It’s oftentimes hard for a movie to withstand that kind of hype, but I managed to maneuver around spoilers, trailers and art around the film. All I knew was that it was scary and good.

After screening the film, it was confirmed: The Witch is scary good, possessing otherworldly performances, astounding camera work and exquisite lived in sets and costume design.

It’s New England in 1630, and William (Ralph Ineson), under threat of banishment from the church, moves his wife and five children out of town and on a plantation on the precipice of the wrong forest.

When their baby disappears under the care of eldest daughter Thomasin (Anya Taylor-Joy), the family slowly turns on her, accusing her of witchcraft and setting the stage for what felt like the world’s creepiest Shakespearean production.

The Witch is marketed as a New England folk tale, and we learn that the uncomfortable events of the film come from actual accounts, with much of the dialogue lifted verbatim from the texts. Because of that and the unreal performances by every single one of the family members, from the kids on up to the parents, this film feels like more than just a hellish Puritan nightmare. It feels real.

I have no idea how the young actors, Ellie Grainger and Lucas Dawson, who played siblings Mercy and Jonas respectively, could handle the difficult Yorkshire accent and period dialogue. But they and everyone else did, perfectly. They each have standout moments, with the oldest son Caleb (Harvey Scrimshaw) proving that possession still can feel fresh and disturbing.

Kate Dickie, who as any Game of Thrones fan will know, specializes in playing characters that hurt your soul, is chilling and monstrous as Katherine, the family’s crazed matriarch.

Ineson, who tries and fails to keep his family together, delivers a heartbreaking performance, digging great, untold depths to keep faith.

But this is Thomasin’s movie, and while this sentiment is likely repeated by every critic who sees this movie, it’s no less true: it’s a star-making turn by Anya Taylor-Joy, a Miami-born actress who grew up in Argentina, lived for a time in London, and whose first language was Spanish, making her performance even more astonishing. Her big eyes are mesmerizing, like Amanda Seyfried’s but with pain surrounding her hazel irises. Not to sensationalize and play Monday morning quarterback, but her performance was just as powerful as another young blonde’s star-making turn in Winter’s Bone, and she showcases Jennifer Lawrence level talent.

Yes, there is a witch, a terrifying creation, but much of the terror comes from the agonizing melodrama when this family turns on their daughter/sister. Increasingly nobody believes Thomasin, and of course, every event is timed to paint her as the culprit. While this is a lean movie, Eggers’ relishes these scenes precisely because they’re so difficult, and because we know another witch sighting is around the corner to make everything even worse.

The Witch isn’t one of those exploitive jump scare horror flicks, even if it will likely make you jump, gasp and swear. Eggers earns every grisly Brothers Grimm moment, and gets as dark as possible: there is no comfort to be found here, this is an unholy baptism of sinister shit that gives me continued faith in not just the indie horror genre but in movie-making in general.

The Witch arrives in theaters February 19 to ruin your sleep. Make it a success.

It’s not often you find a movie bursting with decapitations and dildos that also has a heart, but found one you have in the form of the deliriously zonked out Deathgasm from writer-director Jason Lei Howden.

On its surface, the film is about a bunch of loser high school students fending off a demon-fueled apocalypse, and you wouldn’t be wrong. But Deathgasm shows us the appeal of Heavy Metal and that it stems from the same place everywhere else comes from during adolescence: loneliness and feelings of being irrevocably different from everyone else. Heavy metal gives Brodie (Milo Cawthorne) an outlet.

He’s hated by his Aunt and Uncle, essentially living out a metal version of Harry Potter, with his cousin David and his henchmen bullying him in ways that only movie bullies can, spraying piss at Brodie and his nerdy friends, D&D nut Dion (Sam Berkley) and Giles (Daniel Cresswell), who’s kind of just an asshole.

It all changes when Brodie meets Zakk (James Blake), at, where else, a record store, and they all form a band called, of course, Deathgasm.

The plot trappings are standard fare, but the film’s gonzo sense of humor and bonkers (and violent) series of events will win most everyone over.

The darkness even appeals to Medina (Kimberley Crossman), the hottest babe in school that Brodie has a not-so-hopeless crush on.

After Brodie and Zakk end up with a mystical Black Hymn from their metal idol Rikki Daggers, they end up playing the song and unleashing Hell on a small New Zealand town in the form of The Blind One, a demon.

From there, Deathgasm is a dizzying array of gore, practical FX and sex toys as weapons, with Zakk finding ways to use chainsaws that even Evil Dead hasn’t. There’s hardly any boundaries of where to go: this is a movie with a baby vomiting blood.

In other words, it’s delightful, and another example (after Housebound and What We Do in the Shadows) that New Zealand is the most metal place for indie horror.

Deathgasm is available On Demand and on DVD/Blu-Ray.

But when I think of the film, the first thing that comes to my mind isn’t “Here’s looking at you, kid,” or “We’ll always have Paris,” or the song “As Time Goes By,” or any of the other often best-remembered parts. For me, it’s always “La Marseillaise” — the dueling anthems between French refugees and their German occupants singing “Die Wacht am Rhein.” I’ve never found a movie scene yet that can match it. So now, at a time when people are once again turning to “La Marseillaise” for comfort in the face of adversity, I wanted to revisit what makes this scene so powerful.

The scene marks a major turning point in the film. Directly preceding this scene, the bar owner Rick (Humphrey Bogart) refuses to give or sell letters of transit to the war hero/revolutionary Victor Laszlo (Paul Heinreid). The letters of transit are the only hope of freedom for Victor, and his only chance at returning to his efforts at insurgency against the Nazis; Rick knows this, but is still too hurt and bitter that his lost love Ilsa (Ingrid Bergman) has chosen Victor over him. Rick’s refusal is essentially a Nazi victory, despite his careful attempts at framing his (in)actions as simple neutrality. The Germans, led by Major Strausser (Conrad Veidt), have established a de facto control over Casablanca, acting through the openly self-interested French Captain Louis Renault (Claude Rains).

After “La Marseillaise,” everything changes. The uneasy stalemate between Victor Laszlo and Major Strausser can no longer continue in the face of such open defiance of German power. Strausser orders Renault to find a pretense to shut down Rick’s — leading to arguably the film’s best exchange of dialogue. Strausser uses Ilsa to increase the pressure on Victor. Everything kicks into gear, as now Rick, Ilsa, Victor, and Louis are all forced into unpleasant decisions that will push the film toward its climax.

And it all begins with the anthems. As Rick and Victor are ending their disagreement, they hear the German soldiers in the bar below, joyfully and triumphantly singing “Die Wacht am Rhein.” The rest of the bar is made up largely of refugees from the German war machine, so the anthem feels almost like taunting, a callous display of German power over people seeking to escape their conquering. Even the ever-compliant Louis looks on at the singing with an expression that could be construed as disapproval, before glancing toward Rick to see what he’ll do. (Rick is a constant source of curiosity for Louis throughout the film.) This expression is the first and barest foreshadowing we receive of Louis’s eventual turn.

Victor spends only seconds taking in the scene in front of him before marching straight down to the bar’s band. As he passes, we see Ilsa watch him go by with a look of only partially contained dread. She knows this man and exactly what he’s about to do.

Victor reaches the band and immediately demands that they play “La Marseillaise,” the French national anthem. Here we see, for the first and perhaps only time, what has made Victor such an important figure. There’s such a fierceness to him, an intensity that comes bursting out as he repeats his demand — “Play it” — less than second after first making it.

The band leader looks first to Rick for approval; the film had already established previously the absolute loyalty that Rick receives from his employees, in a scene where the bartender cuts off a patron on Rick’s orders despite protests for one more drink. Nothing that follows can happen without Rick’s assent. Bogart’s nod is such a small gesture, but carries such enormous weight. This is the first moment of Rick choosing a side, of joining in resistance in some small way.

The band launches into “La Marseillaise” with Victor leading the singing, and within two seconds, the entire bar (except the Germans) has stood and joined him. Everyone was ready and waiting for this to happen, even if they didn’t know it: the kindling was already there, and Victor was the spark to light it. Major Strausser makes one attempt to rouse his soldiers into louder voices, but it’s no use. The Germans are but one small enclave, finding themselves within a community that’s filled with less traditional power but greater numbers and far superior zeal. Within moments, “La Marseillaise” has drowned out “Die Wacht am Rhein.”

Strausser is forced to give up and sit down in anger. That moment is also an example of one of the fascinating things about this scene, and why I’ve rewatched it by itself so many times. While the main focus in on just a small handful of characters, there are numerous people around the edges of shots whose actions and expressions add greatly to the emotions being played out. Take, for instance, the German officer to Strausser’s right (screen left), and the frustration and disgust on his face as he finally gives up the song.

Now, only “La Marseillaise” is playing, as the voices rise to a swell. And we come to the heart of the entire scene: Yvonne. The story of Yvonne (Madeleine Lebeau) in Casablanca is perhaps the greatest example of economy in storytelling that I’ve seen. She appears in only three scenes in the entire film, with this one the last of them. Her total screen time combined is probably no more than a minute. And yet, in those brief stretches, we see an entire character arc play out; and what’s more, an arc that acts as a microcosm of the entire film.

We first see Yvonne early in the film, as she’s upset and confronting Rick because he’s rebuffed her after the two of them apparently shared a one-night stand. She tries to get drunker, but Rick takes that away from her too and has her sent home. The next time she appears, she’s at the bar and romantically entwined with a German soldier. A Frenchman takes exception to that pairing and starts a fight; Yvonne sides with the German. These two scenes, as brief as they are, tell us so much about her. She’s a broken woman, desperately seeking a man, possibly for love but more likely for a sense of protection and comfort in dangerous times. This desperation leads her all the way to the point of willingly collaborating and romantically pairing with a German.

But then, there’s “La Marseillaise.” A sudden and fervent outburst of patriotism that spreads like wildfire through the bar, overwhelming the Germans and awakening a passion in its singers. As the song begins to near its climax, we get a close-up of Yvonne, singing along with a very different kind of passion. We see tears streaking down her face and a pained expression as she sings. In just these few seconds, you can see a mountain of development and emotion. The same woman who was willing to compromise everything for her own security is realizing how far that compromise has made her fall; is realizing that she may never see the homeland she loves again; is realizing that she’d rather die a true Frenchwoman than live a traitor. It’s the same type of journey we see Rick travel more slowly throughout the movie, and shows perhaps the film’s most important motif: the choice between personal desire or safety and the greater good. How many people must have faced similar choices in the war — to collaborate or die? Yvonne isn’t just herself in this scene; she’s representing scores of people as she faces hard truths and makes her emotional break.

We then move to Ilsa, and without a word, she conveys everything we need to know about her relationship with Victor. The movie wouldn’t be nearly as enduring without Bergman’s flawless portrayal of Ilsa. It’s easy to imagine a version of the film with Ilsa coming across as just a reductive caricature; her role in the plot revolves mostly around her being torn between two men whom she both loves. But Bergman imbues her with such subtle strength that Ilsa always feels like she has agency. Even when she tells Rick near the end that he must make the choices for both of them, it feels like a lie; she believes Rick will choose to keep her and him together, so telling him to make the choice is itself the choice.

But while Casablanca gives us flashbacks to Ilsa and Rick’s time together in Paris, the development of Ilsa and Victor is mostly expository. This scene is perhaps the best representation of how they fit together. Victor charged past Ilsa without a word, and we already saw the dread in her face as she knew what he was about to do. Now we get the first shot of her reaction to “La Marseillaise” after it’s begun. You can see it on her face and in the deep breaths she takes: she knows. She knows what this means for Victor, for his cause, for her, for their relationship. His open defiance in the face of the German soldiers will end all good hope they had of ever leaving Casablanca alive and together. You can see her heart breaking as she recognizes their predicament before anyone else in the room has even considered it.

But then the camera cuts back to Victor, still singing triumphantly. There is such bravado in Henreid’s performance here; it’s the one scene where you can really see Victor as a revolutionary leader, capable of inspiring people into acts of defiance in the face of tyranny. When the camera reaches Ilsa again, her expression has softened, melted even, into one of love. A bittersweet love, perhaps, but an evident one. She knows that this reckless disregard for his own life is that same thing that once landed Victor in a concentration camp and threatens him again now in Casablanca, but that zeal must be the same reason she fell for him in the first place. Again, the economy of storytelling here is remarkable. Within a handful of seconds, an entire wordless story has been told: Ilsa’s sad resignation to their changing circumstances, Victor’s passionate defiance, and Ilsa’s acceptance of her husband, loving him for the fact that his greatest flaws are also his greatest virtues.

Ilsa’s acceptance is the final act needed for “La Marseillaise” to move on to reach its climax. Within less than just a couple of minutes, we have had the German aggression, Victor’s rebellion against it, Rick taking his first stand, the overwhelming passion of the French crowd, the redemption of Yvonne painting a story representative of the whole film, and Ilsa and Victor’s unconventional love in the face of adversity. All that remains is the final groundswell.

The power of this scene is helped, of course, by the indisputable fact that “La Marseillaise” is an incredible national anthem. While I’m by no means an expert, it’s the best one I’ve ever heard from any country, and its association in my mind with this scene is highly likely to always keep it there. But the scene is also helped by the people in it. The main actors are at their finest here, and I already mentioned how supporting actors gave great little tidbits in the German soldier part.

Yet perhaps the greatest thing in this scene is that most of the people in it weren’t actors at all; rather, director Michael Curtiz filled the scene with actual French refugees. Keep in mind, this movie came out in 1942 and was filmed at the height of World War II, at a time when Germany looked nearly unbeatable and Nazi occupation of France was indefinite. And here was a group of refugees from that occupation, given the chance to sing their anthem with defiant pride. For one brief moment, this wasn’t a movie. It was real life, and it was tragic, and it was brave. Reports have said that extras were crying on set during filming, and the passion is evident any time you look past the main actors to the background singers. Note, for instance, the furious arm pump by the man in the background behind the blonde woman at the left of the screen:

It’s also worth noting that the film is entirely in English; “La Marseillaise” is the only foreign language sequence I can recall, and it’s presented without subtitles. (You can find the English translation here; it’s very much a true battle song, in the goriest sense of the phrase.)  For some reason, that adds even more to its power for me. It’s unapologetically French, and derives much of its power from that. It was their anthem, at the time they needed it most. And for the film’s audience, most of whom were probably not speaking French, the intentional creation of a brief language barrier allows for a pure distillation of the passion of the singing; it’s not the words that matter, it’s what they represent to the people saying them. And what they represent is an ability to stand up in their darkest hour and show their oppressors that their pride will never be extinguished.

The song ends with one final shot of Yvonne, the final time we see her in the film. With wet cheeks, she yells “Vive la France!”

I truly believe this remains the greatest scene ever filmed. It’s filled with such raw power and emotion, showing a beacon of light in the midst of some of humanity’s darkest days. It tells so much of a story in such a brief moment, distilling numerous characters down to their cores and giving them developments and arcs through the merest of glances. It’s the turning point that pushes the plot and its characters to the point of no return, where a final and deadly confrontation will become necessary. All because of the power of a single song, and its ability to inspire, to create and destroy, to stoke passions and reconciliations and fears and loves. All because of “La Marseillaise.”

Vive la France, indeed.

I got a late start to the horror game. When I was younger, I was derisive of the genre, which is code for being too chicken shit to explore it.

Sure, I grew up watching Universal horror with my father and Uncle, but it wasn’t until the past couple years when I first saw Halloween, Nightmare on Elm Street and Night of the Living Dead, which so happened to coincide with securing a (blessedly short term) position at Famous Monsters magazine.

Luckily, this newfound love of horror has taken place during a revitalization of the genre, thanks to Blumhouse Productions, filmmakers like Adam Wingard, Simon Barrett, Ti West and Joe Begos who revere their 80’s roots, and a growing international scene that has included The Babadook, A Girl Walks Home Alone at Night and Housebound. This trend has continued in 2015 with films like It Follows, and will only grow as we enter Halloween season and the festival darlings arrive in theaters and on demand.

Outside of The Witch, no indie horror film has been met with more buzz than IFC Films’ Irish horror film The Hallow (originally known as The Woods).

And after watching writer-director Corin Hardy’s film in the worst possible fashion for a horror movie (during the day, with a screener link on an iPad), I can see why.

It has a classic (read: yawn) premise: new parents Adam (Ripper Street’s Joseph Mawle, AKA Benjen Stark) and Clare (Bojana Novakovic) have recently moved to the remote Irish countryside, bringing their baby boy and Border collie along for what turns out to be a dangerous ride. They live next to, or practically within, an ancient forest, one whose land and trees are being sold for lumber by the government because of Ireland’s sorry economic state. The woods aren’t too happy about this. Or more accurately, the creatures that inhabit it aren’t.

Adam, flippantly disregarded as a “tree doctor” by superstitious locals, is studying the trees before the lumberjacks arrive, making him a villain in the town, who all know that “the Hallow” should not be messed with. Hardy has fun with this, utilizing Game of Throne’s Michael McElhatton as the dangerous neighbor, trying to warn Adam and Clare of their impending doom in hilariously scary ways. The Hallow is a movie where Roose Bolton comes ‘round with the bloody Necronomicon (okay, so it’s a gnarled, creepy book of fairy tales, but same diff), and that’s about when it elevates beyond its stock premise and gets to the crazy (fiery scythes and Cronenbergian horror).

That crazy has a lot to do with parasitic fungus; it’s rare to find that as the vessel of horror, and even rarer to see “fungal research advisor” in the credits, as Hardy’s film delights in oozing, sticky, muddy sludge seeping through every nook and cranny. The Hallow is a homemaker’s nightmare before we even glimpse the awesome woodland zombie dead-eyed Gollum’s crawling about, baby hungry.

The Hallow doesn’t tread any new ground (particularly when it comes to Clare, who isn’t given much to do beyond screaming, running and baby-holding until the end), but it’s a tremendously enjoyable throwback, with more than just jump scares. In addition to Bolton, Hardy employs Spaced and Luther star Michael Smiley as the unhelpful cop archetype, another self-aware wink to the monsters in the woods genre. But what really makes The Hallow memorable is the stellar (and practical) creature FX. The “hallows” are terrifically rendered, and the superlative sound design sells the whole thing.

It’s easy to judge horror movies, but right now, indie horror is some of the most fun you can have at the movies, and Hardy’s The Hallow is an exceptional example of that.

The Hallow arrives On Demand November 5, and in theaters starting November 6.

You’d be hard-pressed to find two more misunderstood genres than the horror and western. The former is often (and unfairly) seen as schlock, a cheap studio stunt for cash. The latter is seen as a long since dead genre, a relic of Classic Hollywood, despite Django Unchained, Deadwood, Meek’s Cutoff and titles that owe a debt to the western frontier (Firefly/Serenity). Blessedly, Bone Tomahawk throws the two genres into a blender, and thanks to its impressive cast and ballsy brutality, pulls it off, ushering in the winter of Kurt Russell.

David Arquette’s character, who we find out much later is named Purvis, may as well be called “Mr. Inciting Incident,” as he and horror icon Sid Haig (as Buddy) open the movie robbing and killing (as one does in the West), stumbling on an Indian burial ground as they make their escape (again, as one does). It predictably ends poorly for Buddy, and Purvis manages to escape, seeking refuge in Bright Hope.

He doesn’t get it. Instead, he brings whatever it is that killed Buddy with him.

Bright Hope is a small, “civilized” tenement, sparsely populated with some of the best actors in Hollywood. Kurt Russell was practically born with a Sheriff badge emblazoned upon his chest, but he wears one here anyway lest we forget that he’s the moral, upstanding Sheriff Franklin Hunt who will do anything to protect his town.

Patrick Wilson is the stolid, stubborn cowboy with a romantic streak Arthur O’Dwyer, suffering from a debilitating leg injury, his loving wife Samantha (Banshee’s Lili Simmons) there to care for him. LOST’sMatthew Fox is the aptly named John Brooder, an Indian-hating, sharp shooting jerk who loves his horse and spyglass (“the German”) more than anything else.

There are also random appearances by Sean Young and James Tolkan (Principal Strickland), but the true highlight is the nearly unrecognizable Richard Jenkins as Chicory, a doddering chatter box of a widower, acting as Hunt’s back up deputy. This seemingly unnecessary position comes in handy when Deputy Nick (poor, poor Nick), Samantha and Purvis get kidnapped by the mysterious Indian tribe that slightly uncomfortably act as the monsters of this movie.

We learn that these Native Americans aren’t like the rest. They are truly troglodytes, ruthless and dangerous cave dwellers that even the lone Indian in town labels as savages. Because this is a period piece and a western, this fits, and because there’s something mystical and horrific about the cave dwellers, Bone Tomahawk manages to skirt the controversy seen by Adam Sandler’s sure-to-be-terrible-and-offensive Ridiculous 6. Despite being crippled, O’Dwyer joins Sheriff Hunt, Chicory and Brooder on one of those hopeless but not at all hopeless because it’s a movie rescue mission.

For much of its too-long two hour plus running time, writer-director S. Craig Zahler walks a tight rope. Sometimes, Bone Tomahawk feels like it doesn’t know what it is, with clashing tones and meandering plots often biding their time to make the sudden spurts of gorey violence even more shocking. Yet it works, precisely because we see something Patrick Wilson and I have never seen onscreen, and hopefully never do again. I’m not one to turn away from a movie, but I kind of wish I had toward the end of Bone Tomahawk. Poor, poor Nick.

Nick’s loss is mostly our gain though, as Bone Tomahawk provides an intriguing template for a promising subgenre, though it’s much more western than horror, despite its grisly finish. Thankfully, Richard Jenkins, Kurt Russell and their bickering company provide an entertaining presence inbetween the action.

When I was a kid, I spent an inordinate amount of time in my weird salt and pepper carpeted room. I would play with my action figures all day, narrating their battles, recreating scenes from comic books, cartoons and movies in glorious mash-up fashion, throwing them to and from the room and at the walls, to simulate the gritty reality of “war.”

I was painfully shy, and my Room was the only place I could be unequivocally myself, sheltered from the rest of the world. I miss it.

But I can’t even imagine if Room was my world, and the only thing I knew. That’s what his Ma’s (Brie Larson) garden shed prison is to Jack (Jacob Tremblay), a four year old boy who has grown up knowing only the insides of Room.

For a kid, even a Room can seem like an entire world.

And in Room, the transformative must-see film based on Emma Donaghue’s acclaimed novel and adapted by her own hand, it’s a fascinating one. Yes, the tragic, uncomfortable circumstances make your skin crawl, but Jack has no idea of the circumstances surrounding his birth, and this story is from his fascinating perspective, and director Lenny Abrahamson (Frank) renders many unimaginable situations to (painful) reality.

Jack just knows Ma, Room and the fuzzy feed of Dora the Explorer that they receive. Sure, he knows about Old Nick (Sean Bridgers), but he’s not allowed to see him, and goes to bed before he comes over. Jack doesn’t know that Ma was kidnapped by Old Nick seven years previous, and that he’s raped her nearly every day since, and that Jack himself was conceived from one of these unspeakable deeds.

He loves Room and Ma. He doesn’t know that the trees, birds and people he sees on TV are real, that anything exists out of Room.

It’s hard not to be frustrated, angry with Jack, but of course, none of this is his fault, and you can hardly blame Ma for how he’s sheltered him. But eventually, Jack’s blissful ignorance becomes too much for Ma, who finally stops lying to him, revealing to him that there is a world beyond Room.

Those scenes between Larson and Tremblay are the best in the film. Ma has carried this truth for so long, and needs someone to understand, and Jack doesn’t, at least not at first, decrying this new reality as make-believe. “That’s a boring story. That’s not the story I want,” he yells, tantrum at the ready. And who can blame him? This movie captures the mind, soul and stunning adaptability of a child perfectly, thanks to Tremblay’s performance and a mindblowingly empathic perspective from Abrahamson and Donaghue.

In the sometimes overwrought, but always necessary, narration, Jack comes to grips with the truth: “I’m four and I knew nothing. I’m 5 and I know everything.”

You’ve never rooted for characters to escape from their circumstances MORE than in Room, but when we get what you want, it feels just as weird and uncomfortable for the audience as it does for Jack and Ma, a truly mind-boggling achievement by Abrahamson.

Room highlights the incredible adaptability and intelligence of children, and how adults just don’t have the same capacity. Ma never expected to leave, to make it back home, to return to her life, and see her parents again. Larson’s Ma would’ve given up long ago if it weren’t for Jack; she’s been broken for so long that she might never be repaired. It’s an unreal performance from Larson, summoning untold depths of sorrow and compassion. She’s so good it almost demeans it all by suggesting an Oscar statuette; this is an achievement all on its own, and is the kind of performance that cements her place as one of the finest in the industry.

Room is incredible, a story of survival, adaptation, perseverance and love, one where Larson, Tremblay and Abrahamson prove irreplaceable as a cinematic family all their own.

Room opens in New York and Los Angeles October 16, and expands nationwide November 6.

Toward the end of Douglas Tirola’s Drunk Stoned Brilliant Dead, a documentary unraveling the fascinating story of National Lampoon magazine, Judd Apatow makes a comment that had become clear through the proceedings: the humor, satire and bite from National Lampoon became “all of modern comedy.”

Many comedy fans will point to the beginning of Saturday Night Live as the birth of what we view as “modern comedy,” but in fact, the National Lampoon, founded by Doug Kenney and Henry Beard, came earlier. Funneling out of the Harvard Lampoon (America’s oldest humor magazine, once boasting the talents of George Plimpton and John Updike), the two renegade humorists created their own brand of satire that “looted” the absolutely culturally stacked time period of the 60’s and 70’s, from Nixon, Vietnam and hippie culture, for what was a new kind of comedy that appealed to a younger audience. It was cool, hip, and a fuck you to the man. Plus, as Kevin Bacon puts it: the mag had breasts (“the humor was above my pay grade”).

As you might expect, it was madness behind the scenes. Writer-director John Landis (National Lampoon’s Animal House) posits that many older men view their college years, from 17-22, as the best of their life. But, as he says, they’re babies. And the babies behind the scenes at National Lampoon were changing the world, while simultaneously hosting the best parties, with the best drugs. Kenney desperately wanted to be a star, a beat poet, with the permanently stoned nature to prove it; Beard was a reclusive “Holden Caulfield” type. Together, along with 21st Century Communications exec Matty Simmons, they uncovered some of the best comedy talent we’ve ever seen: bringing John Belushi, Bill Murray, Gilda Radner and Harold Ramis over from Second City in Chicago for a comedy album, a radio show, and a slew of off-Broadway plays. Throw in Chevy Chase and Christopher Guest, and Drunk Stoned Brilliant Dead feels like an origin story for what makes America laugh, and the road map for the tragedy to come.

This doc, cleverly strung together by audio from the Lampoon’s radio show and animated articles and images from the magazine, tells the tale of the formative years of the magazine, from being a part of the culture zeitgeist (featuring a million subscribers and a 12-15 million “pass along” audience at its height), the subsequent exodus of its stars to Hollywood, and its crushing downfall and inevitable obsolescence.

Drunk Stoned Brilliant Dead, in addition to providing a necessary history lesson for people like me, who, while being aware of the magazine (and of course their classic films), didn’t fathom its cultural significance, gives us fascinating bon mots from a slew of writers and contributors for the Lampoon, including co-founder Henry Beard, and film stars and makers like Ivan Reitman, Beverly D’Angelo, John Goodman, Tim Matheson and Chevy Chase.

There’s a fascinating “What if?” element to DSBD that is unfortunately slightly hidden (and maybe fodder for another doc), and it’s that Matty Simmons was approached to make a satirical show on Saturday Night for NBC (sound familiar?). He was also told to put John Belushi on retainer; he didn’t, and the rest is history: Lorne Michaels mined Second City and the Lampoon’s writers, and created Saturday Night Live, a show now fresh off an exorbitant victory lap celebrating its 40th anniversary.

National Lampoon’s story is one repeated endlessly: it’s essentially the story of a band getting too big and popular, and fracturing from the inside, but I still found myself fascinated by the tragic figure of Doug Kenney, a man so consumed by a desire for success and addiction that it, of course, killed him. After producing and starring in Animal House (as Stork) and helping to create an entire genre of movie, Kenney was experiencing a meteoric rise in Hollywood. Of course, it also jived with the age of cocaine, and following the less than stellar success of Caddyshack (which seems insane to say now), he never recovered. The cause of his death remains a mystery, but when talking about his best friend, we actually see Chevy Chase as a human with genuine emotion, perhaps peering into the moment that doomed Chevy Chase to assholery. There’s something here, and you almost wish the doc switched gears to uncover it.

Instead we learn more about the downslide of the magazine and its lean years (which still featured a fascinating crew of writers, including Simpsons producers Mike Reiss and Al Jean, and fan letter author turned leading contributor…John Hughes). From 1970-1975, National Lampoon was the coolest thing in comedy. In 1975, it became Saturday Night Live, and it was never truly the same afterwards.

Never before or never since had a bunch of 20-something’s had so much freedom in crafting a magazine, a brand, a voice. Gifted with this opportunity, the Lampoon changed the world. But it came at a price, and like all things, didn’t last. As a Lampoon alum said, a satirist’s duty is to make powerful people uncomfortable. Drunk Stoned Brilliant Dead highlights what happens when the satirist becomes powerful.

Drunk Stoned Brilliant Dead opens in Los Angeles at the Nuart Theatre on October 2nd, and opens in NY and on VOD/iTunes September 25).

Sometime last year, on a lark, I went on an audition for a small play opening in a black box theatre on Santa Monica in Hollywood. The bizarre experience is another story, but in addition to a line reading, we had to fill out a short bio. One of the questions on the sheet asked, “In your estimation, who is the greatest actor working today?”

My mind went blank. I didn’t want to choose Daniel Day-Lewis or Meryl Streep, or anyone obvious, and for the life of me, couldn’t think of anyone worthy of such a title (I got so mad and frustrated by this unanswerable question that it probably doomed the infinitesimal odds that I actually would have landed the part).

So, who did I end up writing down?

Elisabeth Moss, obviously. The Mad Men actress who I had just finished bingeing in Top of the Lake, and who has now become independent director Alex Ross Perry’s (Listen Up Philip) go-to muse and front for depression.

Moss, the greatest actor working today? That’s certainly hyperbole, but why not? Moss is consistently incredible, and in Perry’s unnerving Queen of Earth, she is again great.

She is Catherine, a young woman who has just lost her father to suicide, and her cheating boyfriend to a sobbing, bitter and spiteful break-up. We open on the latter, and while we hear James (Kentucker Adley), the scene is almost exclusively stuck up close on Moss’ boundlessly expressive face, tears and makeup going everywhere. While James is obviously a dick, it’s clear that he’s right: that they had an over-reliance on each other, that they were codependent. We see it in flashbacks, and we see the sentiment echoed by Catherine’s best friend Virginia (Inherent Vice’s Katherine Waterston, similarly excellent).

Catherine and Jenny (only her friends call her Jenny) are the kind of best friends that have ceased caring for each other, stuck with one another because there’s no one else. Jenny cuts everyone out of her life that’s a drain, friend or family, whereas everyone who cares about Catherine has abandoned her.  When Jenny points out that she hasn’t gone anywhere that proves Catherine’s point: she doesn’t care about her. Queen of Earth is a movie about unhealthy relationships, and Catherine and Jenny’s might be most damaging of all, besides the sometimes crippling relationship with yourself. The two know each other too well, and know exactly how to hurt the other, and haven’t met a conversation they couldn’t turn into an argument, sniping at one another even in the company of others.

Following the break-up and her father’s “accident,” Jenny takes Catherine to her idyllic cabin in the country to heal.

Except, in Queen of Earth, a vacation isn’t an escape; in fact, there is no escape from yourself or your problems. Vacations are a lie, a mistake. There’s no such thing, and even as Jenny points this out to Catherine, she’s lived her whole life on a break, professing that she feels like modern aristocracy. But you can’t hide. A retreat at Jenny’s parents’ immaculate cabin in the woods provides no respite. It turns ugly, like so many horror movies, and that’s Perry’s point: grief and depression is horror, and Queen of Earth unravels into a surreal psychological horror, as we witness Catherine’s descent to a giggling, crying, hallucinating mess.

Queen of Earth is beautifully shot; the house, the woods and the lake are given a dreamy feel that’s at the heart of the film, thanks to a deep saturation of light and color. It’s almost blinding, a distraction from the unsettling foreboding that seeps through the proceedings. It feels like the beginning of the original Wicker Man, or a Hammer horror film, or even the S&M-laden psychodrama Duke of Burgundy.

This is contrasted with a myriad of intense close-ups on Moss and Waterston, uncomfortable and raw. Throughout, arguments and conversations appear to be one-sided: like in the opening scene, we only see into the eyes of one of the combatants, but from the POV of the other. They might as well be arguing with themselves, and that’s Perry’s point. We’re all alone in our depression. We feel like a voyeur on these personal moments, yet unable to trust our perspective. We can’t even trust ourselves.

Which is about how I feel about Queen of Earth: unable to trust my perspective and thoughts on this movie. The movies of Alex Ross Perry vary wildly based upon the mood you have when you go in; they have a tendency to burrow into humanity’s insecurities, and by extension, your own.

It’s never a fun experience, but it’s always a fascinating one.

Queen of Earth opens in New York August 26, with a national rollout to follow, and is NOW out on VOD.

Inbetween the internet’s collective groaning about another Spider-Man reboot were whispers about the man chosen to direct it: little known director Jon Watts (The Onion News Network). Who?

Anyone who sees Cop Car will no longer ask that question, because Watts is the talented writer-director of the taut thriller Cop Car, and afterwards, in spite of yourself, tendrils of excitement about the newest incarnation of Spider-Man might trickle through your being. At this point, it should come as no surprise that Marvel has found another under-the-radar gem. But enough of that, because not everything is about Marvel. This is about Cop Car.

Going into Sunday’s opening night screening of Cop Car to kick off the third annual Sundance NEXT FEST, I had no idea what to expect. I had purposefully shied away from everything surrounding the movie. All I knew was the classically simple title, that it starred Kevin Bacon, and that he was rocking a stupendous 70s stache.

That’s all I needed to know to be in, but in the moments leading up to the opening credits, my friends and I predicted what would take place, based solely on our scant knowledge or lack thereof, betting the over/under on how many times Kevin Bacon would have sex in his Cop Car, how many chases he’d have in his Cop Car, how many times he’d be shot inside or outside of his Cop Car, how many times he’d drink and drive in his Cop Car, and whether he was a tortured soul, if he was merely an alcoholic or a drug addict. It was like Six Degrees of Cop Thriller Cliché Madlibs, or Kevin Bacon Bingo, and is a highly recommended way to pass the time while picnicking at the Hollywood Forever cemetery.

It was also a harsh and wonderful lesson in preconceived notions. Sure, we hit on some plot points and characterizations, but the movie we got was not at all the movie we expected, and bless Watts, Bacon and company for that [and bless them for the number of times “cop car” is said in this movie; it’s the only drinking game rule required].

Cop Car hinges upon an elegantly simple set up: two young boys from a small town, Travis (James Freedson-Jackson) and Harrison (Hays Wellford). The best friends are running away from home, as kids do. Their adventure takes a detour when they stumble upon the titular Cop Car, abandoned, in the middle of the prairie. From there, Travis and Harrison commit to an ever-escalating dare—the pitfalls of peer pressure, even with your best friend—one that everyone in the audience knows has to end poorly, tragically, and unfortunately. But you have no idea how: Cop Car is an inexorable tragedy, but we’re never sure of the specifics to the very end, and the result is a gripping thriller with moments that will have your heart in your throat.

In Cop Car, which feels like Mud and Stand By Me stuffed into the backseat of a police cruiser, Watts captures the joy, danger, intelligence, naiveté and stupidity of children*, with the absolutely brilliant Freedson-Jackson and Wellford as his muses, whereas Bacon and Agent Carter’s Shea Whigham display the harsh devastation of adulthood.

Cop Car is another reminder that films don’t need to be complicated to succeed, and that we don’t need to know every character’s backstory (or origin story). Oftentimes, it’s better when we don’t, not the least of which because the film doesn’t feel a desire to pander, to over-explain and dump unnecessary exposition for us to wade through. Cop Car trusts the audience to piece it together, and come to its own conclusions about what happened pre-credits (Kevin Bacon has totally had sex in his Cop Car), thrusting us in the middle and driving, never waiting for us to catch up. There’s no need; we’re right there with them.

*given how fantastically he captures childhood, Watts would be a perfect choice to adapt Chris Giarusso’s hilarious Mini-Marvels, which absolutely should be utilized as a series of shorts before their features, a la Pixar’s shorts

Cop Car opens today, August 7. Go see it; just don’t steal a cop car en route, no matter how easy it may seem.

Sundance NEXT FEST continues this weekend at the beautiful and historic Ace Hotel in downtown Los Angeles, combining this year’s Sundance festival favorites with musical acts, virtual reality and Thomas Middleditch. For more information on the weekend program and to buy tickets, check out the festival’s website.

Every time a new show or movie is set in Los Angeles, I groan. Haven’t we seen that? Most movies are already made in Los Angeles; do they also all need to take place there too? Rest assured we have never seen the side of Hollywood shown in Sean Baker’s revolutionary Tangerine. In fact, we may have never seen a movie like the Sundance favorite Tangerine.

Baker’s film thrusts us, jarringly so, into the story, showing us the tawdry goings on at Donut Time, a dilapidated donut stop on Santa Monica and Highland that everyone around here has passed a million times, but probably never wandered inside.

Tangerine wanders inside a lot of things that is foreign to the majority of the population.

Sin-Dee (Kitana Kiki Rodriguez), a transsexual hooker, is back in town after 28 days in prison. She’s eager to get back to business, but that ain’t happening: her bestie Alexandra (Mya Taylor) reveals that her boyfriend (and pimp) Chester (James Ransome) has cheated on her with…someone whose name starts with a D (Desiree? Destiny? Dana?). Begging her to avoid drama, this movie drowns in drama befitting the dregs of reality TV, as she stomps around town looking for this D-name hooker. Except, unlike reality TV, this actually feels real. If I had been told before the movie that Tangerine was a gonzo documentary, I would have believed it.

Alexandra is so intent on avoiding drama that she parts ways with Sin-Dee, but she can’t escape it, and both of their stories collide in the end with Razmik (Karren Karagulian), an Armenian taxi driver, similarly having the worst day. Of course, he’s not blameless; none of these characters are, and it’d be hard to choose who has the worst day among them.

Tangerine is hilarious, eye-opening, startling, depressing, uncomfortable, seedy and essential. It takes place on Christmas Eve, a time that never feels quite right in LA, because of its anachronistic sunny and warm weather. As one character says, Christmas in LA is a lie. Yet this movie uncovers truth.

Many people bemoan technological advancements because it gives everyone the chance to make a movie with their phone, belittling the artistry of movie-making. Those people need to see this film; writer-director-everything Sean Baker (Greg the Bunny) has made a beautiful and vital looking movie, one that’s more in-your-face intimate, gripping, authentic and dynamic precisely because he shot the entire film on an iPhone. It’s unlike anything I’ve ever seen, and hopefully will silence critics on the populism of cinema. Anything that grants greater access to underrepresented voices being heard is worth the drama.