Hollywood: You Pull the Trigger on My Gun Love

Joseph Bellamy Hollywood: You Pull the Trigger on My Gun Love, by Joseph James Bellamy PG-13 is the second newest, next to the nearly unused NC-17 of MPAA ratings. We who are old enough to remember thought of it as “nearly R”, often pushing imagery to just short of the skin barrier. Allowing just enough violence to be fun; without a single F-bomb. It was an innocent creation of a slightly more innocent age, intended to save the already lost innocence of a generation. After all, how many among us hadn’t sneaked a peak at our big brother’s “reading material” or Dad’s beta tape collections by 1984 when the rating was first introduced?

Inevitably, time passes and all things must change. The same holds true of pop-culture, and for the PG-13 film, times have most assuredly changed.

Not long ago, my wife and I double-dated with some friends. In order to keep it light and fun for all concerned, we decided on the tween-actioner Sucker Punch. It was a fun, flashy, popcorn-fest to be sure. If you can imagine constructing a narrative from the frustrated musings of a contemporary 12-year-old boy, then you may have a sense of this film.

 I was settled in to the story, which centers on the disturbing misadventures of a group of teen girls in a shady mental health facility in the 60’s. I began to notice certain elements of the film were setting off bells in my head. The story takes place in three worlds. The first is the institution. The second is an alternate world, some sort of hyper-cabaret gentleman’s club and brothel, where the girls are the main attraction. The third is a non-sequitor pastiche of combat missions into war-torn fantasy landscapes that rival the top gamer favorites. In this world, the girls are presented as a squad of heavily armed and scantily clad super-commandos (including a naughty-as-she-wants-to-be-looking Vanessa Hudgens, who has apparently outgrown mouse-eared musicals) pitted against endless hordes of inhuman villains. It was the second and third worlds and their sequential relation to each other, that gave me pause. I began to pay more attention as a filmmaker, to what I was seeing. The pattern became starkly, worryingly obvious.

 Every time things in “Bordello World” reach the point of explicit exposure, we are moved by way of a MacGuffin device, cleverly disguised as a jailbait lap dance, to a battle sequence, a sort-of bloodless war-gasm, if you will. Interestingly enough, blood, at least as much as would be expected from so much violence, is conspicuously absent. It is made all the more conspicuous when one considers that it was the blood and gore of films such as Indian Jones and the Temple of Doom and Gremlins that gave rise to the rating in the first place. I doubt one would get much argument that both films would be considered tame in today’s Hollywood. 

Needless to say, by the end of the picture (which I did thoroughly enjoy incidentally) my mind was on spin cycle as I tried to remember if the PG-13 films of my youth presented the same aesthetic. I couldn’t think of one, which isn’t to say that it doesn’t exist; I just couldn’t and can’t come up with one. Since that day, I have watched (observed?) a number of more recent offerings that have earned this rating and there seems to be a discernable trend. Take the obviously unstoppable franchise of the Fast and the Furious for example. Nothing against the filmmakers, they’ve just made it work so well, it’s worth referencing. Stars Vin Diesel and Paul Walker, both have highly-flirtatious and highly-sexualized relationships with women. As the underlying tension escalates, not only is the sex avoided by the camera, but it seems the only solution to that tension is a fist-fight, a gun-fight, an explosion, or the franchise signature race/chase. The case is similar across the board and if the gimmicks aren’t for gear heads, they’re for gamers. Ask Mila Jovovich how to make a billion dollars and she’ll say two words, “Resident Evil”, and Peter Jackson is still trying to get a Halo movie made. 

I can understand keeping the sex under wraps. I can just as easily understand sanitizing the violence. What worries me is the thought that the sex = violence connection is being drilled into the minds of a very specific market: boys, age 11-14. Fusing seamlessly into an adolescent lifestyle typified, if not defined, by globe-spanning FPS video games, remote access socializing, and burgeoning sexuality, this kind of kiss-kiss, bang-bang may have further reaching effects than a mere 90 minutes of entertainment.  I won’t go so far, or be so paranoid, as to claim greater plan. That said, we live in a world where wars are fought with laser-guided missiles, drone planes, subs, and robotic weapons platforms. I’m not too comfortable with the next few generations of eligible serviceman having their trigger fingers hardwired to their private parts, a lifetime of simulator hours, and a taste for violence without consequence. Are you?      

Written by Joseph James Bellamy
Editor: TS Harmon
Published by Modern Cinema Magazine
© Modern Cinema Magazine 2011

FILM REVIEW: "DIRTY OLD TOWN", by Ali Bell

Ali Bell FILM REVIEW: Dirty Old Town, by Ali Bell Dirty Old Town has its NYC Premiere at The Quad Cinema as part of NYIIFVF, May 5th, 2011. Co-directors Jenner Furst and Daniel B. Levin who first collaborated on Captured, (the 2008 documentary about New York’s Lower East Side) have come together once again to bring us Dirty Old Town.

Dirty, which shares many of the same themes with the earlier film, is a triumph of cinema verité, comparable to Cassavetes’ Shadows or A Woman Under The Influence. Like Cassavetes, it is the thin line of distinction between real life and art that makes this a truly worthy film-going experience. 


I was admittedly drawn in by my past; a teen fraught with the boredom of a suburban upbringing, as a youth, I was always enticed to wander beyond my culturally bankrupt beginnings and head out in search of culture, and at the very least, adventure. For me, more often than not, that meant the dirty old streets of New York City. 

I often found myself ditching school to witness the City’s nocturnal transformation into a carnivalesque landscape of surreal beauty, cool people and crazy freaks. It was a place full of mysterious characters, and ones which I should have perhaps steered clear of, but it was the New York City that I know and love. Dirty Old Town is a loving portrait of the disappearing landscape of this New York City, giving us a longing glimpse into a magical world that once was. 

Dirty Old Town opens to Billy, (William Leroy) decked out in biker-leather, and a gray-blonde ponytail rumbling down a New York City overpass on a chopper en route to pay his landlord for two months back-rent on his Antiques Tent. The gruff-looking Houston Street antique vendor has got seventy-two hours to pay it all down, or a Starbucks is moving in, or so threatens the landlord. 

The shop is the location on which the film revolves, and Billy the tough, streetwise single dad of a soon-to-be college-going daughter, struggles with financial and moral temptations while managing some great authentic comedic one-liners in the face of adversity. 

At the Antiques Tent, the circus-of-regulars filter in. Billy commiserates with Nicky, (Nicholas De Cegli,) who delivers a compelling performance, as the wisecracking tough-guy with the neurotic, seven-note mutter of “nu-nu-nu-nu-nu-nu-nu.” 

Nicky is the figurative mayor of their dirty old world who follows dirty old rules, without regard to what anyone thinks or has to say. So, when dirty cop Bobby, (Scott Dillin) approaches Billy’s Antique Tent and informs Billy, “I’m gonna fuck you right where you stand,” Nicky decides to take matters into his own hands. (Not that Billy can’t take care of himself, but because that’s just what Nicky does.) 

Enter gypsy-junky, Rachel (Jannel Shirtcliff) an impish ethereal beauty, who moves seductively through the lens and is strongest when she takes pause to reflect. Shirtcliff’s allegorical muse gracefully drifts through the sideshow freaks and back-alley drug deals while fending off the likes of Clayton Patterson (of Captured) who tauntingly inquires whether she’s  “still hookin’ and crookin’?”  

It is Rachel’s self-serving actions, which unwittingly force the other characters to come to terms with their own questionable morality; a labyrinth of uncertainty, which becomes increasingly difficult to traverse as their collective escapades spiral out of control. 

It is the same sense of boredom or adventure, which lead me to the New York streets as a teen, which leads Rachel around the streets and eventually to Hans, (played by real-life nightlife impresario and Club Guru Paul Sevigny.)  In his hot-red pants, Sevigny plays his character as cavalier, dismissive, and dissonant with an almost American Psycho demeanor. Hans’ haughty personality collides with Rachel’s as she enters Hans’ immaculate, lavish apartment uninvited.  

Behind his fetching blonde-hair, blue-eyes, and a storm of dissociative mannerisms are some deftly-held secrets. These are secrets, which are bound to get Rachel into trouble if she keeps digging. But, Hans is among the elite of Rachel’s men and one she can easily steal from.  So when Rachel shows up at Billy’s with an unusual stolen relic formerly belonging to Hans, Billy is not entirely surprised, yet somewhat freaked out and more than a little apprehensive about taking possession of it. 

But, needing the money, Billy negotiates on a promise that Rachel won’t spend the money on drugs. Of course, this is a promise Rachel has no intention of keeping, and she is off to the pad of the uber-insane deviant creep-show which is Ronnie Sunshine, (who is played by Ronnie Sunshine, himself.) A drug and sex-fest ensues, complete with leather whips swinging, sex-toys bouncing, porn playing on TV, and Ronnie chanting cheerfully incoherent nonsense. Naturally, the festivities conclude when Rachel blinks out like a broken light after attempting to outdo Al Pacino’s level of cocaine consumption in Scarface. 

Meanwhile, Nicky meanders around Little Italy chatting it up with locals and tourists, and pouring on the charm and streetwise folly which he is known for. He’s embraced by the people around him, even strangers want to chat it up. Nicky is fiercely loyal and loves his friends without equivocation. His pathos is palpable and his acting is dead-on natural. 

(Where has this guy been? Oh yes, a ton of award-winning movies like Bad Lieutenant and many others-- as well as actually being a longtime NYC nightlife legend.) 

Soon, Nicky’s attention switches focus to tailing Bobby the cop, at which point he overhears a conversation between Bobby and Vic, (Sergio Valentin) the drug dealer. And, after witnessing some altogether too hairy and particularly illegal street activities, Nicky handles it as only Nicky can. Suffice to say, I can’t say any more without spoiling the plot, but Nicky’s discovery will change everyone’s life if they don’t change it for themselves. 

Dirty Old Town is a loving portrait of the once vibrant and viscerally engaging New York City which now seems to be slowly vanishing under the corporate Disneyfication of this proud city’s rich past. The cast brings a tangible pulse to the characters, which lesser performers may have painted as caricatures. But, this gifted and agile ensemble delivers a rock-solid performance in this compelling film, which was shot over a few sweltering August weeks in Little Italy, and The Bowery. 

What this film gets, which so many New York City films miss is the true pulse of the streets. Its fresh portrayal of this quirky, miscreant gaggle of kooks brings me back to my youth in this tribute to the soul of the neighborhood; a cogitating meditation on the streets. With the help of resourceful producers Marc Levin, Mark Benjamin and Stephanie Porto, Dirty Old Town brings to life an intimate study of peculiar variety, with subtle, well-placed New York style comedic jabs. Not only is the colorful mosaic well-filled by the cast, but the writing team of  Daniel B. Levin, Jenner Furst and Julia Willoughby Nason weave together a narrative structure which will keep the audience on the edge of their sticky New York seats, wishing they had brought some sanitary napkins to wipe themselves clean when the lights turn down. 

Go to the city, walk the streets of the Dirty Old Town and meet these people (don’t let anyone hear you ask for a Starbucks though). Billy, Nicky, Rachel, Bobby, Hans and Vic are all there. If not in the flesh, then embodied by others you’ll run into. Just heed my warning-- do not enter Ronnie Sunshine’s pad… unless you’re into that sort of thing!    

  DIRTY OLD TOWN: OFFICIAL PROMO - SPRING 2011 from Dirty Old Town on Vimeo.

http://dirtyoldtownmovie.com/ Dirty Event Page

Review written by Ali Bell
Editor: TS Harmon

"CONVENTO": The Art of Living, by SM Crowningshield

S. M. Crowningshield Convento refers to the former monastery Convento Sao Francisco which sits on a green, wooded hill on the outskirts of the Portuguese village of Mértola. But its location is perhaps insignificant because the Convento is truly it’s own world. And director Jared Alterman captures that world beautifully, with a deft eye and clear reverence for the people -- and things -- that inhabit it.

As the film’s only textual captions will tell you at the beginning, the Convento itself was built in the 1600s to house Christian relics from The Crucifiction. It was a monastery until the 1830s, and remained abandoned for some 120 years after. It’s a rich history, and Convento shows how that history is continuing today. But rather than Christian monks it’s the Zwanikken family who now walk the corridors and tend the elaborate gardens. They also practice their own form of monkish dedication to their beliefs. Alterman says that the minute he stepped into the Convento and met the Zwanikkens, he knew he’d have to come back. And bring a camera.

Geraldine Zwanikken and her husband decided to move from the Amsterdam art scene decades ago and they bought the overgrown land and decrepit buildings that make up the Convento. They left the Netherlands not to escape anything -- in fact Geraldine was at the height of a ballet career -- but because they felt change was a good thing. It is great to do art for a crowds, but perhaps doing your own art for yourself could be something sublime. The Zwanikkens brought with them their two young sons, Louis and Christiaan, barely older than toddlers at the time.

Together they made the Convento into the world that it is today. They repaired the buildings, brought in electricity, began growing their food -- but more than that they created a world solely for themselves. Like the monks before them who distanced themselves from the rest of the world in order to perfect their reverence for God, the Zwanikkens began perfecting their reverence for life.

Today, some 30 years later, the boys are grown and their father has died (though Geraldine will tell you that death does not exist). She tends the grounds, trundling through the pond to pull the weed-like plants that prevent the turtles from surfacing. Always laughing and casual, she refers to it as the pond’s “haircut.” Louis focuses on the animals, putting so much time and effort into their care that director Alterman has said he could barely keep up. Louis has grown to think of the animals as friends.

They each clearly have reached that sublime status of pure life, living how they want to live. The things they must do are also the things they want to do. But it is the activities of Christiaan that perhaps best exemplifies this notion, and in a tangible way.

Christiaan is a kinetic artist. He blends mechanics and the remains of animals found on the property into otherworldly creatures that move and occasionally speak in awe-inspiring ways. It is his artwork that provides the strange helmeted-rabbit creation used to promote Convento, an image likely disturbing to some but one that is simply assembled from the components of our daily lives. Alterman shows these creations in action, he in fact collaborated with Christiaan to really bring them to life for the camera. The jaw bones that clatter effortlessly, the bird skulls that look left and right as if watching for prey -- they are all truly amazing.

Perhaps the most surprising piece of all is the ancient water well that pulls up water for the entire garden and for centuries was turned by donkey. In today’s Convento, it’s turned by a mechanical animal with tire treads for feet and ears that flit about as if swishing real flies away. It is artwork blended with practicality as much as it is modern mechanics blended with bits of nature’s own machines. 

Convento shows a world dedicated to that blend. The practicality of art, the art of living. It shows this with amazing images, alternating the strange with the familiar. It balances images of death with a casual air and occasional humor. The world that Alterman captures in Convento is a world well worth paying a visit to.

Website: Convento

Review written by S.M. Crowningshield
Editor: Rod Webber
Published by Reel Zine
© Reel Zine 2011

FILM REVIEW: "CATECHISM CATACLYSM" by BillyJack Williams

FILM REVIEW: CATECHISM CATACLYSM: The New Surrealist's Handbook, by BillyJack Williams  Todd Rohal is the new Godfather of surrealist cinema. There. I said it. In case you haven’t heard of him, he’s the guy responsible for The Guatemalan Handshake but his latest, Catechism Cataclysm is on a different plane of existence.

Catechism is a Salvador Dali portrait of the mind of a twelve-year-old boy on acid stuck in the body of a priest, jammed into a canoe, swilling a case of beer and rocking out to the Slayer anthology. Rohal achieves this, all while providing the painful belly laughs provided by an all-night marathon of This is Spinal Tap.

The film starts out on a day like any other, (for those of us trying to make up for a life of sin,) in church. Father Billy (Steve Little of HBO’s Eastbound and Down,) is a bumbling, incompetent, viral-video-obsessed priest who lacks the good sense to hide his foibles and idiosyncrasies from his parish. This… and he provides Kaufman-esque belly laughs by yanking the rug out from under our brains ‘til our funny bones can’t take it any more… and start punching the crap out of our stomachs. Rohal’s objective seems to be to twist our minds into a magic-unicorn pretzel, so it is no surprise that his faux-parable spouting Father Billy is a vehicle for bringing the audience on a what-the-fuck-just-happened ride down the murky waters of the river Absurdia only to arrive at a boy-scout camp run by Old Scratch who is presumably messed up on peyote.

On the day that Billy attempts to draw a moral conclusion with the “parable” of an old woman who pulls out a gun on a pair of would-be-thieves, the elder clergy at the Church decide that they’ve had enough. Billy is ordered to reconsider his vocation and sent on a spiritual vacation. Enter Robbie (Robert Longstreet,) the heavy-metal, head-banging roadie/ former boyfriend of Father Billy’s sister. Billy’s sister, naturally is long since out of the picture, but this seems to matter little to our church-going leading man who, as it turns out, has been keeping tabs on his head-banging buddy since high school, and has always been a big fan of his writing. Of course, this is the furthest thing from Robbie’s mind since he can’t even remember Father Billy, and only agreed to the trip to get Billy to stop sending him emails.

The mismatched duo embark on a fishing trip which starts out ordinarily enough, but takes us from kicking back beers, to places in the mind you wouldn’t expect. The trip takes a bizarre turn when Father Billy and Robbie get lost, only to be “rescued” by two sexy-panda-outfit-wearing Asian women with a limited grasp of English. They are accompanied by a stoic trip-guide who speaks not a word until he decides to confess to Father Billy while Billy is falling-down drunk, and urinating in the dark by a tree.

Admittedly, I had no idea what to expect when I fired up my screener copy of the film, but like any good trip, this film is best viewed without any knowledge of what is coming next. So, to do no further injustice to your viewing experience, I will close in saying that this was the funniest film I’ve seen all year. Catechism Cataclysm was like Easy Rider meets The Holy Grail in a canoe. Two epic journeys of epic proportion with enough silly left-turns to keep you doubled-over with laughter for the film’s 75-minute run time. See this movie. I will kill anyone who says this movie wasn’t the funniest thing they’ve seen all year.

Film: "Catachism Cataclysm"
Director: Todd Rohal
Film's website: http://www.catechismcataclysm.com/

Review written by BillyJack Williams
Editor: Joseph James Bellamy

Deus ex Machina: A FILM REVIEW of "Little Gods" by Robert P. Young

Robert P. Young I recall seeing a post from a Facebook friend regarding the ubiquitous Hitler meme culled from the gripping movie Der Untergang. This scene is in Hitler’s bunker, where all is lost, and Hitler’s generals are reluctantly telling him that the cavalry will not arrive. Hitler characteristically explodes and blames everyone and everything but himself for losing the war.

It is powerfully acted by Bruno Ganz, but when it is subverted for use as a meme, Hitler dutifully rants about everything from losing at Xbox to hating the controversial revamp of Star Trek to expressing disgust at LeBron James’ “decision.”

Technology now allows us to alter what was once sobering into something incongruously mundane.

What if soldiers—and I hope non-Axis ones—had iPhones back in the 1940’s? Despite the politics of the leaders, average soldiers are pretty similar. Young. Full of bravado. Ball-busting constantly. Fearful. Unintentionally poignant.

Gods’ lead character, Private Doss (Matthew Schlichter) is no John Wayne as a soldier. (Doubly so—Doss actually served.) Wide-eyed, youthful, it’s surprising that he’s married, rather than playing the field with girls his age. But then again, he’s in the military, a world in which men take on responsibility earlier than the average man-child Kay Hymowitz writes about.

Where does Doss come from? We see his family about halfway into the film. His wife is pleasant enough. But Doss’s blood relatives have the real spark—dysfunctional even as they send their video messages of love. His mother is overbearing, physically dominating the screen by standing too close to the camera. She casually embarrasses her older son, Danny, by claiming that her late husband would be proud only of the son in Afghanistan. Like a good suburban mother, her suspicions about why her thirty-five year old son “with a good job” still lives with a male “roommate” are only skin-deep. Did Doss join the military to get away from this dynamic, or because there weren’t other good jobs like his brother’s? The film doesn’t answer those questions, but having them in the back of my mind deepened my interest.

Back in Afghanistan, each of the soldiers gets a chance to mug for the camera, and it seems like this will be a spring break video in “camo” gear. Then we are reminded that this is war. Doss’s best friend, a smart-mouthed, resourceful black man nicknamed “Trench,” is ignominiously killed while defecating in the open air.

Immediately after, Doss’s traumatized eye fills the frame, unblinking, almost as if it is as dead as his friend’s. Though overused later, this is a strong choice.

Back in the barracks, the soldiers’ superior officer expresses his regret that not all of his men will return home. Trench’s sleeping bag is rolled up and his effects surround his cot. Seeing the space, for the first time without the man, was striking—it made me feel his death far more powerfully than seeing a corpse. The real pain of death is what you leave behind.

Doss descends into depression and anti-social behavior. The line readings, which previously played out as 100% spontaneous and improvisational, seemed a little less convincing after this turning point, a side-effect of what I suspect was the need to adhere somewhat more closely to the script. Despite this slight lessening of the fly-on-the-wall/ documentary feeling, it is not to the detriment of the film overall. In fact, Schlichter's charisma easily, as well as that of the entire cast overpowers any shortcomings in the shooting technique.

Spear’s unflinching choice to show the unpleasant side of the iPhone, a voyeuristic device at the most inappropriate times--especially when a maimed (and possibly dying) soldier pleads with Doss not to film him in his condition—is quite impressive. True, Doss is capturing a powerful moment, much like a photographer would have captured Pulitzer-prize winning images from 9/11 or Katrina, but it begs the question, where is your humanity, your decency, when you choose to film rather than to help?

The soldiers are fascinatingly vulnerable human beings. This is where I believe the film is most successful, in depicting our soldiers as people we would—and do—have a beer with, rather than as statistics, victims, or killers. Yet these ordinary men have volunteered to put themselves into extraordinary circumstances. They are demigods—little gods—with their courage.

When future generations look back at our generation’s wars, they will not be separated from their ancestors like we were with the barriers of black and white footage and stagecraft from the media and the government. They will have great gifts like Ms. Spear’s Little Gods, which will illustrate the unfiltered horrors of war along with the triumphs of survival. Little Gods will not only reduce you to tears, it will get your blood boiling. Little Gods is a triumph as a film, and doubtlessly it will do more for today's soldiers than any recruiting ad will.

Don’t ignore this iPhone call.

Film: "Little Gods"
Director: Elizabeth Spear
Film's website: www.littlegodsfilm.com
Screening at Reel Fest, March 15th, 2011 www.reelfest.org

Review written by Robert P. Young III
Editor: TS Harmon

FILM REVIEW: MODUS OPERANDI Uno, Dos, Trejo! By Joseph James Bellamy

Joseph Bellamy Born in 1974, I missed the popular explosion of the so called ’Exploitation’ genre, having instead been part of the generation that made huge budget , FX laden action blockbusters the film of choice in Hollywood. Having seen Modus Operandi, I now miss what I didn’t know.

Aiming to capture the romance and allure of these lower-budget, harder-boiled classics, Writer/Director Frankie Latina’s Modus hit’s the mark like a sniper shot, and makes it look as smooth and easy as uno,  dos, Trejo! With a Porn-Star pedigree (Former Porn A-lister, Actress, and Independent Film Maven Sasha Grey touts a ‘Presented by:’ Credit on the film ) , bare bones, 8mm vision, life-is-as-cheap-as-bullets narrative and the casting of Hollywood’s hands-down scariest bad guy, Modus Operandi is an outstanding, cult-ready ready offering for the cerebral film-goer, and the booms-and-boobs audience alike!

Shot in a medium once relegated to the least respectable of film efforts, It’s a feast of vintage cinematic technique, glam-art sex appeal and contemporary indie style. Not the typical Hollywood roller-coaster, but rather a slow cruise through the darkest part of town, In an impossibly slick black sedan. The story, the chronicle of a burned-out hit-man’s quest for vengeance, is played out amidst a world of perverse secrets, professional lies and political murders. The action percolates and simmers, often boiling over with sex and violence, but never cheapens itself with an overtly gratuitous explosion. Instead, the blood and pyrotechnics are applied for impact, not mindless flash-effect.

First, we are inducted into the films world with a sepia-toned smoking advisory and title-card. We then meet our (anti) hero, Stanley Cashay, through flash backs and the voiced-over memories of his deceased wife. Cashay, a retired triggerman for the shadowy ‘Intelligencia’, is brought to a sort of spooky half-life by the gaunt look and smooth mannerisms of Randy Russell ("American Job"). His suit, shades and smokes all invoke to the uber-cool secret agent men of a hipper time. Cue the funky, retro credits, and you can almost hear the door to the slick black sedan click shut behind you. ’Modus’ is rolling, and you’re along for the ride.

In the step with the films deliberate pacing, We then bare witness to a deal gone dirty, and are introduced to our ‘bad-guys‘:. Squire Parks, An altogether too-smooth politician portrayed with oily aplomb by Michael Sottile ("Reservoir Dogs"), the crooked Copper Gore, played by Mark Metcalf, and his long haired associate Dallas Deacon played by noted independent film-maker Mark Borchardt ("American Movie.") Lest we think these miscreants aren‘t carrying enough criminal credentials, enter Danny Trejo as bad-ass boss-man Director Holiday. Trejo’s brand of gravel-voiced menace immediately fills the screen, and your consciousness, like the sight of a venomous snake coiled for the lunge.

The holy-grail of the story is also established, in the form of two much-sought after black briefcases. Cashay must track them down and bring them back to his former handlers in the Intelligencia. The assignment is made irresistible when the ‘good-guys’ offer Cashay the chance to avenge his wife’s murder.

What follows is a tension building skulk through an attractively gritty, sexy underworld of strippers and killers, that spans from the dark alleys of Milwaukee to the bright lights of Tokyo. It is a darkly fantastic landscape, made real with the use of period-appropriate props, and peopled with the genre-essential cast of supporting characters. There is the always cooperative privateer, Casey Thunderbird (Barry Polterman,) the deliciously sexy hit-woman, Black Licorice (Nicole Johnson,) and a whole host of agents, assassins, hit-girls and hotties. A series of hand-offs, coded conversations and doubles crosses move the story along smoothly, without every letting up the pressure that has been steadily re-doubling since the first turn of the projector.

The drama is expertly punctuated with shoot-outs, car chases and even a brief, but impacting homage to Hitchcock’s classic thriller North By North West. All the while, the viewers sense that they have been taken on a ride that is far more than they had bargained for sinks deeper into the psyche, which is cruising more and more comfortably with every passing 8 mm. frame.

Over the course of the film, we are shown several clips of what appears to be beta-cam recorded video of young women seemingly auditioning for porno. As the story progresses, we come to understand the true nature of the footage, how it ties the principals players together, and ultimately, what they, and it, convey to us about the true meaning of power. This last idea, the meaning of power, is driven home for the audience in a climactic encounter between Squire Parks and Director Holiday, where Trejo’s words and deeds can only be described as pure Vato Loco, HOMES!

All in all, Frankie Latina and Milwaukee-based Special Entertainment can be very proud of Modus Operandi. They have not only succeeded in bringing a spot-on homage to the hard-hitting , so-called exploitation genre to a modern audience, but they have managed to remind us that a good film is about transporting the audience.

Modus Operandi is sure winner that takes you through the shadows and into another world. Now that I  know, I can tell you; between the cool tunes of the sound-track, the seemingly endless supply of Hot bodies and the cold, calculated style of Stanley Cashay, it’s a world in which you will be fully engrossed, and won’t ever want to leave.

Film: "Modus Operandi"

Director: Frankie Latina

Film's website: www.frankielatina.com

Screening at Reel Fest, March 14th, 2011 www.reelfest.org

Review written by Joseph James Bellamy

Editor: TS Harmon

Indie Film UnderGround: Tonight in Denver

Rod Webber Hear Ye!!! Hear Ye!!!  It's John Hartman! John Hartman, proponent of all things Indie, all things Film, and all things Underground! So, it would only be natural to assume that when John Hartman puts on a film festival... He'd call it Indie Film Underground.

Hartman's goal in creating the event is to bring avant-garde filmmakers out into the open, so that there is a place to see films that aren't necessarily about lawn gnomes. Although, knowing Hartman's sensibilities; German Expressionism, grainy super-8 footage, Dutch angles, I wouldn't be surprised if after reading this interview, he set out to make a film about lawn gnomes. John's films are always boundary-pushing. John's films are always beautiful, but not in that Hollywood way. John is able to find beauty in a darkened corridor in the pit of an old castle. John can find beauty in an old trash can.

To be assured, if John did set out to make a film about a lawn gnome, I'm sure that the way in which he shot it would if not blow your mind, at the very least, allow you to see that garden gnome in a new light. Now, all of this talk of gnomes is not to say that I'm not a big fan of Gnomeo and Juliet.... After all, Gnomeo is (technically) the Bard. But, I think you know what I'm driving at.

Come to think of it, I think that John's film Petrified does have a lawn gnome in it... I will have to revisit that one.

If you are in Denver tonight, check out John's film fest. If the films he has programmed are anything like  the films that he creates, it is sure to be mind opening. Check it out!

www.indiefilmunderground.com

Written by TS Harmon