggish, confused, ridiculous, and in desperate need of sensible story beats (the film has clearly never heard of Chekhov's gun). Especially problematic is the film last 40 minutes or so, which throws just about every poorly-planned plot escalation in the book at the screen, giving little regard to how much sense it makes. Compounding things further is how generally poorly directed the film is: you would think that with two directors that there would have been some kind of coverage if one of them would falter, but both Marcel Sarmiento and Gadi Harel are determined to underwhelm every step of the way. The film's aesthetic is overbearingly ugly, its editing subpar and worse (one particularly bad example is a scene involving a dog, and you'll know which one), its soundtrack varying levels of irritating (particularly the indie rock selections), and its sound mixing is haphazard, with many lines of dialogue sounding like they're being delivered out of a iPhone speaker that was purchased at Walgreens. Worst of all is the acting outside of Jenny Spain, which ranges from OK (our two male leads) to "Malin Akerman in Watchmen" bad (the jocks, Joann), with very little in between.
Deadgirl is a film that, when it succeeds, it's always in spite of itself. What could have be a solid win for transgressive filmmaking winds up struggling to justify its run time, filling it up with tone deaf attempts at humor, supporting actors that you wish were mute, and being a film that's the wrong kind of ugly. It's a shame, too: a better film would have pissed even more people off.
Sanity check: Well, I was certainly not expecting so many peaks and valleys, but that's the fun of these marathons, since you're not ever really supposed to know what to expect. It's appropriate that films about coming-of-age stories are much like real life coming-of-ages: some go on to become successful, and some would be better served living in a basement for the rest of their days. Even if there's already frontrunners for the worst films I've seen for the marathon, I'm not regretful about seeing any of them. Well, maybe the original We Are What We Are...
October 13 preview: I'll need all the mental fortitude that I can muster up, as we head into what will surely be the biggest challenge of all the marathons I've had thus far, with a week of some of the most controversial filmmaking on the planet. To kick things off, we start with a secret shame. Widely regarded as one of the bad boys of the Japanese extreme horror boom of the early 2000s, in the same breath as the likes of Battle Royale and just about everything Miike did in that period,
Suicide Club went sadly unnoticed by me, even during a Asian film kick that saw me rent far less reputable films. One can hope that I've been a dummy for a decade, as I finally get around to watching it.