Del reviews ‘JeruZalem’
Image courtesy of Epic Pictures Releasing.
“JeruZalem” Starring Yael Grobglas, Yon Tumarkin, Danielle Jadelyn and Tom Graziani. Directed by Doran and Yoav Paz as The PAZ Brothers. 94 minutes. Rated R. Netflix.
Del’s take
The found-footage film has found a home in the horror genre, resulting in classics like “REC,” “V/H/S,” “Troll Hunter” and the grandwitchy of ’em all, “The Blair Witch Project.” It also has produced some amazing clunkers. “Paranormal Entity,” “Area 407” and “Apollo 18” come to mind.
Falling somewhere in between is “JeruZalem,” an unlikely pairing of the weighty and the frothy (Judgment Day from the point of view of a teen girl’s spring break getaway). How far it leans toward “Blair Witch” or “Apollo 18” depends on the moviegoer’s charity. While some people loath found footage as a lazy director’s approach to storytelling, others appreciate its clarity of viewpoint.
I find myself bouncing between those two worldviews. I think movies like “Troll Hunter” and “Cloverfield” are masterpieces of the genre. I even liked “Apollo 18” for what it was – a space-based horror flick with limited ambitions. But some movies don’t benefit from the found-footage viewpoint and “JeruZalem” may be one of them. Third person probably would have been a perfectly acceptable storytelling vantage point, and I would not have been distracted by irrelevant technical details such as how the lead character kept her device charged throughout the apocalypse.
I’ll probably be asking myself the same question about my phone after this Korea thing blows up.
In “JeruZalem,” young Sarah Pullman (Jadelyn) is whisked away from her overprotective and Skype-stalking father (Howard Ripp) for a whirlwind tour of the old city of Jerusalem during Yom Kippur. At the Tel Aviv airport they meet good-looking Kevin Reed (Tumarkin), an antiquities student who promises to hook them up with a hostel in the old city and show them the best clubs and sights.
There, they hook up with Omar, the young hostel owner, who takes them out for a night on the old town and stakes his claim to Rachel (Kevin has already targeted Sarah). They dance the night away as dear old dad vainly tries to Skype his daughter because he has been watching the news and hears that something weird is going on in Jerusalem.
The quartet discover the city has been quarantined and Israeli troops are battling – something. They hear gunfire, explosions and screams in the distance, not to mention an unearthly growling and screeching reminiscent of the time you accidentally shut the door on the cat’s tail.
From that point “JeruZalem” becomes an escape caper with the two American girls and their vacation boyfriends struggling to get out of the old city while monstrous events unfold around them.
The story is displayed from a pair of Google Glass-like eyeglasses that belong to Sarah, and yes, I would really like to know how she kept the damn things charged through her ordeal. My new phone will maintain a charge over a couple of days’ heavy usage, but then my phone has a battery the size of a Pop Tart. Sarah’s Glass didn’t – unless the Pop Tart was hidden in her blouse pocket.
The actors carried their parts effectively and there were no gaping holes in the plot, at least none I would try to drive a truck through. Special effects were acceptable and pacing matched the plot well enough. The found-footage viewpoint was not overly distracting, although at times the integration of technologies struck me as too seamless to be believed.
If I had a substantial criticism it would be that the storytelling mechanism trivializes the subject material. Mysterious stars in the sky over Jerusalem portending a religious disaster, sinister film footage smuggled from the Vatican showing the alleged execution of a demon, and air raid sirens that warn of something far worse than incoming Palestinian rockets are all gamely revealed through the lens of a silly pair of internet-capable glasses that display a frowny face and flash “fatal error” when dropped.
It’s all in the name of fun, however, and I confess I enjoyed “JeruZalem” despite its limited flaws.
I would give the movie a B- grade for its interesting premise, decent plot and pacing, and occasional (although sparse) flashes of genuine weirdness. I mark it down for its found-footage viewpoint, which did not serve the story effectively.
I watched it on Netflix.
Del Stone Jr. is a former journalist and author.
Image courtesy of Paramount Pictures.
“13 Hours” Starring John Krasinski, Pablo Schreiber, and James Badge Dale. Directed by Michael Bay. 144 Minutes. Rated R.
Del’s take
Sorry, all you fine folk who refer to Hillary Clinton as “Hildabeast.” You were hoping “13 Hours,” the new Michael Bay docudrama about the 2012 attack on an American diplomatic compound in Benghazi, Libya, and a subsequent attack on a CIA outpost about a mile away, would be the stake driven through the heart of Clinton’s presidential campaign. Ain’t gonna happen. Clinton’s name is not uttered once in the two hour-plus presentation. You can go back to snuffling through the hog wallow for some stinky nugget to blow out of proportion so your insane (GOP candidate of choice) can have a chance in November.
The folks who take it on the chin in this compelling new movie are the American military and the State Department (Clinton was secretary of state at the time, but again, her name is never mentioned), both of whom are portrayed as either absent or ineffective. It is a harrowing experience, blessedly devoid of conspiracy theories or jingoistic flag-waving.
People actually clapped as the credits rolled.
The story is about an American GRS contractor named Jack Silva (John Krasinski) who joins a team of former SEALS and Delta Force soldiers charged with the protection of a CIA station in Benghazi. Meanwhile, about a mile away, the American ambassador to Libya visits a compound on the anniversary of 9/11. Before the night is over Islamic militants attack the compound. The GRS soldiers want to help defend it, but their CIA boss (David Costabile) refuses to let them go. Finally, they take matters into their own hands and fight their way into the compound, but it is too late for the ambassador, who has died in a fire set by the attackers. The soldiers then fight their way back to the CIA compound, which comes under repeated attack as they plead for U.S. military intervention. But none ever comes.
The La-Z-Boy quarterbacks who get high from huffing their own gasses love to blame Clinton for the debacle, but the movie suggests it was simple bureaucratic inertia, not a Hildabeast dislike of the military, that resulted in the tragedy. The hot-air snogglers won’t accept that, but there you go. If Adolf Hitler had been secretary of state, they would have blamed Obama.
Acting is quite good. Krasinski sheds his goofy “Office” persona for a serious role and carries it with surprising gravity. And, ladies (and some of the gentlemen) will notice he’s nicely ripped for the part. The others are all equally effective, and as a viewer you will forget they are actors and empathize with them as human beings.
As for the movie itself, Bay recuses himself from his usual absurd, over-the-top grandiosity and turns in a tense, tightly focused narrative that avoids, for the most part, the kind excessive nationalistic pomposity you saw in “Pearl Harbor.”
I’m not a fan of Hillary Clinton and have no intention of voting for her, unless confronted with a GOP candidate so utterly dangerous I have no choice but to vote against him. But to hold her accountable for what happened at Benghazi is ridiculous – a million miles of red tape and ten thousand GS-14s stood between her and Libya.
This movie says as much, and if some of the Hillary haters don’t get that, well, they deserve whatever nutbag they elect.
I rate this movie a solid B, possibly a B+. See it in a movie theater.
Mladen’s take
There was a couple of old timers behind me and a couple of middle agers in front of me while I stood in line to buy a ticket to see “13 Hours.” The old timers and the middle agers were acquainted. They chatted for a moment.
“What are you seeing?” asked one of the middle agers.
“Benghazi,” responded an old timer.
“Benghazi,” not “13 Hours.” No doubt the couple behind me watches Fox News and Listens to Limbaugh because they weren’t at the theater for entertainment. They were at the theater on a mission. That mission, I suspect, was to reinforce in their minds that Hillary Rodham Clinton, Democrat running for president, and Obama, Democrat in the White House, abandoned U.S. patriots to a mob of Libyan terrorists more than three years ago. Four Americans died in the ensuing two-day, on-again, off-again gun battle.
I also assume the couple standing behind me was disappointed. Del is correct. “13 Hours” points the finger of fault at, principally, the CIA station chief in Benghazi. He refused to let the mercenaries (i.e. former Special Operations Forces troops) hired to protect the poorly disguised CIA station in Benghazi assist the people trapped in the American consulate under attack just one mile down road.
Where facts stand and were “13 Hours” fills gaps when facts are unknown, I don’t know, but, unlike Del, I hesitate treating any product from Hollywood as accurate history. “13 Hours” is a decent film, nothing more. Generally, the characters are likable and the action intimate. This movie isn’t about remote control warfare from standoff distances. Here, bullets hit with a thunk and mortar shrapnel cuts through muscle and bone. The violence is the popping of small- and medium-caliber ammunition and the whir of RPGs.
Bay, the director, tries to infuse humanity into the mercenaries contracted to protect CIA personnel by portraying them as fathers and friends, but it was ineffective. They were in Libya by choice, rather than orders. That made them tough to appreciate as family men.
The film has its moments, particularly toward the end, of flag-waving sentimentalism, but it’s not putrid. And, it’s at the end that Bay was the most daring. “13 Hours” ends with the camera panning the battlefield outside the CIA compound. There, amid the torn white fabric, now stained red, of what once might have been a plant hothouse or animal pen with a cloth roof to protect against the sun, Libyan women and children wept at the corpses of their loved ones.
“13 Hours” is a B and worth seeing in the theater, but, be warned, the last half is bloody.
Mladen Rudman is a former journalist and technical editor. Del Stone Jr. is a former journalist and author.
Image courtesy of Disney Studios.
“Star Wars: The Force Awakens” Starring Daisy Ridley, John Boyega, Oscar Isaac and Harrison Ford. Directed by J.J. Abrams. 135 minutes. Rated PG-13.
Del’s take
I’ve told this story before but I’ll tell it again.
My friend Sandy was feeling blue. Her husband was TDY in Korea and her teenaged kids were doing their thing. One day she decided to remedy her malaise by throwing a cookout for the kids. She took a pound of ground beef and shaped it into several thick patties. She toasted hamburger buns on the grill as the burgers sizzled. She gathered all the trimmings and condiments – tomatoes, lettuce, cheese, mustard, mayo, and ketchup.
When the kids looked at those fat, juicy, steaming burgers, they turned up their noses and sniffed, “We wanted REAL hamburgers, like McDonalds.”
Moviegoers have watched the cinematic equivalent of fast food for so long they have no idea what the real thing looks like. To them, “Star Wars: The Force Awakens” is an actual movie, and a good movie at that. But those of us who know what a real hamburger looks and tastes like know this latest installment of the Star Wars canon is little more than a dime-sized beef-like patty sandwiched between two white-bread buns topped with a pickle and a miserly squirt of watered down mustard and ketchup.
And it’s not even CREATIVE fast food. Instead, it’s a brazen, in-your-face, do-something-about-it rip-off of the first movie. Call it “The Force Awakens a New Hope” because that’s precisely what it is … a splashy, high-resolution rehash.
Here’s the plot: A droid is carrying a map that will help the rebellion find Luke Skywalker, who holds the key to … something. I think it was the revival of the Jedi, but I’m not sure. I wish it were lower popcorn prices.
Special effects are light years superior to the first movie and John Boyega does a good job as Finn. Even Harrison Ford seems to enjoy his outing as Han Solo.
But some of the performances are terrible. Domhall Gleeson’s portrayal of General Hux is comically overwrought, and Carrie Fisher reads her lines as if she were sucking to keep dentures in her mouth. Through no fault of Adam Driver, the Kylo Ren character fails to equal the ominous and imposing Darth Vader; instead, he’s a damaged little boy with daddy issues.
The movie itself seems to lurch from one adventure to the next without much in the way of connective tissue, making it one vast, pointless coincidence.
I went into “The Force Awakens” with the expectation I would see a competent if not creative re-establishment of the Star Wars franchise, much like my experience last summer with “Jurassic World.” I came out offended that J.J. Abrams has no more respect for the moviegoer than to plagiarize “A New Hope.”
The fact that this movie will become the biggest grossing film of all time leads me to believe I am forever condemned to watching the cinematic equivalent of fast food burgers. Oh well, at least it isn’t Soylent Green. Or is it?
By all means, go see “The Force Awakens a New Hope” in a movie theater, because that is where all movies should be seen. Skip the popcorn; you’ll want fries with that.
And a year from now, don’t buy the DVD. You already own it.
Mladen’s take
I want my money back. The money I paid for my “Stars Wars: The Force Awakens” ticket and the money I paid for Del’s “The Force Awakens” movie ticket.
And, I want the money back for all my friends – and the rest of the globe – who have yet to realize that the film is 1) mediocre at best and 2) saved barely by Daisy Ridley’s performance as Rey with assistance from John Boyega as Finn.
I’m also filing a claim with the Better Business Bureau against Disney for false advertising. “The Force Awakens” is not a continuation of the Star Wars saga. It is a remake of the first Star Wars movie released some four decades ago.
The more I think about the movie, the more I become frustrated.
TFA offer nothing compellingly original. A Death Planet, rather than a Death Star. Really, director JJ Abrams?
TFA is laced with weakling bad guys and improbable coincidences that keep the movie moving sideways. As Del noted during our conversation amid a round of disc golf, the movie has no plot, so it’s impossible for it to move forward. It’s worse than the least good of the three original films, “Return of the Jedi,” but better than the prequels. Of course, Jackass 4 is better than Sith tales I, II, and III.
Because I felt little for the characters, barring Rey, I paid attention to what TFA did have to offer, a solid soundtrack and terrific sound effects.
TFA is a distraction. By playing it safe and formulaic to bamboozle all the poor Star Wars fans out there hoping for something to break the disappointment of the franchise’s three most recent efforts, Disney committed a different error. The one called profit motive.
Now I understand the reason for Disney’s hyper hyperbolic marketing campaign, particular using dumbass social media. The Mickey Mouse company had to earn more box office than a heavily marketed, equally unsatisfying blockbuster of six years ago, “Avatar.” Moviegoers were used then and moviegoers have been used today. The lesson that was reinforced by the Star Wars juggernaut? Sell a movie hard enough, build expectations that touch Jakku in a galaxy far, far away, and no one will recognize the difference between a provocative, high-quality, and stimulating experience and cookiecutter entertainment packed with razzle dazzle empty calories.
I hope that this movie doesn’t sink Ridley’s and Boyega’s careers. If they’re forever typecast as Rey- and Finn-like characters, their solid acting skills will never see the light of a good film.
Mladen Rudman is a former journalist and technical editor. Del Stone Jr. is a former journalist and author.
Image courtesy of Wikimedia user Dori by way of a Creative Commons license. https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/User_talk:Dori
I saw something on my walk today I think would make an awesome story, maybe a fable. Here goes:
Once upon a time there was a lonely little hawk. The hawk was lonely because every time he flew to a tree to make friends with the other birds, they flew away, afraid the hawk would eat them. One day the hawk was perched on a branch, crying his little eyes out. A mourning dove took pity and asked, “Why are you crying, little hawk?” The hawk replied, “I’m lonely. I have no friends” This broke the dove’s heart. “I’ll be your friend,” the dove declared, and the hawk said, “You will? Oh, thank you!: The two had fun all day, and then the hawk ate him.
The End.
About the author:
Del Stone Jr. is a professional fiction writer. He is known primarily for his work in the contemporary dark fiction field, but has also published science fiction and contemporary fantasy. Stone’s stories, poetry and scripts have appeared in publications such as Amazing Stories, Eldritch Tales, and Bantam-Spectra’s Full Spectrum. His short fiction has been published in The Year’s Best Horror Stories XXII; Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine; the Pocket Books anthology More Phobias; the Barnes & Noble anthologies 100 Wicked Little Witch Stories, Horrors! 365 Scary Stories, and 100 Astounding Little Alien Stories; the HWA anthology Psychos; and other short fiction venues, like Blood Muse, Live Without a Net, Zombiesque and Sex Macabre. Stone’s comic book debut was in the Clive Barker series of books, Hellraiser, published by Marvel/Epic and reprinted in The Best of Hellraiser anthology. He has also published stories in Penthouse Comix, and worked with artist Dave Dorman on many projects, including the illustrated novella “Roadkill,” a short story for the Andrew Vachss anthology Underground from Dark Horse, an ashcan titled “December” for Hero Illustrated, and several of Dorman’s Wasted Lands novellas and comics, such as Rail from Image and “The Uninvited.” Stone’s novel, Dead Heat, won the 1996 International Horror Guild’s award for best first novel and was a runner-up for the Bram Stoker Award. Stone has also been a finalist for the IHG award for short fiction, the British Fantasy Award for best novella, and a semifinalist for the Nebula and Writers of the Future awards. His stories have appeared in anthologies that have won the Bram Stoker Award and the World Fantasy Award. Two of his works were optioned for film, the novella “Black Tide” and short story “Crisis Line.”
Stone recently retired after a 41-year career in journalism. He won numerous awards for his work, and in 1986 was named Florida’s best columnist in his circulation division by the Florida Society of Newspaper Editors. In 2001 he received an honorable mention from the National Lesbian and Gay Journalists Association for his essay “When Freedom of Speech Ends” and in 2003 he was voted Best of the Best in the category of columnists by Emerald Coast Magazine. He participated in book signings and awareness campaigns, and was a guest on local television and radio programs.
As an addendum, Stone is single, kills tomatoes and morning glories with ruthless efficiency, once tied the stem of a cocktail cherry in a knot with his tongue, and carries a permanent scar on his chest after having been shot with a paintball gun. He’s in his 60s as of this writing but doesn’t look a day over 94.
Contact Del at [email protected]. He is also on Facebook, twitter, Pinterest, tumblr, TikTok, Ello and Instagram. Visit his website at delstonejr.com .
Image courtesy of Twentieth Century Fox.
“Unnatural” Starring James Remar as Martin, Sherilyn Fenn (one of Mladen’s favorite B-movie actors) as Hanna, Ron Carlson as Brooking, Ivana Korab as Ella, Q’orianka Kilcher as Lily, Allegra Carpenter as Quincy, Gregory Cruz as Nate, Graham Greene as Buffalo, and others. Directed by Hank Braxtan. 1 hour, 29 minutes. Rated R. Streaming on Amazon Prime.
Plot summary: A mutant beast escapes from a secret corporate laboratory in Alaska to hunt humans. A stranded group comprising Alaskans and a handful white bourgie from the lower 48 fight to survive the rampaging Ursus maritimus and Canis lupus DNA‑mixed hyper predator.
Does this review contain spoilers: A few, yes.
Mladen’s take
The guttural groan you hear right now is not from the bio-fabricated monster in 2015’s “Unnatural.”
It’s my beloved Del hating the hell out of the film, which I picked to review.
“Unnatural” is stylish B schlock in that it has pretty good production value and not-altogether shitty acting. The schlock part is its in-your-face, never subtle exploitation of corporate greed, corporate immorality, and corporate PR strategies that mimic what Big Tobacco, Big Agriculture, Big Oil, Big Pharma, Big Tech, and little Trump and his looney band of misfits have done and continue doing – gaslighting dumb fucks vulnerable to gaslighting – to tell its story. Oh, the bad person wins in the end, her life saved by a good person. Love it.
My affection for “Unnatural” stems from its “American Werewolf in London” vibe. The creature featured in “Unnatural” is a real-world practical effect. It’s big. It’s white. It’s bulky sleek. And, it makes quick-hit appearances, barring a damn cool panoramic shot of the animal casually approaching an injured human across a patch of open snow after it emerges from the woods.
I confess. That scene alone provoked the anti-Del grade I give the film. It reminded me of the greatest moment in AWiL (aside from seeing Jenny Agutter nude). You remember it. The werewolf is loose. Its haunt includes the U.K. subway where a lone dude gets off the train, hears a growl, and starts running. He makes it about halfway up the stairs but stumbles. He looks down the stairwell and the camera flashes to a wide shot of the werewolf. The aberration of nature is casually approaching the stairs while its next victim stares in immobilized horror at the mangy mass of fur, teeth, and ’tude heading for his throat.
“Unnatural” doesn’t consider itself a farce as do so many low-budget films that rip off better movies. Yes, it’s melodramatic and in-your-face about everything from the culture clash between backwoods folks and urban sophisticates to the danger of manipulating genes to save (allegedly) wildlife from global warming. Sure, there’s some corny dialogue, particularly our hero’s dying hope that Mankind, here incarnate as Clobirch Corporation, leaves natural nature untouched. And, yes, the humans are always going out by themselves to search for someone or chase the beast. But, the way Martin dispatches the wolf bear, or is it bear wolf, is pretty neat. Also neat is the way some of the folk die as the mendacious animal hunts them for the shear joy of killing something.
I can’t recall the soundtrack. That means it’s unremarkable. The costumes are fine and the way the soon-to-be-victims interact with each other and the situation they’re facing is good enough.
“Unnatural” is fine as horror film entertainment. There are a couple of jump-from-your-seat moments, the women are attractive, and the animal nicely done considering it cost $20.05 to make. See the movie and post a comment below if you agree with me and disagree with Del. You’re allowed to call him names but be nice to me because my feelings get hurt easily.
Mladen’s grade: A-
Del’s take
Mladen must be out of his ever-lovin’ mind. I can’t believe he gave this crappy movie such a high score.
Within 2 minutes of watching “Unnatural” I knew the bitchy blonde supermodel would end up bear kibble and I was not wrong.
Movies like “Unnatural” have a standard formula, which goes something like this:
1. Obnoxious lowlanders venture into the countryside to shit on their noble savage rural folk cousins and disrespect their beliefs and traditions.
2. MEANWHILE, a secret lab / government facility / hidden pool / abandoned mine shaft gives forth a MONSTER with a ravenous taste for human flesh.
3. Lowlanders go about their lowlander business while ignoring and / or disrespecting the sage advice of the noble savage rural folk.
4. MONSTER starts picking off lowlanders with the occasional noble savage rural folk (just to add variety to its diet).
5. Siege sets in. Plot wrinkle introduced (father “wasn’t there” for kids, husband “wasn’t there” for wife, etc.) and mysteries of secret lab / government facility / hidden pool / abandoned mine shaft are revealed, sometimes pitting noble savage rural folk who knew against those who didn’t, but more often noble savage rural folk against lowlanders.
6. Slaughter ensues. Lots of jiggling breasts.
7. MONSTER is slain. Noble savage rural folk prevail. Everyone relaxes.
8. Hey, wait a minute! MONSTER ISN’T DEAD!
What sets apart “Unnatural” from other B movies is its unique awfulness. Take the acting … please. I wouldn’t call it “method.” More like “methadone.” These actors are about as animated as a box of chalk. It’s not totally their fault – the script barely rises above the level of random words on paper.
Characterization is equally dull-edged. The characters in “Unnatural” are themselves unnatural – caricatures of stereotypes, from the racist and judgmental fashion photographer to the taciturn native guide who speaks only to put forth bromides of local wisdom, which are promptly mocked by the lowlanders.
The story advocates for the natural world, but that preaching is limited to the very beginning and very end, and mostly abandoned in the middle three-quarters, which means its message is inconsistent and not well supported by the action. Instead, it’s put out there as an enabling excuse to give us an hour’s worth of growling and blood spray.
I’ll give the creators of “Unnatural” credit – they filmed the movie on location so we weren’t inflicted with “snow” that looked like spray starch. Nor were they shy about killing people. Don’t become attached to too many of these characters, if such a thing is possible. They won’t be around long.
Look, I’m all for movies that bash large corporations. I think corporate America is an amalgam of soul-less scumbags who are soaking ordinary Americans by way of price-gouging and profiteering. All they care about is money – morality be damned. And like all mindless machines that can do great harm, they must be regulated.
But “Unnatural” isn’t that kind of statement, despite Mladen’s halfhearted attempts to make it so to justify his lust for boobies and blood. It’s just a perfunctory exercise in virtue signaling so we can get on with the business of sexploitation and gore. I thought it was stupid and dull.
You want a good bear-out-of-control movie? Try the Clint Walker classic “Night of the Grizzly,” which will scare the hell out of you, or the 1979 flick “Prophecy,” which does a much better job of defending the natural world and bashing corporate America’s money machines.
“Unnatural” will insult your intelligence.
Del’s grade: D
Mladen Rudman is a former journalist and technical writer. Del Stone Jr. is a former journalist and writer.
Image courtesy of IFC Midnight.
“Hellions” Starring Chloe Rose, Robert Patrick, Rossif Sutherland. Directed by Bruce McDonald. 80 minutes. Unrated.
Del’s take
My ever-present quest for those hidden gems of cinema, the obscure horror movie, recently carried me to “Hellions,” a new offering on Netflix. “Hellions” is hidden for a reason, although sadly I had to sit through it to find out why.
The movie begins promisingly enough. Seventeen-year-old Dora is planning a Halloween night liaison with boyfriend Jace at a Halloween party, but first she must drop by that pesky health clinic to see why she’s been summoned. Probably just want her to pick up a prescription or something.
Too bad it wasn’t BCPs because the doctor has news for Dora – she’s knocked up. That’ll sure take the fun out of a night of canoodling with your dope-smoking teen boy.
Dora decides to kick back at the house while her mom and little brother head out for a children’s Halloween party. But later, Jace calls and Dora changes her mind, partly because she wants Daddy Dearest to hear the news ASAP. As she waits for Jace to pick her up, the doorbell rings and a devilishly dressed moppet holds out a trick-or-treat bag.
That’s where the trouble begins, in terms of plot and the movie itself.
What follows is a near incomprehensible descent into … something. I’m not sure what to call it. A fever dream? Madness? An alternate universe?
Suffice it to say Dora and her unborn child, which is rapidly maturing within her belly into some kind of monster, become the targets of a cadre of demon children who want the baby whatever-it-is for something. I never quite figured that out.
I also never figured out the movie’s odd color palette – a kind of faux infrared – and it’s weird soundtrack. Oh, and I almost forgot the exploding pumpkins. Musn’t forget the exploding pumpkins.
“Hellions” is skillfully assembled in technical terms, and it shows flashes of originality and brilliance. But McDonald loses me, and what I predict will be most viewers, about 15 minutes into the movie when events become inexplicably strange, and not really very interesting.
I don’t want to discourage McDonald because I think if he reins in these excursions into visual excess, he should make some decent movies. But “Hellions” isn’t one of them.
I would give it a D+, and the plus is for the inventive costumes.
Del Stone Jr. is a former journalist and author.
Workers begin the process of tearing down the Docie Bass Recreation Center at Ferry Park. Image courtesy of Del Stone Jr.
The gym at Ferry Park is going away and I’m a little sad about that.
I don’t fault the city for tearing it down. The building was old and lacked air conditioning. It cost a fortune to operate.
Still, there’s something to be said for neighborhood touchstones like gyms, taverns, grocery stores and restaurants. I think it has something to do with Ray Oldenburg’s “The Great Good Place.” Those “third places,” as Oldenburg put it — the first two being the home and the workplace — allow for public interaction on a more intimate level, thereby preserving democracy and fostering community involvement. America wouldn’t be the same without third places and they’re vanishing before our eyes, swallowed up by a sea of packaged, templated, franchised uniformity.
Once we went to Docie Bass where I threw a basketball at the basket and hoped I didn’t cold-cock somebody in the bleachers. I could not bounce a ball and run at the same time. To this day I don’t know how they do it. But it was a comfort seeing Docie Bass across the canal from the tennis courts, hearing the rubbery thump of basketballs and echoey shouts of kids sinking baskets.
Docie Bass was the first place I worked for money that didn’t involve a rake or a lawn mower. A neighbor who was involved in the city’s rec program needed help with the scoreboard and asked if I wanted the job. He would pay me 85 cents per game.
Knowing nothing about the rules of basketball, I foolishly agreed to this proposition.
What followed was a very steep learning curve in which I not only became schooled to a referee’s knowledge level but in the intricacies of the scoreboard itself. The scoreboard was a tricky proposition. You had to be very quick on the clock kill switch, especially as time was running out. If you didn’t stop the clock within a nanosecond of the ref’s whistle, you had a mob of angry guys in your face accusing you of rigging the game for the other team.
I enjoyed the youth leagues better. There weren’t many 12-year-olds who could take me down —well, maybe a couple. There wasn’t a lot of scoring in those games, so my scoring finger didn’t see much duty.
Confession: Over time, my objectivity as scorekeeper began to crack as I developed favorites. That’s not to say I did anything to help those teams, but I definitely enjoyed watching them.
One such team was the Chiefs. They were the underdog almost every time they played, but they had one standout who sometimes put them in a position to win – Ray Sansom.
Ray was a good athlete and I’ll wager he excelled at other sports, too. What stood out for me was that no matter how lopsided the score and how improbable the Chiefs’ prospects of winning, Ray always tried. You could see his determination. That quality served him well. I expect it still does.
I worked that job only one season and missed it the following year. I didn’t know it would be 36 years before I would set foot in that gym again.
The occasion was a roller derby match involving the Beach Brawl Sk8r Dolls and a visiting team. That Saturday night, crowds of us jammed into a stuffy, sweaty Docie Bass to cheer the Sk8r Dolls and our workmate, Robbyn Brooks. Those ladies had more collisions and pileups than NASCAR, but it was great fun and I walked out with a Sk8r Dolls T-shirt designed especially for me — it read “Old Man” on the back and my number was 100.
The gym seems forlorn now. Its doors are locked and electrical power is disconnected, the lines hanging impotently from the side of the building. Items that had been stored at the gym are stacked in the back. A spray-painted sign on the side indicates a sewer connection.
As of this writing it has not been demolished, but perhaps by the time you read this, it will be gone. It’ll be replaced by a park dedicated to the memory of Bud and Dorie Day.
For now, if you hold your head a certain way, you can almost hear the thumping bounce of a basketball and the excited shouts of neighborhood kids having the time of their lives.
Docie Bass was a third place for me and a lot of other people.
This column was published in the Wednesday, September 2, 2015 edition of the Northwest Florida Daily News and is used with permission.
About the author:
Del Stone Jr. is a professional fiction writer. He is known primarily for his work in the contemporary dark fiction field, but has also published science fiction and contemporary fantasy. Stone’s stories, poetry and scripts have appeared in publications such as Amazing Stories, Eldritch Tales, and Bantam-Spectra’s Full Spectrum. His short fiction has been published in The Year’s Best Horror Stories XXII; Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine; the Pocket Books anthology More Phobias; the Barnes & Noble anthologies 100 Wicked Little Witch Stories, Horrors! 365 Scary Stories, and 100 Astounding Little Alien Stories; the HWA anthology Psychos; and other short fiction venues, like Blood Muse, Live Without a Net, Zombiesque and Sex Macabre. Stone’s comic book debut was in the Clive Barker series of books, Hellraiser, published by Marvel/Epic and reprinted in The Best of Hellraiser anthology. He has also published stories in Penthouse Comix, and worked with artist Dave Dorman on many projects, including the illustrated novella “Roadkill,” a short story for the Andrew Vachss anthology Underground from Dark Horse, an ashcan titled “December” for Hero Illustrated, and several of Dorman’s Wasted Lands novellas and comics, such as Rail from Image and “The Uninvited.” Stone’s novel, Dead Heat, won the 1996 International Horror Guild’s award for best first novel and was a runner-up for the Bram Stoker Award. Stone has also been a finalist for the IHG award for short fiction, the British Fantasy Award for best novella, and a semifinalist for the Nebula and Writers of the Future awards. His stories have appeared in anthologies that have won the Bram Stoker Award and the World Fantasy Award. Two of his works were optioned for film, the novella “Black Tide” and short story “Crisis Line.”
Stone recently retired after a 41-year career in journalism. He won numerous awards for his work, and in 1986 was named Florida’s best columnist in his circulation division by the Florida Society of Newspaper Editors. In 2001 he received an honorable mention from the National Lesbian and Gay Journalists Association for his essay “When Freedom of Speech Ends” and in 2003 he was voted Best of the Best in the category of columnists by Emerald Coast Magazine. He participated in book signings and awareness campaigns, and was a guest on local television and radio programs.
As an addendum, Stone is single, kills tomatoes and morning glories with ruthless efficiency, once tied the stem of a cocktail cherry in a knot with his tongue, and carries a permanent scar on his chest after having been shot with a paintball gun. He’s in his 60s as of this writing but doesn’t look a day over 94.
Contact Del at [email protected]. He is also on Facebook, twitter, Pinterest, tumblr, TikTok, and Instagram. Visit his website at delstonejr.com .
Image courtesy of Marvista Entertainment.
“Most Likely to Die” Starring Chad Addison, Jake Busey, Tess Christiansen, Heather Morris, Perez Hilton. Directed by Anthony DiBlasi. 90 minutes. Unrated.
Del’s take
Hollywood has exhausted its trove of mask themes for slashers these days.
Leatherface, Michael Myers, Jason Voorheis, Ghostface – they all have distinctive face coverings to make them scarier than what they really are – close-to-middle-age white dudes with mommy issues. A close-to-middle-age white dude is scary only when he shows up as your Tindr date, so if you’re John Carpenter or Tobe Hooper, you put your killer in a mask.
Hoping to join that cadre of baddies is The Graduate of “Most Likely to Die,” a room-temperature horror flick that never receives its diploma. Our Graduate wears an overbaked pot roast of a mask, which bears no resemblance to the conflict or subtext. To complete his ensemble he’s wrapped in a graduation gown, with a cap so sharp and deadly that if it were a human being, it could trade barbs with Bill Maher.
Too bad the script and acting aren’t equally cutting edge. The only thing they’re cutting is the cheese because this is one stinker of a scary movie. Don’t waste your time.
“Most Likely” features an ensemble cast starring Gaby (Heather Morris), a world poker wannabe who attends a reunion of her old high school clique at buddy Ray’s (Jason Tobias) remote hillside pad. She’s joined by eight others as they await their host, who’s mysteriously AWOL.
It takes no time for this Band of Mother******s to fall back into its high school pecking order, led by Brad (Ryan Doom), a recovering narcissist TV star who knocked up Gaby and dumped her when they were seniors (yet he still secretly pines for her, despite the presence of his supermodel shack job Bella – Tatum Miranda). But Gaby is having none of it. She’s already “lost big” to Brad once and she’s not going to do it again. We both know she’s lying through her fashionably bleached teeth.
Meanwhile, where the heck is Ray? It isn’t until the second act that somebody decides to go looking for him, and even that is a ploy to get a certain poker expert away from the others for some wooing and cooing.
They find a mysterious wooden shack where one of their members has been separated from her life by way of a slashed throat. Others turn up similarly murdered, and the story proceeds from there.
Clues are left along the way, but they aren’t developed. The manner of death might suggest a motive – that isn’t pursued. Nor is the possibility that one of them is the killer. It’s as if screenwriter didn’t know what to do with those complications and let them die on the vine.
The dialogue is as blah as unflavored yogurt and the pace as brisk as a jar of sun tea on the sidewalk. I’ve seen scarier episodes of HGTV’s “Fixer Upper.” Acting is similarly uninspired. The sole breath of life is Freddie (Perez Hilton), and even he is saddled with the stereotype of the over-the-top token gay boy who runs from the fight because he doesn’t want to break a nail.
I hated everyone and didn’t care who died. I wasn’t scared – not once – and stuck around only for the reveal, which was oddly anticlimactic and sprang from the ethers with little setup. My emotional investment lay in Gaby’s pricey convertible, which I hoped wouldn’t be scratched.
It’s a shame because “Most Likely” could have been a funny, sexy horror movie, like “Happy Death Day” or “Buffy.” Instead, it’s a paint-by-number middle school video project where every single part was phoned in.
I saw it Netflix, the online equivalent of the crappy Grade Z movie section in your old video rental store. But let me do you this favor:
Don’t bother. Grade D.
Stone is a former journalist and author.
In 1964 the beach along Okaloosa Island was mostly free of condos and other buildings. This photo was taken from the Okaloosa Island fishing pier. Image courtesy of Del Stone Sr.
When it comes to the history of Fort Walton Beach, I have an unfair advantage.
Not only have I lived here a long time, but my mother’s family, the Readys, moved to the area in the 1930s. On lazy Sunday afternoons, after I’ve finished killing whatever plant it is I’m trying to grow in Mom’s yard, I sit on her front porch and listen to stories about the area’s early days.
Needless to say, life was dramatically different back then.
Mom’s family lived in a house that had electricity and a wood-burning stove but little else. The kitchen was a separate structure and water came from a well.
On laundry day, the kids would build a fire in the yard and boil their clothes in a large kettle, rinsing them three times in separate kettles. The water in that last kettle had to be free of soapy residue before the clothes could be hung up to dry.
To make money, Mom and her sister, my Aunt Wendy, delivered the Pensacola newspaper on foot. They also crabbed along the shores of Choctawhatchee Bay and Santa Rosa Sound, then cleaned the crabs and sold them to the Gulfview Hotel. Grandmom made pies and cakes and sold them to the Gulfview.
Eglin Parkway was a dirt road. Deer and livestock wandered the streets of Fort Walton Beach. A cypress forest stretched from the Ferry Park area south to U.S. Highway 98 in the vicinity of Perry Avenue. It was a popular hangout for rattlesnakes.
Meanwhile, up near Cinco Bayou, alligators basked along the shoreline. Grandmom admonished the kids not to go down there where those alligators were hanging around. But it was OK to go under the house to fetch eggs from the chickens that built nests there. Sometimes a rattlesnake helped itself to those eggs, too.
The Cinco Bayou bridge was made of wood planks. Mom said that when relatives from Alabama visited, you could hear their cars crossing the bridge because the tires made a racket. The kids would then stand by the road, waiting for the relatives to pass by.
The bridge to the island was what they called a “swing bridge.” When a tall boat sailed down Santa Rosa Sound, a bridge tender would lower traffic barriers, then swing the bridge 90 degrees so the boat could pass through. Imagine how that would affect traffic today!
Bad weather tended to catch them by surprise. Mom remembers walking dirt roads and seeing fish fall from the sky. The fish were still alive. Today we know the fish were sucked up by a waterspout, but back then there was no explanation for such an event. In 1936 a hurricane struck the area. They had no warning and knew it was a hurricane only when it continuously grew worse. My Uncle Jimmy spent the storm in a cottage on Okaloosa Island. Mom, Aunt Wendy and Grandmom stayed at their house in Cinco Bayou. They even brought the cow inside to ride out the storm.
Mom was a waitress at the bus station before going to work at the Tringas Theater. During World War II, she said, they passed around a collection jar among the audience members to raise money for armaments.
She met my dad when he was stationed at Eglin. Dad was a pilot, and Mom said he would buzz their house, causing Granddad to stomp outside and shake his fist at the sky. Dad once took Mom on a joyride and performed acrobatics; Mom was not amused.
Eventually growth would come to the area, with improved roads and bridges. More people moved to Fort Walton and Mom moved away, following Dad and his career in the Army Air Corps, then the U.S. Air Force. When it came time for Dad to retire, the family moved back to Fort Walton, and here we’ve been ever since.
As a longtime resident, I am not in favor of dirt roads and alligators sharing my swimming area. But at the same time, I’m not in favor of traffic jams and blocked beaches. I realize change is inevitable, but I wish it could be change we’ll all benefit from.
About the author:
Del Stone Jr. is a professional fiction writer. He is known primarily for his work in the contemporary dark fiction field, but has also published science fiction and contemporary fantasy. Stone’s stories, poetry and scripts have appeared in publications such as Amazing Stories, Eldritch Tales, and Bantam-Spectra’s Full Spectrum. His short fiction has been published in The Year’s Best Horror Stories XXII; Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine; the Pocket Books anthology More Phobias; the Barnes & Noble anthologies 100 Wicked Little Witch Stories, Horrors! 365 Scary Stories, and 100 Astounding Little Alien Stories; the HWA anthology Psychos; and other short fiction venues, like Blood Muse, Live Without a Net, Zombiesque and Sex Macabre. Stone’s comic book debut was in the Clive Barker series of books, Hellraiser, published by Marvel/Epic and reprinted in The Best of Hellraiser anthology. He has also published stories in Penthouse Comix, and worked with artist Dave Dorman on many projects, including the illustrated novella “Roadkill,” a short story for the Andrew Vachss anthology Underground from Dark Horse, an ashcan titled “December” for Hero Illustrated, and several of Dorman’s Wasted Lands novellas and comics, such as Rail from Image and “The Uninvited.” Stone’s novel, Dead Heat, won the 1996 International Horror Guild’s award for best first novel and was a runner-up for the Bram Stoker Award. Stone has also been a finalist for the IHG award for short fiction, the British Fantasy Award for best novella, and a semifinalist for the Nebula and Writers of the Future awards. His stories have appeared in anthologies that have won the Bram Stoker Award and the World Fantasy Award. Two of his works were optioned for film, the novella “Black Tide” and short story “Crisis Line.”
Stone recently retired after a 41-year career in journalism. He won numerous awards for his work, and in 1986 was named Florida’s best columnist in his circulation division by the Florida Society of Newspaper Editors. In 2001 he received an honorable mention from the National Lesbian and Gay Journalists Association for his essay “When Freedom of Speech Ends” and in 2003 he was voted Best of the Best in the category of columnists by Emerald Coast Magazine. He participated in book signings and awareness campaigns, and was a guest on local television and radio programs.
As an addendum, Stone is single, kills tomatoes and morning glories with ruthless efficiency, once tied the stem of a cocktail cherry in a knot with his tongue, and carries a permanent scar on his chest after having been shot with a paintball gun. He’s in his 60s as of this writing but doesn’t look a day over 94.
Contact Del at [email protected]. He is also on Facebook, twitter, Pinterest, tumblr, TikTok, and Instagram. Visit his website at delstonejr.com .
Image courtesy of Paramount.
“Mission: Impossible – Rogue Nation” Starring Tom Cruise, Rebecca Ferguson, Jeremy Renner, Simon Pegg, Ving Rhames, Sean Harris and Alec Baldwin. Directed by Christopher McQuarrie. 131 minutes. Rated PG.
Mladen’s take
Del knows where my review of “Mission: Impossible – Rogue Nation” (MI V) is heading. I won’t disappoint him entirely, but he’ll have to be patient.
The movie summary first. MI V is a smooth spy thriller. Solid plot. Well acted. Top notch real stuntman stunts. In short, the discredited and disavowed IMF (Mission Impossible Force) dukes with the CIA and “Rogue Nation” – aka The Syndicate – of allegedly dead spies and hitmen to keep societies from sliding into revolts and wholesale slaughter.
The Syndicate, headed by misguided former British MI6er (I assume) Solomon Lane (Sean Harris) wants to create a New World Order by first destroying the Current World Order. The IMF, led by Ethan Hunt (Tom Cruise), takes on the task of keeping the Rogue Nation from succeeding, though no one or institution, including the CIA, believes it exists. In fact, the CIA, incarnate in the movie as its very stiff, somewhat unconvincing director Alan Hunley (Alec Baldwin), sends a “Special Projects Team” to hunt Hunt and the rest of the IMF.
Hunt’s outlawed IMF, if that’s the way to describe an agency of spooks that legally never existed, ends up a player in a globe-trotting good guys versus bad guys game deftly manipulated by the most intelligent, beautiful, and kick-your-ass woman spy – Ilsa Faust (Rebecca Ferguson) – ever put on the big screen or, for that matter, any size screen anywhere. Is she an angel or Lucifer? Who cares. It was good that the MI V script was clean and comprehensible because I could barely keep my focus on the movie’s turns and twists when Ferguson was on the screen.
There is a generous dose of humor in the film and stunts that only occasionally foray into the impossible. From what I noticed, MI V has one absurd piece of CGI action. It involves a Beamer launched backwards at high speed during a superbike chase through the streets and open roads of Casablanca, Morocco. Thank goodness for German engineering or Hunt and sidekick Benji Dunn (Simon Pegg) would’ve been deader than the pancake-flat squirrel down the road from my home.
Also annoying was the coincidence during the very same motorcycle chase that saw Hunt and Benji re-unite with fellow IMFers William Brandt (Jeremy Renner) and Luther Stickell (Ving Rhames).
Finally, and forgive me for repeating myself, MI V would’ve been a better movie had it been made for an R rating. Cussing and blood splatter are musts for films that involve lots of gunfire, treachery, ambitious Government officials pursuing nothing more than power, and mayhem that unfolds in cities full of passing bystanders.
MI V won’t win any Oscars. But, I’ll say this. It’s well worth seeing in the theater. The B+/A- movie, I can’t decide and I’m trying to stay level headed despite images of Ferguson floating through my mind, also continues Cruise’s streak of very good performances. See or re-see 2014’s “Edge of Tomorrow” to understand what I’m talking about.
Del’s take
I was hoping Mladen would take a cold shower before writing his review of “Rogue Nation.” Instead, I get to mop up his Pavlovian drool – in this case a babe, not a bell, infused his report with such salivary gusto.
I heard before going in that “Rogue Nation” was as good, if not better, than “Mad Max.”
Ahem.
Let me put it this way: If the femme fatales from both movies squared off in a death match, Mladen’s little Ilsa would be roadkill flatter and deader than that squirrel down the road from his house. Furiousa would blow Ilsa to bits with one of those badass canons she carries, then flatten her 18 times with her kickass war rig, and war boys would blast her pancaked remains into smithereens with explosive pig-stickers.
That’s not to say “Rogue Nation” isn’t a good movie. It is, and you should see it in a theater, and if you get the senior citizen discount good on you because once again they mistook me for a younger, more financially capable person, and I paid full matinee price.
“Rogue Nation” features some amazing stunts. We’ve all seen the clip where Tom Cruise clings to the side of an Airbus as it takes off. I found a motorcycle chase sequence to be a lot more hair-raising. And, of course, there were the required heights scenes where Cruise is jumping off something taller than Oprah Winfrey’s couch – c’mon, Tom, I think we get the fact you like dangling from high places. You should run for president.
Sean Harris was a deliciously evil bad guy. I haven’t enjoyed a movie villain that much since Hans Gruber. The MI team members were all capable and funny – would Simon Pegg be anything BUT funny? Tom Cruise continues as an affable movie star – and he IS a movie star. Mladen was right about “Edge of Tomorrow” – you gotta see it.
In the run-up to “Rogue Nation” we caught a preview for “Spectre,” the new James Bond movie. In the lobby was a poster for “The Man from U.N.C.L.E.” All these spy movies trace their origins to the 1960s, the us-vs.-them mentality of the Cold War, and the very real fear we would fall to the communists. James Bond, Napoleon Solo and Jim Phelps were all that stood between us and Red Square and the Little Red Book. They took their job seriously, and we took them seriously.
THAT is what’s missing from these movies.
We’re not afraid of world domination by a soul-less entity. (We do, after all, shop at Walmart.) We’re afraid our 401(k)s will be eaten up by the looming financial crash. We’re afraid the boss will hand us a pink slip. We’re afraid we’ll end up on the street.
Spy movies no longer have the ability to conjure urgency – at least not like they did in the 1960s. And that’s what I think is missing from “Rogue Nation” – a sense of urgency. Not for Ethan Hunt and his team of comical do-gooders, but for the world itself.
That’s why I’m going to give “Rogue Nation” a B. It’s an entertaining movie, but for me it lacked urgency.
Oh, and it lacked Furiosa.
Mladen Rudman is a former journalist and technical editor. Del Stone Jr. is a former journalist and author.