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Annual Holocaust:
A Horrorthon Diary
Niall Kitson reports on this
year's Horrorthon, the horror film festival held at the Irish
Film Institute, Dublin on October 27th-31st, 2005.
And so it begins, the IFI's Mecca (or is
that Byzantium?) for young men who wear dark clothes and listen
to music that rocks: The Horrorthon. 72 hours, 19 movies and
much shaking of heads form the arty set this is the only time
of the year when the arthouse becomes a grindhouse, and wearing
black is practically expected. So with a hefty supply of popcorn,
amphetamines, and anti-emetics I embrace my inner adolescent
and leave all notions of good taste at the door. Screw intellectualism,
I'm going to see The Rock shoot zombies.
FRIDAYOpening night kicks off with the Irish premiere of
Doom starring The Rock – in which he shoots zombies
(see above) and not much else. For a movie everyone knows
will be awful, the turnout is decent enough; the place is
about 2/3 full, but I suspect it has more to do with it being
the opening film than anything else. All the same I have confidence
in this year's solid programme, as do the two Viking fanboys
perched behind me discussing how crummy the Metallica documentary
is. Before I can knock their heads together, organiser Ed
King strides up to the front of the auditorium looking like
Rob Zombie's younger brother. Keeping his opening address
short and sweet, King sticks to the facts, informing us that
Doom is the opening movie, that he is indeed drunk,
and that his Stetson has been glued to his head as some sort
of practical joke. I slouch back into my seat, only for the
real weirdness to begin when an American gentleman to my left
leans over and asks me a perfectly reasonable question:
"Do they do this kind of thing often here?"
"What do you mean 'this kind of thing'?"
I say, not suspicious, just unsure of the question.
"Showing the films," he says, smiling
at me in that wholesome American way, like he's a bit lost
but doesn't much care.
I catch on quick. "Oh the Horrorthon?"
"Yeah."
Now I can be helpful. "Well it's just a
special event they put on in the cinema here."
"So this place is an actual cinema?"
"Yes."
"But it's an Institute."
I see where this is going, but before I can
say something smart this comes out:
"Well it is and it isn't." – Yes I know I'm really
helping.
"And they show, like, regular movies?"
"
Well, they show… I suppose you'd call them 'arthouse
movies'."
"Arthouse movies?"
"It's not a great term."
The man pauses for thought. Mulls it over.
"Well I guess movies are an art,"
he says.
I am floored. Like I said, the weirdness. Poor
guy must have just breezed in off the street with his wife
to see a nice movie, and ended up with a drunken Irish compere
and a computer game. Anyway the movie starts, I slouch some
more.
Despite the whoops of approval from my Nordic
friends, Doom was irredeemably awful. After the fade
out I hightailed it out of there lest my Yankee neighbours
look for clarification on the whole 'art' thing. In fairness
it was better than Resident Evil, but so is a kick
in the head.
The second movie of the night is 2001 Maniacs,
a sequel/remake of Herschell Gordon Lewis's 2000 Maniacs!
That too sucked, but it did have Robert Englund, cameos from
Cabin Fever director Eli Roth, and (for some reason) Peter
Stormare. So at the end of day one I am neither shaken nor
stirred, but my hopes are high for tomorrow with the jewel
in the crown of the event: a rare uncut screening of Cannibal
Holocaust and a Q&A with the director Ruggero Deodato.
But more about the movie of the day: I bump
into festival director Conor McMahon who is practically rubbing
his hands together golem-style with excitement. Like me he
hasn't seen half of what's on offer, but McMahon's focus too
is on Cannibal Holocaust, and in particular the effect
it will have on a packed audience of supposed strong stomachs.
"I'm just waiting to see how many people
walk out," he says. To me that's a red rag to a bull.
I can't wait to see what all the fuss is about, but given
the rep the film has something tells me I can.
So fast-forward to Cannibal Holocaust,
the king of the video nasties. As expected it's a full house.
The excitement is palpable, the atmosphere electric. Escorted
by King and an aide, the Deodato gives a brief introduction
to the film, hyping it up with stories of how the film was
received by the Press, the Church, and Quentin Tarantino (all
horrified), and how intervention from the Screen Actors Guild
saved him from a murder rap. King wound up the intro by repeating
his previous warnings: "This is strong stuff and contains
scenes of torture and genuine animal cruelty, but," he
says with conviction, "it is also a masterpiece."
So lights go down and pulses go up. I expect
to be watching this thing through my fingers, paying more
attention to the palm of my hand than on the screen but as
the film rolled I found it quite easy to just kick back and
go with it. While there was a sharp intake of breath at the
gutting of a muskrat mostly the audience sat in silence – a reverend silence, but a silence all the same.
For those who don't know, the plot concerns
a group of documentary filmmakers who go missing in the Amazon
filming cannibal tribes. An academic retraces their steps
and comes across their film. Said film is taken back to America
for processing and the full horror of the crew's fate is made
known. Sound familiar?
Ninety minutes pass, the credits roll, and one
instant ovation later Deodato takes to the stage again. Acting
as MC, Calum Wadell chairs the Q&A, but really there are
only two questions to be asked: "What possessed you to
make this thing?" and "What about the animals?"
Deodato fields both questions with ease. He
credits the genesis of the film to his young son's appraisal
of the news as being too violent to watch, an idea that inspired
him to make a film about the sins of the media and the inevitable
backlash that comes with twisting another culture to suit
one's own ends.
As for the animals, Deodato concedes that if
he were to make the film again today it would be more than
likely he would not have killed anything on film, but that
the culture of the time permitted such actions. Fair enough;
if Coppola can get away with it in Apocalypse Now why
not Deodato?
The last movie of the night is I Drink Your
Blood, a grindhouse classic, but after the long day I
feel like working on my own prequel: I Go To The Pub.
Damn fine production it is too.
The first film proper for
the day is this year's Dario Argento effort: Do You Like
Hitchcock? Argento is the Woody Allen of horror at this
stage. Every film he brings out is praised as a stomping return
to form, only it isn't, and it's been so long since Argento
has made an impact people are wondering if he ever had it
at all. I'd tell you the plot but I slept through most of
it. At least there were free sweets given out at the door.
Usually a big draw, the Surprise Movie this
year was The Brothers Grimm, Terry Gilliam's attempt
at a commercial movie (his words). Without giving too much
away, it's a typical Gilliam quirkfest with Matt Damon and
Heath Leger as charlatan ghostbusters forced to put their
talents to actual use, Three Amigos-style. It did what
it said on the tin, but the film I'm waiting for is Lady
Terminator, the evening's schlock closer. And boy, was
it worth the wait. I still can't believe this travesty got
made, that someone invested money in it (albeit not very much),
or even that James Cameron didn't drag them through the courts.
I was promised a shot-for-shot remake of The Terminator,
only with no money, effects, or common sense. It is all that
and so much more. I still can't believe what I saw, so maybe
that makes it the most successful movie of the weekend so
far. In days to come I will continue to be exasperated. I
also miss out on a raffle prize by thiiiis much. But that's
not nearly as unsettling.
MONDAYLast day, and the signs of strain are showing. My eyes
are in tatters and I'm fairly sure I require bigger trousers,
but at least Jaws is on tonight. It's a half empty
cinema that greets Freak Out, and if I'd known what
the film would be like it would have been a half empty cinema
less one seat. Just goes to show for every great person with
a digital camera and great eye there are a hundred with a
new toy that deserve to be blinded.
Which brings me to the great triumph of the
weekend, and a film I will champion endlessly, if only because
no one else seemed to like it: The Roost. Preceded
by Stephen O'Regan's excellent short They're Made Out Of
Meat, The Roost is presented in a midnight movie
fashion by Tom Noonan, who warns us of a familiar premise:
four teenagers in a car have a breakdown and go for help somewhere
they shouldn't. So far, so soporific, but what sets The
Roost apart from everything in its field is the use of
digital video, making the most of the edgy, pixelated imagery
to create a cold look bathed in harsh shadow. The soundtrack
too is brilliant, mixing the ominous rumblings from The
Last Broadcast with the tortured strings of Requiem
For A Dream. I won't give anything away about the twists,
but needless to say it is a true find, despite the grumblings
of those who walked out halfway through, or others who fell
asleep. What film were they watching?
Marking the 30th anniversary of Jaws,
the final film of the event could not but play to a full house,
and at this stage there is nothing more that could be said
about it other than it is a classic not of horror but of film – which should be the goal of any scary movie.
And so it ends, an exercise in endurance
both exciting and infuriating, but worth every minute. Needless
to say I'll be bothering the box office staff next year, and
braving the opinions of many a braindead fanboy, but at least
now I'll be able to stand in line with new confidence in my
genre of choice. But I still can't believe I sat through Lady
Terminator.
www.horrorthon.com
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