THE BRAVE
If you didn’t know Johnny Depp once directed a movie, I don’t blame ya – and he probably rather you didn’t know too. To this day, his sole directorial effort, The Brave (1997), has yet to be released in theatres or home video in the States for one reason: Depp was so hurt by the less-than-positive reception it got at Cannes by American critics that he hasn’t allowed to the film to be shown in the US. So how terrible can it be? It’s not unwatchably awful, but it definitely screams “ambitious misfire”; its sincerity isn’t the issue, just the execution.
Based on a Gregory McDonald novel, the screenplay, co-written with his brother D.D Depp and Paul McCudden, clearly means to sympathise with the plight of the Native American Indian dispossessed: its protagonist is down-on-his-luck Raphael (Depp), so desperate to provide his family that he has sold himself for $50K to a snuff film. He has one week left for quality family time, but the bleak countdown to his d-day – mirrored by his slummy village’s imminent destruction – lacks emotional punch, no matter how much Iggy Pop’s plaintive score tries to nudge our tear ducts.
This is due in part to Depp’s aloof performance, and the film’s unfocused, uneven tone. There are early hints things might dip into Lynchian surrealism with the “special appearance” by a wheelchair-bound Marlon Brando, who has one waffly monologue about life and death before vanishing for the rest of the film. Then there’s some cutesy, whimsical Gilbert Grape-y stuff with Raphael building a playground carnival for his kids, and later Depp strives for spiritual import in his scenes with a disapproving priest (Clarence Williams III). I’m not sure what to make of Max Perlich spinning in a human hamster wheel, nor Luis Guizman turning up as a pimp who gets his ear chewed off by Depp. It’s all kinda fascinatingly misguided, and Depp nuts will want to give it at least one viewing.
The Brave is available on DVD in the UK, and it also came out on VHS here, though that might take a bit of hunting around your local video stores to find it!
JESS FRANCO TRIPLE DIP
The passing of Jess Franco recently made me realise how much I’ve neglected the guy I consider to be my gateway drug into the world of European cult cinema. He was a real game-changer – someone who actually altered the way I viewed movies, or my perception of how movies could “work”. What’s great about Franco’s legacy is that he left behind a vast catalogue of films that would, by normal people’s standards (not Tim Lucas), take an entire lifetime to consume (for an analogy in music think the sprawling output of Jandek or Guided by Voices).
One of the joys of watching his films is to watch them in bulk, where they reveal themselves to be weird little variations of his personal obsessions. They’re bloody addictive too, once you’re in the zone, and unearthing a gem from the 956 films he’s made is a reward that I can’t speak of highly enough (finding a turd is another story…). Last Saturday I sat down and plowed through this triple feature:
A rarity that hasn’t made the leap to the digital realm just yet, The Obscene Mirror (Al Otro Lado del Espejo, 1973) is among his better films in the “supernatural erotica”/“horror-tica”-etc type vibe, bewitching, morbidly atmospheric, with the death of his muse – the stunning Soledad Miranda (Vampyros Lesbos) – the year before hanging over proceedings like a heavy-hearted ghost. Emma Cohen plays Annette, a nightclub singer/pianist plagued with visions of her dead sister (Lina Romay) whom she sees having sex with random people in mirrors. At the same time she doesn’t remember knocking off her various lovers whenever sis beckons her to come home.
The Obscene Mirror is signature Franco all the way: floaty, zoomy camerawork, scenic Euro locations, an air of decadence, a feeling of loss and longing, and plenty of jazzy interludes padding out the running time (I don’t mind this; your mileage might vary). And as with most Franco films, several versions abound; I’ll leave the differences between cuts to the experts, but the copy I watched did have giant labias jarringly dominating the screen on occasion so it’s safe to assume it’s the XXX version.
Franco brought together four of his Obscene Mirror cast members – Arno, Lina Romay, Howard Vernon, Robert Wood – again for Countess Perverse (La Comtesse Perverse, 1974), a kinky retread of Robert O’Connell’s often-adapted “Hounds of Zaroff” short story (The Most Dangerous Game, Hard Target). A fairly coherent Franco joint, hence less dream-like, it’s still a twisted, nudity-filled sexploiter, about a rich couple who lures girls to their beachside mansion, seduce them, then proceed to hunt them down and have them for dinner.
Characters sit around civilly digging into gigantic chunks of raw meat, sex scenes are of the rape-turns-pleasurable variety, and the positively Amazonian Arno gets her kit off to chase – bow-and-arrow in hand – the also-nekkid Romay in the film’s finale. The most shocking thing in the film, however, is accidental, when Franco’s sloppy camera zooms in a bit too close to Vernon’s nether regions, little of which Mondo Macabro’s superb HD remastering leaves to the imagination. On the flipside, such a pristine transfer also shows how terrific Franco’s films can look, despite the miniscule budgets; the island locations and wonderfully bizarre architecture really pop on screen here.
On the off chance that you might still be reading this, and asking yourself if Franco does anything else other than make shoestring smut, Dr. Orloff’s Monster (1964) is for you. Though it’s a slight step down from its similarly Eyes Without a Face-riffing predecessor, The Awful Dr. Orloff (a good Franco ice-breaker for newbies!), this Gothic horror flick is evidence that he could actually pump out a decent, restrained genre piece that is comparable to anything Roger Corman or Terence Fisher made at the time. Yes it’s creaky in spots, and the script – featuring a mad scientist using an ultrasonic-powered robot/monster/zombie to strangle strippers (or something) – isn’t airtight, but I was engaged and entranced throughout, especially by the elegant, proficient black-and-white cinematography and its predominantly sombre mood. Available on Region 1 DVD from Image Entertainment.
