Everyone likes a good B-movie. Even if we don’t, in the strictest sense, get them any more, ie cheap, more often than not unambitious and uncomplicated genre films that accompany a more illustrious main feature. Films are longer, trailers are awful, ubiquitous, far too much part of the contemporary multiplex furniture, attention-spans can no longer take in two films in one sitting. This is a shame if you ask me. Imagine Marley & Me pre-ambled with a truncated version of Saw? Or Wallace and Gromit easing you into someone getting their clit snipped off?
The modern day version of the B-movie is normally shot in grainy digital and bypasses every cinema on its scuzzy way to Blockbuster or worse. This is normally a good thing: most films, let alone B-movies, are not very good, and we wouldn’t want to see too many diluted siblings of film stars jostling for no-frills attention. We want to see their indignant, talentless faces on cheesy plastic DVD cases, yearning for attention as you mercilessly walk past on your way to the talent. But: some B-movies were meant to be born that way; they may outgrow their humble beginnings to terrify millions of people (Texas Chainsaw) or create crazes in pottery. Ultimately, some films are there to catch you unawares, no fanfare, and get you a bit mucky and slash you with a rusty flick-knife while you’re not really paying attention. Transformers is a B-movie, but it, and its sequel, forgot about the low-key, unawares bit. It’s a B-movie dressed up in garish getup masquerading as something a bit more uppity. John Carpenter knows what a proper latter-day B-movie is – a brilliant punch in the mouth. A scruffy but stylish grenade thrown into your viscera.
Surveillance is correctly attired and knows exactly what it is: it’s a nasty police-procedural set in two colour-bled locations (shot through a gunmetal filter), with an inexpensive cast and a determination to thoroughly displease you. And for that, you’ve got to admire it. It’s the cinematic equivalent of a strange girl wandering up to you at a party and asking you to slap her – disturbing but darkly intriguing. But not particularly good (cue Marc...).
Brief rundown: Bill Pullman (once the slightly poisoned face of middle America, now a stick-on weirdo) and Julia Ormond (once of glossy rom-coms and quaintly ridiculous swashbucklers, now clearly prepared to get her hands dirty to salvage her career) are two FBI agents investigating something dodgy that happened (revealed as the film gathers pace) on a remote stretch of sunboiled highway. A Village People-esque cop, a grungy bit of slattern and a dauntingly quiet young girl are all interviewed, the stories don’t exactly merge, Pullman twitches a lot and has a sleazeface you’d expect to be found loitering on the perimeter of the local meat-market dancefloor. Nothing, of course, is as it seems. Michael Ironside cheers you up just by being involved, even on autopilot, and it’s like catching sight of a vague uncle at a dull, menacing party. Ultimately, there’s a fair bit of bloodshed, the grim prospect of rape, a pretty ace death-by-van, a predictable ending and a residue not of disquiet but that it could have been so much more (depraved). The cop-humour isn’t funny or dark enough, the characters not imperilled-enough, the sickfest you were waiting for scarcely happens and you end the film with all kinds of neat, disgusting ways it might otherwise have panned-out flitting through your under-nourished brain. I wanted to embrace a film uninterested in placating anyone or withholding sheer hell, but it’s all too underwhelming and runs out of steam. Only Ormond retains a disturbing semblance of controlled freakishness – Pullman blows his load with twenty minutes left and then seems to have half an eye on the wrap party.
The weirdness isn’t that weird and the Lynchfactor is barely noticeable. Since that was what drew me (and how many others?) to the film, Jennifer, no chip off the old block, must surely give up the ghost after this. If Surveillance were a CCTV camera it would watch itself whilst we all got away with tedious murder.
The modern day version of the B-movie is normally shot in grainy digital and bypasses every cinema on its scuzzy way to Blockbuster or worse. This is normally a good thing: most films, let alone B-movies, are not very good, and we wouldn’t want to see too many diluted siblings of film stars jostling for no-frills attention. We want to see their indignant, talentless faces on cheesy plastic DVD cases, yearning for attention as you mercilessly walk past on your way to the talent. But: some B-movies were meant to be born that way; they may outgrow their humble beginnings to terrify millions of people (Texas Chainsaw) or create crazes in pottery. Ultimately, some films are there to catch you unawares, no fanfare, and get you a bit mucky and slash you with a rusty flick-knife while you’re not really paying attention. Transformers is a B-movie, but it, and its sequel, forgot about the low-key, unawares bit. It’s a B-movie dressed up in garish getup masquerading as something a bit more uppity. John Carpenter knows what a proper latter-day B-movie is – a brilliant punch in the mouth. A scruffy but stylish grenade thrown into your viscera.
Surveillance is correctly attired and knows exactly what it is: it’s a nasty police-procedural set in two colour-bled locations (shot through a gunmetal filter), with an inexpensive cast and a determination to thoroughly displease you. And for that, you’ve got to admire it. It’s the cinematic equivalent of a strange girl wandering up to you at a party and asking you to slap her – disturbing but darkly intriguing. But not particularly good (cue Marc...).
Brief rundown: Bill Pullman (once the slightly poisoned face of middle America, now a stick-on weirdo) and Julia Ormond (once of glossy rom-coms and quaintly ridiculous swashbucklers, now clearly prepared to get her hands dirty to salvage her career) are two FBI agents investigating something dodgy that happened (revealed as the film gathers pace) on a remote stretch of sunboiled highway. A Village People-esque cop, a grungy bit of slattern and a dauntingly quiet young girl are all interviewed, the stories don’t exactly merge, Pullman twitches a lot and has a sleazeface you’d expect to be found loitering on the perimeter of the local meat-market dancefloor. Nothing, of course, is as it seems. Michael Ironside cheers you up just by being involved, even on autopilot, and it’s like catching sight of a vague uncle at a dull, menacing party. Ultimately, there’s a fair bit of bloodshed, the grim prospect of rape, a pretty ace death-by-van, a predictable ending and a residue not of disquiet but that it could have been so much more (depraved). The cop-humour isn’t funny or dark enough, the characters not imperilled-enough, the sickfest you were waiting for scarcely happens and you end the film with all kinds of neat, disgusting ways it might otherwise have panned-out flitting through your under-nourished brain. I wanted to embrace a film uninterested in placating anyone or withholding sheer hell, but it’s all too underwhelming and runs out of steam. Only Ormond retains a disturbing semblance of controlled freakishness – Pullman blows his load with twenty minutes left and then seems to have half an eye on the wrap party.
The weirdness isn’t that weird and the Lynchfactor is barely noticeable. Since that was what drew me (and how many others?) to the film, Jennifer, no chip off the old block, must surely give up the ghost after this. If Surveillance were a CCTV camera it would watch itself whilst we all got away with tedious murder.
I missed my cue. What should I be saying?
ReplyDeleteNothing in particular, just thought you'd spring to an impassioned defence of the film seeing as you preferred it 'somewhat', or have you revised that? It all started promisingly enough...
ReplyDelete