Meet Patrick Byrne, full time Elvis impersonator from Southend, England. Patrick has reached the European Elvis Tribute Championship finals eleven times in his career, always falling short of first place, but coming second five times.

In partnership with Grolsch Film Works, London based filmmaker Jon E Price (Vimeo Staff Pick Wander With Me) has just released The King’s King, a documentary which explores the effort and conviction necessary to pay tribute to the King of Rock ‘n’ Roll.

Traditionally the advice “never meet your idols” refers to the probable realisation that they will disappoint you. The image you construct in your head of a person you greatly respect rarely matches the reality, as they unexpectedly turn out to exhibit an entirely different persona to the one you assumed from their work. But what if your idol turns out to share and encourage the very worst exploits of your own personality, and you welcome that ego boost?

This is the central question to Alex Ross Perry (Impolex, The Color Wheel)’s third feature Listen Up Philip which follows burgeoning novelist Philip Lewis Freeman (Jason Schwartzman) who on the release of his second novel, is taken under the wing of his literary hero Ike Zimmerman (Jonathan Pryce), to achieve an artistic seclusion, rather than mindlessly promote his novel in the traditional press-circuit.

Philip is, as far as we can tell, a talented writer, but his increasing self-confidence from his book’s promised success, means he begins alienating his social circle and strong willed girlfriend Ashley (Elisabeth Moss). Ike actively supports Philip’s self-isolation in search of achieving a greater creative process by offering him his country house in up-state New York, without bothering to mention it to his daughter Melanie (Krysten Ritter) who is staying there, largely to feed his own ego as an ageing, post-relevant writer.

If this sounds familiar, it is, most recently and notably in Damien Chazelle’s good-but-troubling Whiplashbut the clear difference here is the increased level of nuance in Perry’s film which while shares a spirit of “talented people being awful to themselves and each other to create art”, the surrogate father-son relationship between Ike and Philip diverts expectations in having them be both criticised yet sympathetic despite their cruellest indulgences.

Equally, the film isn’t merely about this relationship. Listen Up Philip expertly highlights the general alienation of living in a major metropolis like New York, with the film’s narrator (Eric Bogosian) pointing us towards the loneliness and vapidity of a creative city, where an individual is surrounded by similar people all the time. It is also arguably, and perhaps surprisingly, a feminist film, as Ashley takes a strong, central role during the film’s middle act, as a young talented woman who is constantly struggling with being defined by the men around her, while Philip disappears from the narrative’s focus to show the separate lives of these characters in more detail. It is a neat, well rounded trick which is consistent with the film’s “literary” theme, allowing a real sense of place amongst these interacting, talented, yet struggling people, as well as having a narrator who gives the audience details from the film’s past and future; we see Ashley’s memories in flashback, which colours our understanding of the characters even further.

The film’s style equally makes bold but practical choices, with the cinematography repeatedly focusing on these characters’ faces and their reactions rather than the wider mise-en-scene. This technique is well utilised, especially on Elisabeth Moss’s terrific performance as Ashley – in one shot she manages to convey about five different emotions in around ten seconds – using only her face, after an especially liberating moment for her character. Or the ill-fated party scene where Ike and his old friend Norm attempt to woo two younger, middle aged women. The cinematography really capturing the drunken pressure of Ike’s semi-desperate attempts to appear impressive and in control of the situation.

Perry gets some wonderful performances from his ensemble cast too, which drives the whole narrative home precisely. As well as the aforementioned Moss, Jonathan Pryce is excellent as the initially charming but deeply resentful older writer. It’s difficult to ignore the comparisons to Wes Anderson’s Rushmore when the titular Philip could be a “grown up” version of Schwartzman’s equally bratty, talented and yet sympathetic Max Fischer. It is important that while this is a film about somewhat misplaced male egotism and narcissism, both Pryce and Schwartzman give enough vulnerability to their roles to properly exhibit how frustrating the lives of highly talented individuals can be.

So while it could be argued that Listen Up Philip is a touch too long at just short of two hours – I’m not convinced the Yvette strand is really all that necessary – it is otherwise an extremely enjoyable and insightful dark comedy about the increasingly alienated lives of creative types in the big city. The film avoids clichés, indeed it even pokes fun at them, to show a range of attitudes from those privileged with wealth and talent, to those who are hard-working and self-determined. It is refreshingly relate-able, where it could have been merely a film about “awfully talented people being awful” (ala the aforementioned Whiplash.) It’s literary feel is a neat gimmick in the medium of cinema, and it will be interesting to see what director Perry does next.

Adam Turner-Heffer

There is something very refreshing about the way many East Asian directors approach genre in film. While Western film makers often have a very rigid, stubborn idea of the one genre film, many Japanese and South Korean film makers seem to play around with the concept. I think back to Shinji Aoyama’s Eureka as an articulate example of this; a family drama-cum road movie- cum serial killer thriller. Bringing such disparate genres together, melding and splicing them, brings the chance of new tones and feelings that a staid singular genre film cannot reach. Of course it doesn’t always work out, but isn’t there a beauty in the risk of glorious failure?

Which brings us to Shion Sono’s latest oddball extravaganza, Tokyo Tribe. Sono has a reputation as a cult director of dizzying invention and offbeat ideas. So I’ll throw this one out there and you try and catch it: Gaspar Noe directs a remake of The Warriors as if it was a sci-fi hip hop musical. Voila. Based on a series of manga books, we are thrown into an alternate Tokyo where the city is ruled by street gangs. The head honcho of the city Buppa (Riki Takeuchi) decides he wants to eradicate all the other gangs, initiating an all-out street war. A comically bullish and horny thug, he enlists the help of the peroxide-haired psychopath Mera (Ryohei Suzuki) to carry out his ruthless plans.

Fighting the good fight are the plucky Musashino clan, a wholesome street gang who preach peace and love. They enlist all the other city gangs in order to unite against the Buppa Town posse and save the city. In all honesty, there are a dizzying array of characters and plot threads to tend to; Sono has a gung ho, all-or-nothing approach to film making. As this is a hip hop musical, each character communicates in a stream-of-consciousness rap, backed by heavy, relentless beats and hazy synths.

It has the feel of an extended music video, but it never becomes tiring. The film is splattered with odd, surreal touches; a beatboxing maid had the audience tittering and bewildered.A gangster’s son has created his own art gallery of sculptures using people he has captured off the street. An ancient granny provides ominous interlude warnings as the resident DJ and MC. It is relentless in its mind boggling invention and desire to thrill. The music is joyously brassy and obnoxious, with Sono leaving restraint at the door. Sono films with a marauding handheld camera reminiscent of Noe’s Enter the Void, the city streets gleaming in neon lights and rain spattering down constantly.

Unfortunately the film sags a little in the third act as the wave after wave of street battles commence. This was never a film to go for half measures, but the initially exciting fight scenes become a little tiresome after the 333rd karate kick. The film works much better when it is more focused on the music and the attitude of the gangs, the ridiculous ceremony and ego boosting of hip hop. The ending, however, is only a minor bum note in the outrageously entertaining, invigorating, absurd circus that is Tokyo Tribe. 

Of late, Norwegian, Danish and Swedish television and film has – deservedly – received a lot of attention and adoration. The countries have their masters in crime, drama and comedy genres, yet few of us would know their names. Hopefully with Force Majeure, the name Ruben Östlund will start to become commonplace, and the rest of his career will continue to impress.

Force Majeure [Turist] is an example of very high-class filmmaking, elegant yet simplistic. Whereas some films use the medium to present vistas of sheer beauty, others choose to quietly tell a tale. This is a mixture of both, focusing on a family holidaying in the French Alps, experiencing some drama once an avalanche incident spotlights some shaky parenting. östlund brought the film to Cannes 2014 where it was awarded the Un Certain Regard Jury Prize – it got many critics talking (and laughing), proving its worth before general release. It looks terrific and centres on some fantastic performances.

To explain the story would spoil the pleasure in watching the scenes unfold naturally. It is, to synopsise it as briefly as possible, a look at a family dynamic eroding after a distressing event. Much like Funny Games, there is a twisted glee to seeing a WASP family lose their dignity over something they never expected. Johannes Kuhnke as the father Tomas is simply wonderful. A very handsome, intelligent father, he looks like the perfect role model. When our perception of him changes, as it does for his wife (Lisa Loven Kongsli) and kids, you can see him play on that external judgement. It is a gradual alteration, spanning over the 120 minute runtime, but it is judged perfectly. The time elapses without many superfluous elements felt, concluding eloquently, with a very realistic (and comedic) presentation of a domestic dispute having preceded it.

Chapters [Ski Day X] are punctuated by the controlled explosions of the Alps, set to the frantic violin of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons III. In many respects it’s an obvious artistic play to show tension and outbursts – common tropes of the film – yet it also links to the playfulness all round. There is a beauty to the film, but at its core, it is a low-budget black comedy. So, it uses symbolism in due part, still preserving its domesticated, grounded heart. The drama that pulsates through the film is so recognisable for anyone who has had some familial outburst on holiday. And so you watch on with heightened attention, curious to know how things will be resolved, and entertained by the hurdles that impede Tomas and his wife and children.

It is not a film that has any twists or spoilers to wow the audience (and even though this review reads like it wants to detract you from knowing much, it is only to keep the film fresh upon viewing), but it is constructed around very stark images and themes. Force Majeure will stay with you – tickling you or itching at you (depending on how you react to the neuroses on show). Whatever your perception may be, you will certainly remark on the superb talent– cast and crew – able to make such an unadorned movie laden with insightful, enjoyable moments.

The story of Kurt Cobain is a well trodden one, immortalised several times in the film medium – such as Nick Broomfield’s murder investigation Kurt And Courtney (1998), Gus van Sant’s semi-ficticious imagining of Kurt’s Last Days (2005) and AJ Schnack’s more faithful documentary in About a Son (2006) – as well as in biographies, as people remain endlessly fascinated with the enigmatic front man and one of American rock music’s key icons. One would ask what, in 2015, a whole 21 years after the singer-songwriter of Nirvana’s suicide, is left to say about the subject, but the answer in Brett Morgan’s Montage of Heck, is that this is the first fully authorised account, with full access and backing from wife Courtney Love and daughter Frances Bean Cobain who serve as executive producers and in the case of the former, as an interviewee.

Much like Kurt’s posthumously published diaries, this instantly contains a pretty questionable situation in whether it is right to invade the privacy of a dead person, regardless of their celebrity status, especially when said person struggled so publicly with being launched into the brightest of media spotlights. One of the clearest things we ascertain from Montage, if it wasn’t well known already, is that Cobain struggled massively with being heralded as some sort of voice of a generation, when he largely hated the generation he was supposed to be leading, which is displayed through archive footage of his awkward interviews and glib sound-bytes. So one can’t help but wonder that the reclusive artist would most likely not approve of having his life sprayed out on a screen, but in death it was perhaps a sad inevitability.

Moral questions aside, Montage of Heck is a questionable piece of film making in style and form, let alone in problematic, potentially invasive footage. To it’s credit, the film introduces Kurt’s upbringing excellently through home video footage and interviews with his parents and first girlfriend, scored by a sweet, lullaby version of Nirvana’s classic “All Apologies”, giving us Cobain’s difficult childhood and adolescence with great, interesting detail. This gives us an interesting context which, again, while perhaps not that surprising to anyone, paints a well rounded picture of what growing up in Aberdeen, Washington was like.

But once the film moves towards the success of Nirvana, context and narrative more or less goes on the window. While Morgan does well to avoid martyring Cobain, and with it his biggest problem with becoming a celebrity, he instead relies way too heavily on the idea of using Kurt’s diaries as a gateway to his genius. In the film’s way too long second half, a staggeringly wasted amount of screen-time is devoted to visualising Kurt’s scribblings, be they lyrics, phrases or drawings, as some sort of explanation for Nirvana’s against-the-odds world conquering music. This happens to the point of tedium, especially as the disappearance of context or a narrator to guide us through these tormented images. While I respect the choice of excluding a narrative voice for fear of wanting to impose a direction of thinking upon his audience, Morgan loses almost all impact by just simply relying on re-creating Cobain’s “Montage of Heck” (which we learn is a audio collage he created during his early days as a musician and artist).

This means, returning to the questionable personal footage, by the time the big reveal of Kurt and Courtney’s home life is given to us, there’s little to no effect left to be had, so exhausting is the endless animations or out-takes of music videos and sound-checks, sound-tracked by saccharine, operatic covers of the band’s most famous songs. While there are some revealing moments; largely that a couple addicted to heroin still seem mostly legitimately happy and stable bringing up a child, the general effect of this is pretty numb by the time it arrives on screen.

In the end, Montage of Heck, fails to leave much of an impression as an original piece of work. The film’s best moments are generally found in already familiar footage, the place where Nirvana and especially Kurt Cobain always looked his most comfortable; on stage, performing. There is amusing and enjoyable archival footage to be had from the band’s interviews, as well as some revealing answers from present-day Courtney Love and Kurt’s mother, but in the end, the focus of Montage of Heck does not highlight how the band came to be such an influential force, changing the face of rock music forever, but on the sad mental condition of the genius artist Kurt Cobain.

While there is nothing wrong with focusing with the band’s (at the time) easily most recognisable member, the idea that we are supposed to gain entry to man’s mind from endless animations of his notes is ineffectual when very few of us ever really knew the man himself. While Cobain comes off as sympathetic and humane in the footage, his whole ethos (as highlighted by the film) is not to be concerned with his creative process, but to appreciate and relate and judge his published work only, which this film is frustratingly at odds with.

A brilliant portmanteau picture from Argentine director Damián Szifron (exec produced by Almodovar), Wild Tales is consistently thrilling, hilarious and horrifying throughout its numerous unrelated (but thematically linked) sections that make up the complete film. Built out of short stories that would traditionally provoke shock, the film finds a dark humour in numerous outrageous circumstances, to crowd-pleasing and simultaneously disturbing effect.

Wild Tales is at its finest when playing to the most relatable, cathartic circumstances. In one early section two drivers on a remote, mountainous road, square off against one another; one is a suited city-slicker (Diego – played by Leonardo Sbaraglia) in an expensive car, the other a rural tough guy (Mario – played by Walter Donado) in a beaten up old banger. After an exchange of insults, the city dweller experiences a flat tire. Unsurprisingly, he is dealt less than charitable gestures from his partner in road rage.

In perhaps the most frustrating, and simultaneously liberating sequence, a demolition expert called Simón Fischer (Ricardo Darin) finds himself dealing with local government bureaucracy as he attempts to make his way home to his daughter’s birthday party. After a series of run-ins with the law, his specialist training begins to seem useful in ways that do not line up with the imposed social order of which he is an unwilling participant.

The film’s most gloriously outrageous sequence, however, is a more personal affair. Taking place at the wedding of a particularly sickly pair of people, the wedding party is treated to a display from the most excessive, attention seeking kind, when the wife suddenly discovers news of her new husband’s infidelity. The scene is staged extravagantly, with an enormous ballroom, loud music, strobing lights and hundreds of guests and locations throughout the rest of entire venue (including the roof) for the staging of various memorable, sordid moments.

The film’s weaker segments suffer only slightly from excess dialogue – for example, an amusing, but somewhat lengthy legal scenario, in which a wealthy businessman attempts to convince his employee to take the fall for his son’s hit and run accident – and yet on the whole, Wild Tales is a hugely successful tragi-comedy.

As the anthology format goes too, this is also a rare triumph, due to the dramatic promise and satisfying closure of each section. With moments of sheer horror in spite of the laughs Wild Tales is certainly not a film for the faint-of-heart, but for those with the stomach for it, it’s a wild ride indeed.

Piece the deconstructing, by cinema piece.

The last film by the French auteur Alain Resnais comes with a cute backstory. Resnais had discovered that the playwright Alan Ayckbourn was putting on performances in Scarborough, a quaint seaside town, and he and his wife made secret excursions over a number of years to see them come to life. Later the two men met and Resnais asked if he was able to adapt one of his plays for the screen. Life of Riley is the charming, playful result of years of coy flirting between two dramatist icons.

There is a void at the heart of Life of Riley. That void is, as you might have guessed, Riley himself. Riley is both the central driving force of the film and its glorious absence. Two couples are preparing to rehearse for an amateur dramatic play; Kathryn (Sabine Azema) and Colin (Hippolyte Girardot), and Tamara (Caroline Sihol) and Jack (Michel Vuillermoz). Colin, the local doctor, learns that Riley is suffering from a terminal illness, and oafishly reveals this to Kathryn, who once shared a brief fling with Riley many years ago.

Kathryn quickly relays the news to Riley’s good friend Jack, an adulterous swine. What Jack doesn’t know is that his wife Tamara also has romantic longing for Riley. The hapless foursome try to make Riley’s hermetic life as idyllic as possible for his last days, inviting him into their production and descending on his shabby house like a pack of vultures. Ayckbourn’s play is a tightly concocted farce but with a dash of pathos to tug at the heartstrings. Although the characters are often ridiculous and self involved, we cannot help but feel for them as they are played by the ghostly presence that is Riley.

As it is a Resnais film there is a splash of experimentation and even cheekiness in how he has approached the source material. The original work is supposed to be set in a sleepy Yorkshire town, and Resnais begins with a series of shots of English town signs and picturesque villages. But this is all a hoax, as the actual drama unfolds on a self consciously staged set; artificial lighting abound and mise-en-scene straight out of a children’s storybook.  In addition, all the actors speak in French, just to hammer home the point that this is not quite the provincial English towns that bore us all to sleep.

There is a light orchestral score which feels fairly modern, and it echoes the tone of the film pretty well. Life of Riley doesn’t feel like a film that is straining for the audience’s respect. It feels more like a work by a man who was constantly experimenting, caressing, pulling, pushing and provoking. There is a lightness running through the film that smacks of a director at one with themself, and while the film lacks a real punch, its breeziness and charm make it worth a watch.

Deconstructing the cinema, piece by piece.

With a track record that included Winchester ’73, The Man from Laramie and The Far Country, Antony Mann’s knowledge and tact with the Western genre was very substantial. Man of the West marked one of his last efforts tackling stories on the Great Plains, an influential piece of cinema that you can see seeping into the Spaghetti Westerns, famed for mature, raw tales and violence. The restoration of the film is, thanks to Masters of Cinema’s meticulous efforts, superb. The clout of the film, however, is less stunning, sadly dated despite some gritty aspects.

Jean-Luc Godard was one of the most vocal fans of Mann’s 1958 film, claiming it was stunningly simple, with a realm of complexity behind it. This quote, unlike the film, has not dated and still stands up in relation to the film, in whichever way you are affected or unaffected by its story and power. Gary Cooper plays a retired crook, moving to a new town to find teaching staff for a new school. His shady past is only revealed a third to half of the way through, always keeping you guessing as to what the silences and awkward conversations between him, Julie London’s Billie and Arthur O’Connell’s Sam are truly about. The mystery never feels entirely uncovered, with Cooper’s Link Jones such a multifaceted character. Cooper plays the role beautifully, reflecting his own past with the Western image altering into that of a more modern actor. He takes control of the film, asserting his movie star persona and veteran cowboy/crook facade. There is a very straight-forward hero versus the baddies narrative, with all of the questions lurking beneath the surface.

It is a much stripped back film, focusing more on character and cinematography. You have to watch and listen to the characters, as you aren’t drawn to much else; the framing and scenery behind, perhaps is all else. Cooper, as said, is an imposing and authoritative figure, overshadowing singer Julie London and a quirky, yet forgettable Arthur O’Connell. It is the entrance of Lee J. Cobb – as Dock Tobin – where things get tense and exciting. Here is a formidable presence, hell-bent on crime and masterfully played with a booze-crippled drawl by Cobb. Despite the obvious age difference, Cobb and Cooper are very believable as uncle and nephew/past partners in crime/enemies of the present. Tobin pushes Link to many extremes, with each actor clearly enjoying the characters’ incompatible, yet harmonious relationship.

The shocking elements of the film maintain their resonance (to be clear, it is the slow pace and slightly uninteresting side characters that drain it of its enduring strengths). Rape, coldblooded murder and sudden hostilities are usual tropes of the genre, but often only implied, or watered down. Many vile occurrences in Man of the West feel beyond their time and censorship, giving it a slight edge in over the universally-aimed Westerns still shown often on afternoon TV. Man of the West is a niche piece of cinema, catering to those die-hard genre fans, whilst clearing having the ability to deter them. If you want to catch it, don’t wait out for its place on Channel 5 Monday at 1pm in place of The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance; it is different and meandering, lacking the spark of Ford and Hawks, leaving to find attention through recommendation and the search for nostalgia.

Montgomery Clift’s Chuck Glover, a modern man, finds himself in the midst of a dated landscape with a forward-thinking mind-set, making him a very commendable cinematic character at the centre of this wonderful 1960 modernity drama from Hollywood master director Elia Kazan.

With a great change sweeping through America by the late 1950’s, Wild River came at a time where some doubted the Government’s initiatives, and racial injustice took over headlines. The 1930s setting that Elia Kazan’s film takes place in is an archaic, bigoted one, prone to debate. The depiction of such morals thirty years after 1930 – and now eighty-five years after – shocked and enraged; Kazan’s power is to realistically portray these events, attempting a timeless, non-biased approach to them.

Wild River has had such a great influence on the country-folk vs the Government storyline that its blood still pumps through modern day cinema. Take Gus Van Sant’s Promised Land, about Matt Damon’s fracking salesman trying to persuade a local town to sell some of their land. This, compared to Clift’s Tennessee Valley Authority buying people off their land in order to flood it and build a dam, is along the same lines decades down the line. Not only does the story allow for contemporary audiences to and enjoy it without jarring context, but it is shot and acted in a very modern manner. Many older films have the tint of age over their aesthetic, the notion that this is from a long time ago and difficult to engage with, but Wild River is consistently absorbing.

There are a few drags in the plot though, with a love story that feels forced, yet Kazan has a very meticulous handling of narrative. The 110 minute run-time passes by in a flash for the most part, with a satisfying ending that neatly ties everything up. Coming from the director of On the Waterfront, A Streetcar Named Desire and East of Eden, there shouldn’t be much doubt as to the tactful handling of humanity. Chuck is, on paper, a wooden product of the “system”, trying to take the land off of rural innocents. However, Clift, Kazan and writer Paul Osborn present him as a humble state employee. We watch him on tender-hooks, hopeful that he will succeed, especially as he loses so many battles. The abject realism, akin to John Ford’s Grapes of Wrath, draws you in, largely thanks to Clift’s performance.

Perhaps forgotten over time by wider audiences (despite its selection for preservation in the United States National Film Registry), the newly restored and released version of Wild River should hopefully elevate its status yet again. There is a lot of beauty and heart in the film, perfect for a Sunday afternoon watch. We often take for granted these studio films of old, but Wild River has never really had its due – do yourself a favour as a film fan and seek it out.

Hot on the heels of the superb Ganja & Hess re-release from The Eureka Classics Collection comes Robert Mulligan’s (To Kill a Mockingbird) elegantly lensed 1972 chiller The Other. Despite being less well known than the more shocking 70’s Gothic classics The Exorcist and The Omen, this is still a valuable film for it’s creepy and detailed characterisation, idyllic farmhouse location and elaborate long lens cinematography by Robert Surtees (Ben Hur, The Graduate.)

Amid a family whose misfortune is rife, the film centres on Niles (Chris Udvarnoky) a vulnerable boy with a bowl cut and a troublesome identical twin brother Holland (Martin Udvarnoky.) Niles and Holland have lost their father, who died in a barn accident and their mother has since become housebound and catatonic. Niles secretly harbours a ring that belonged to their father and we come to suspect that it possesses strange and dark qualities.

The family’s Russian grandmother, Ada (Uta Hagen), is Niles’ closest companion. There is something desperate and intense in her character – well portrayed by Hagen – that is deeply unsettling. The primary tension in the film comes from the various situations Holland goads Niles into, as well as their relationship with snotty cousin Russell, who comes to a sticky end in the barn when he leaps into a pitchfork lodged in the hay bales. It is a film brimming with bottled up anxiety.

There is an overall sense of strangeness throughout The Other, and Mulligan and Surtees follow the action with virtuoso use of pans and zoom lenses. As can be seen in many low budget films of this era (particularly cheap Italian horrors), this is a camera style than can come off as unbearably clunky; however, the skill level witnessed here means the continually complex shooting style seems natural and relentless. Like cinematographer Surtees’ drama The Graduate from five years prior, The Other is a film with an original uneasiness.

Perhaps because of its similarities to superlative drama The Graduate however, The Other does not make for an exemplary horror film. In spite of some late twists and grisly developments in the plot, the film lacks a forceful and all-encompassing horror concept like the shocking The Exorcist, the disaster-ridden The Omen or the dread filled The Wicker Man.

Perhaps a closer relation is Jennifer Kent’s 2014 film The Babadook: a horror film whose scares never quite live up to the exemplary aspects of craft and performance surrounding them. While it is entirely unjustified to decry a horror film for reaching for higher standards of drama and film art, it is that authentic sense of catastrophe that truly endures.

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