Something Cult, Foreign-Language or Indie #167: Saint (2010).

On 5 December 1492, in the Netherlands, a rebel group with their leader, former bishop Niklas (Huub Stapel), are murdered by villagers sick of their violence. Then, in years where their death date sees a full moon, they return for bloody revenge as ghosts. However, nobody else knows of this and the Dutch all keep celebrating the Sinterklaas tradition of 5 December, even after the gang's last return in 1968, when they murdered hundreds including the entire family of a young boy, Gert (Niels van den Berg), who's now a policeman (Bert Luppes). That brings us to 2010, where at the local high school Frank (Egbert Jan-Weeber) and Lisa (Caro Lenssen) are the it-couple. She believes in Niklas' existence and Frank doesn't but works as a Santa performer anyway (and lives with his mentally ill mother). After two of his mates are brutally knocked off and he survives, Frank is arrested on suspicion of being the killer himself but is freed once he gradually proves his innocence and then spends all night trekking around Amsterdam, trying to stop Niklas and help the police investigation.

This Dutch horror comedy isn't very scary, but what it lacks in terror it does compensate for in genuine insight, atmosphere and intrigue as it ultimately becomes really a hybrid of a slasher movie and a murder mystery. Writer-director Dick Haas, who actually began his career in the '70s directing videos for the Dutch prog-rock band Golden Earring, has hit upon a premise as sharp as Niklas' weapons and he balances the scales very precisely throughout. All the characters are given lucidly observed arcs and dynamics, and the cast all bring them very naturally to life, especially the younger stars. Haas is also clearly well-aware of what happens in the real Amsterdam's underbelly (it's almost the drug capital of Europe) and he renders the police procedural storyline here as a strong allegory for that, rather like how George A. Romero might have, and in exploring Niklas' medieval downfall he makes a very relevant statement about organised religion's exclusivity.

But obviously, the real meat in this sandwich is the supernatural horror and trust me, Haas is relentless in how much blood and gore he shows here, although he doesn't throw that around just to be shocking. It's almost grotesquely beautiful because of how it contrasts with the snowy northern December landscape also on show here, and all the murder scenes are absolutely pumped with energy. They also have surprisingly great visual effects for a tiny budget. If I have one complaint, it's that the soundtrack could've used some popular hits but all in all, Saint is a bloodthirsty delight of a Christmas flick.

Something Cult, Foreign-Language or Indie #166: A Christmas Story (1983).

It's the 1940s, in Hohman, Indiana, and little Ralphie Parker (Peter Billingsley) has a nice life. But it's not quite wrapped with a bow, since Christmas is here and the one present he's not getting is the only one he wants: a brand-new, Red Ryder BB Gun. His mother (Melinda Dillon) is overworked and his father (Darren McGavin) is a curmudgeon, his only other company at home being his weird younger brother Randy (Ian Petrella). At school he can literally only dream of earning good grades, because his teacher Miss Shields (Tedde Moore) is kinda bitchy. Her and Ralphie's parents (who are understandably uneasy about buying him a gun, particularly his mother) stand like brick walls in his way of acquiring his treasured weapon, and so he hatches a plan to get it for himself. But that won't be so easy, as even Santa Claus warns him "You'll shoot your eye out, kid!"

An adaptation of Jean Shepherd's semi-fictional book In God We Trust, All Others Pay Cash, A Christmas Story was only a very minor hit upon its release in 1983 but has become a genuine cult festive classic in the decades since, and despite having just now seen it for the first time ever as an adult, I can see why. Co-writer and director Bob Clark, who'd previously made the original Black Christmas (1974) and Porky's (1981), forms Shepherd's vignettes into a holiday tale that works well as both an adequately sentimental satire of Christmas commercialism and a loving reflection on family and suburbia in a bygone era. Shepherd himself provides adult Ralphie's narration, which very lucidly and amusingly emphasises how our perspectives change as we grow.

Clark also draws beautiful and funny turns from all his cast, especially McGavin and Moore (who reprised her role in 1994's My Summer Story), and his soundtrack choices (all carols) are suitably restrained yet familiar. Since 1997, US cable networks TBS and TNT have broadcast marathons of A Christmas Story consisting of twelve consecutive screenings over both Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. While I don't know (at least yet) whether it's that great, it certainly still made me feel like I'd unwrapped a gem under my tree.

On Trump's impeachment.

Make that three. As you must already know, yesterday Donald Trump became just the third president in American history, after Andrew Johnson in 1868 and Bill Clinton in 1998, to be impeached, and the first Republican one to be impeached. This was for abusing power and obstructing Congress; the House of Representatives votes for those charges were respectively 230 for and 197 against, and 229 for and 198 against.

Personally, I'm very happy about this because I despise Trump and his policies. But I digress; whatever you think of him and his politics, it is now proven that he violated democracy by hijacking his way into office, and national office at that. That is no way any fair-minded person or group would want to succeed, and certainly not if they want to represent their nation, as its leader, on the global stage.

Now I concede that Clinton, a Democrat, was also impeached for obstructing something (justice). He should never have had his affair or lied under oath about having had it, but those misdemeanours pale, in my mind, alongside Trump's. He clearly wanted to attain and keep power by absolutely any means, and now having been exposed, his days in the Oval Office could be numbered. (Andrew Johnson, by the way, was impeached for violating the Tenure of Office Act.)

I greatly hope they are, yet as his Republican Party controls the Senate where he will face a trial to remove him from office in 2020 (also an election year), I am hoping against hope. But if he survives that trial, I sincerely hope the American people will have the wisdom and conscientiousness to ensure he doesn't survive next November.

Something horrible, part two: how I'm feeling now.

So now it's almost a fortnight after that concerning message from my former friend. I haven't re-read it since for fear of dwelling on it (although I still have it) but regardless, despite everything I'm actually feeling pretty good. Not about hurting her, but about all the rest and the thoughts I've subsequently had about it.

I saw my occupational therapist yesterday and discussed this incident with her. After painting the picture I expressed all the thoughts I've had about it - from them maybe self-harming to that perhaps they just wanted to make me think they had that intention when they lacked it and that how I still believe I made my request of them as considerately as possible - and my OT objectively took my side. She even said she thought I'd dodged a bullet by having this happen. I was already calm before she said all this, but afterwards I was naturally even more so. She also assured me there was nothing I could do since they'd deleted their account upon sending that message. I greatly appreciated this feedback.

I can't actually think of anything more to write here, except perhaps to say that I am doing fine currently and, whatever has happened, I sincerely hope my former friend is, too.

Something Cult, Foreign-Language or Indie #165: Tsotsi (2005).

Young David (Benny Moshe), whose mother is dying, runs away from his abusive father to live with other homeless children in Johannesburg's slums. Several years later, David, now going by the name "Tsotsi," (Presley Chweneyagae) inhabits a ramshackle slum shack and leads a dangerous local street gang with his friends Butcher (Zenzo Ngqobe), Aap (Kenneth Nkobi) and Boston (Mothusi Magano). After Butcher murders somebody during a botched mugging, Boston and Tsotsi have a fight which almost kills Boston. Then Tsotsi shoots Pumla (Nambitha Mpumlwana), a young woman while carjacking her, and drives off only to find a three-month-old baby in the backseat. Tsotsi takes the baby home and, upon realising he alone can't care for it, recruits young mother Miriam (Terry Pheto) to breastfeed and nurture it while Tsotsi holds her at gunpoint. From here, Tsotsi's new role as a caregiver whose defences this baby quickly breaks through gradually helps him to find some decency, compassion and optimism for his future, although he must still do everything he can to resolve the conflicts he has caused on the streets, with police captain Smit (Ian Roberts) and his team out to get him and the baby.

This first and, so far, only Best Foreign Language Film Oscar winner from South Africa (and indeed the only African film I've ever seen) is a dynamic and strikingly powerful secular tale of redemption and coming of age. Based on Athol Fugard's novel, writer-director Grant Hood demonstrates a vivid familiarity with this story's quite geographically specific setting and even, for a white man, with the indigenous languages the characters mostly speak. But most crucially his focus on Tsotsi's humanisation never wavers or veers into saccharine or exaggerated territory. He tells that narrative trajectory with such patience and genuine empathy that it becomes absolutely searing viewing, particularly the climactic confrontation and sacrifice. Helping Hood enormously are the central performances of Chweneyagae and Pheto (who were both shown at the 2006 Oscars as Hood accepted the award), who pour so much insight, authority and compassion into their roles that it's like they'd actually lived them, and together their chemistry is just electric.

Very few films try to show a villainous character trying to change their ways, and very few of those that do ask us to identify with that character from start to finish. Tsotsi does this, and does it so well that it becomes a suspenseful, thought-provoking and ultimately quite moving meditation on impermanence, mortality, and, both again and most chiefly, redemption. Finally, it may be set in South Africa but I promise you, Tsotsi's story is truly universal.

The cinema and the composer.

It began in 1927, with Al Jolson's immortal claim "You ain't seen nothin' yet!" In that moment, sound came to the cinema. Now, this burgeoning new art form truly came into its own and took over the world. And perhaps the most significant element sound brought to cinema was a much older art form: music. It's worth emphasising here that the original cinematic icon, Charlie Chaplin, despite being a resolutely silent filmmaker, was actually himself an accomplished violinist and composer (and even won his only competitive Oscar as a composer).

In recent years I've become quite an avid collector of film scores (or, at least, of the scores to my favourite films) on soundtracks; I recently bought those of The Lord of the Rings (2001-2003) and Schindler's List (1993) and collectively, those two albums are currently my pride and joy. (Hence, maybe, why I'm writing this entry.) But I digress. Even a dreadful or overrated film can have breathtaking music, and some scores are great by themselves whatever their movie's overall merits. Cinematic history is rife with scores that have become iconic themselves, from Max Steiner's love theme from Gone with the Wind (1939) to Bernard Herrmann's shrieking violins for Psycho's (1960) shower scene (which so impressed Alfred Hitchcock, who initially planned to have the scene with no music, that he doubled Herrmann's salary) to John Williams' legendary intergalactic compositions for the Star Wars saga (1977 onwards), and dozens more.

I love listening to film scores by themselves because it exposes me to qualities in them that I might've missed while watching the actual films, although if you've seen the movie enough times you can hear the music by itself and then recall and picture the scenes as the music plays. Even so, I find the experience absolutely intoxicating and transportive.

My list of the greatest-ever film composers: John Williams, Hans Zimmer, Danny Elfman, Howard Shore, Gustavo Santaolalla, Thomas Newman, Lisa Gerrard, Rachel Portman, Vangelis, Alexandre Desplat and Thomas Newman.

Finally, here is a stunning performance from the 2002 Academy Awards of some of the screen's most celebrated themes, under the baton of Maestro Williams.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7_0g3tEcM0w

I think I've just caused something horrible.

Firstly, I need whoever sees this to please read it all before passing judgment, if they see fit to do that. Secondly, let me provide some background information for context and so you know my side of this. Over the last few years, on Facebook I've had several friends who were initially helpful and kind, but who gradually became, to my mind, very clingy and sycophantic. I don't know why I find that excessive kindness very annoying or even if I should, but I just can't help finding it as such, and increasingly to the point where I must express it. Before today, I had told two of them about it via private messages; the first one (to my knowledge) copped it while the second deleted her entire account.

Last week, I felt I had to ask a third to follow suit. Initially, she apologised and then I told her how it annoyed me whenever anybody did it, and we left it at that. She then made several more posts so I took those as signs that she was coping, but that was until this morning when another message came. I won't post it here for privacy reasons and because doing so would mean having to re-read it which will make me dwell on it even further. However, she started it by saying I will never know or understand how I've made her feel, and ended it by calling herself a shit person and saying goodbye to me. In the process, she called me self-centred and deleted her account.

That is still sinking in now for me, but I am (internally) very afraid she then tried to self-harm, or is considering it strongly. I never wanted anything like that and I sincerely understand why she found my approach self-centered; I truly was just trying to help us both. I brought this to her attention because I did not want her to cop my anger and I didn't enjoy being angry with her. Anger is an unpleasant emotion for both sides. Plus, while I concede I should have considered her own feelings more in my manner of approaching her about this (and initially I did ask her if she was okay, although I wish I had subsequently repeated that question), I simply wanted to show her how sometimes being a true friend (at least IMO) means showing restraint, which is a lesson I've had to learn myself.

Now as I sit here composing this entry, I am very uneasy and I apologise if it's too much too take, but nobody can suffer in silence and I also didn't know quite how much she must've been struggling. I absolutely hope she is okay and I want nothing but the best for her and her family. It's just, without her phone number or address, I have no way of knowing quite what she has done. But if she's still here and she reads this, she knows who she is and I want her to know: I am deeply sorry, we all love you very much, and you have a great deal to live for.

Something Cult, Foreign-Language or Indie #164: DOUBLE FEATURE! Frankenweenie (1984 / 2012).

When his beloved Bull Terrier, Sparky, chases a ball across the street and fatally meets a car, young Victor Frankenstein (Barret Oliver) is devastated. So much so, that he unsuccessfully feigns illness to get out of attending school. But when his science teacher shows the class about the miracle of reanimation, a light switch is flicked in Victor's head. With that entire lesson having firmly sunk into his brain, Victor now races home and gets to work. Then, with a big dose of electricity, Sparky is reborn! Victor now tries to keep the new Sparky hidden, but being a dog he is naturally restless and adventurous, and so it isn't long before Victor's parents (Shelley Long and Daniel Stern, then Catherine O'Hara and Martin short) and the neighbours meet his revived self.

Tim Burton's two takes on this parody/homage to Mary Shelley's Frankenstein are rather different but obviously they essentially tell the same story. The original 1984 version is a 30-minute, black-and-white short, while the 2012 remake is 90 minutes and animated, but again black-and-white.

Both versions are delightful, and can stand on their own because of how Burton (perhaps with the passage of time between them) consciously and wisely infuses both with a different narrative flavour and insight. The 1984 version works the macabre and subversive central story around a very familiar depiction of post-WWII American suburbia, in order to expose just how dark and exclusionary those neighbourhoods could actually be. In the 2012 version, however, Burton seeks to uncover the fear of difference and the unknown that still lies under the boilerplate of modern suburbia. When he's not trying to welcome us into lands of pure, imagined weirdness, Burton invokes these anxieties and prejudices to become a very speculative but blunt and sincere polemicist as a filmmaker.

You can watch one version, or both; it's your choice. Regardless, Tim Burton is one of my ultimate artistic heroes, and both versions of Frankenweenie rank among his best and most resonant work.

Something Cult, Foreign-Language or Indie #163: INXS: Never Tear Us Apart (2014)

In 1977, a fledgling young Australian New Wave rock band was born. Singer Michael Hutchence (Luke Arnold), bassist Garry Gary Beers (Hugh Sheridan), guitarist/saxophonist Kirk Pengilly (Alex Williams) and the Farriss brothers, guitarist Tim (Nick Masters), keyboardist Andrew (Andrew Ryan) and drummer Jon (Ido Drent) would collectively be known worldwide as INXS. The 2014 two-part mini-series INXS: Never Tear Us Apart, named for one of their greatest hits, judiciously recreates their meteoric rise to the pinnacle of music fame before their inevitable decline culminating in Hutchence's tragic death on this day in 1997 (and yes, I'm reviewing this now to mark that awful day).

INXS were probably the ideal Australian band for a two-part TV dramatisation because just for two other examples, the Cold Chisel story would've been too short, with numerous narrative intervals, and AC/DC's too long, and their private escapades and ordeals were every bit as high-profile and juicy. And while surely some anachronisms were made for narrative purposes, this hugely successful mini-series is every bit as compact, energetic, raw and forceful as you'd expect a rock music series to be. Director Daina Reid and writers Justin Monjo and Dave Warner faithfully recreate the band's story chronologically, but shake things up by interspersing this with faux-documentary interviews of the boys years later (sans Michael), which reveal sharp insights into what inspired all their biggest hits and why some of their private conflicts transpired. It's a technique that works not just to cut an aesthetic swathe but to reflect INXS' distinctive sound.

The performances all never miss a beat (pun intended) either, with the two standouts being Arnold, who deservedly won a Logie for his work, and Damon Herriman as long-time manager Chris Murphy, who quit in 1995 amidst the band's infighting. Keep an eye out also for Carolyn Bock and Andrew S. Gilbert as the Farriss brothers' parents and Samantha Jade as Michael's one-time flame Kylie Minogue. Overall, INXS: Never Tear Us Apart does full justice to the tale of Australian music royalty.

Queensland and New South Wales burning.

Australia's farmers and rural communities were already struggling, thanks to several years of intense drought. Now Mother Nature, and numerous deviants, have come along to compound their plight. Queensland and New South Wales are now enduring Australia's worst bushfire emergency since the 2009 Black Saturday fires.

These bushfires began in country New South Wales last month before crossing the northern border in Queensland, my state (but don't worry; I'm safe). It's currently believed many have been deliberately lit whereas others have the authorities unsure about how they started. However, police have notably arrested a 16-year-old on suspicion of lighting a fire near Yeppoon, Queensland, which has destroyed 14 homes, with another fire in NSW having claimed four lives.

But two things have swayed public attention away from the fires themselves. Firstly, the national debate they have sparked (pun intended) over the effectiveness and (alleged) role of green policies and environmental activism in the fires themselves. It's possible that such endeavours, if sincere but poorly informed and planned, could have a hand in starting bushfires, but as naive or idealistic as this may sound I highly doubt such people would ever intend to do anything like that consciously. Mischievous and/or bored rural teenagers, however... they are a totally different story.

Secondly, a public sledge against bushfire-battling firefighters. Feminist author Sherele Moody (above), during a press conference with Greens Senator Larissa Waters, claimed they would all head home from the frontlines just to beat their wives. Now, domestic violence is nothing to mock or trivialise, but not only does that issue have no relevance to this one, in just that one statement Moody tarred all these brave individuals - women and men - as violent spouse-abusers. That kind of generalisation is reprehensible, and surely as far as possible from the truth. 

But anyway, enough about those things. My heart goes out to everybody caught up in this bushfire emergency, may whoever started the fires be caught and convicted, and let's all raise our glasses to all the firies across Australia. We love and thank all of them.