A Fine, Good Place to Be: Four Sons (1928)

1928 // USA // John Ford // April 8, 2013 // DVD - 2007 (Fox) 

[Note: This post contains spoilers. Part of a series on the silent films of John Ford.] 

Although John Ford’s surviving early films adhere quite rigorously—even stuffily, at times—to the parameters of Silent Era Hollywood melodrama, the director always seemed to find opportunities to inject idiosyncratic moments into his features. In Just Pals (1920) and The Iron Horse (1924), such moments manifested chiefly as striking formal flourishes or shamelessly lovely shots dropped into lulls in the action. With 3 Bad Men (1926), Ford and the writers at Fox began to doodle a bit more at the edges of story, indulging in just enough digressions from the usual America cinematic formulae to leave a faint impression of artistic restiveness. A touch of both visual and screenwriting verve is in evidence in the 1928 continent-spanning family epic Four Sons, adapted by Philip Klein and Herman Bing with titles by H.H. Caldwell and Katherine Hilliker.

The film’s source is the 1926 Saturday Evening Post short story “Grandmother Bernie Learns Her Letters” by now-obscure Australian-British-American novelist I. A. R. Wylie. The prolific Wylie was one of the more widely adapted female authors of the early twentieth century, although she is most renowned for penning the work that became George Cukor’s 1942 tragedy about American fascism, Keeper of the Flame. In “Grandmother Bernie”, Klein and company find an appealing, sentimental tale of the U.S. Melting Pot, a promised land of second chances and subsumed (but retained) ethnic identity. Four Sons is therefore of a piece with the generalized nationalist myth-making that characterizes Ford’s prior films, particularly The Iron Horse. In the case of the Four Sons, the celebration of America’s patchwork, prosperous character is quite explicit, but also intertwined with a modest anti-war and pro-immgrant message.

The film opens at the dawn of the Great War in an idyllic Bavarian village, a tidy picture postcard settlement populated with fresh-faced Teutonic lads and lasses (the former all in lederhosen, naturally) and provincial comic relief characters. These include: a doddering Burgomeister (August Tollaire); a bookish Schoolmaster (Frank Reicher); a blustering, rotund Innkeeper (Hughie Mack); and an overweening yet kind-hearted Postman (Albert Gran) who is constantly fiddling with his impressive handlebar mustache. The unofficial center of village life is Mother Bernie (Margaret Mann), an elderly widow with four strapping sons and a bottomless supply of misty-eyed maternal devotion. Naturally, the Bernie Boys are uniformly handsome but divergent in their character. Eldest son Joseph (James Hall) is an upstanding soldier in the imperial garrison, Johann (Charles Morton) a fun-loving layabout, Franz (Ralph Bushman) a hard-working blacksmith, and Andreas (George Meeker) a gentle shepherd. Raising such fine specimens of Bavarian manhood is sufficient to earn Mother Bernie the lasting admiration of her fellow villagers, and her sweet, devout disposition and accomplished talents as a baker elevate her to the status of local saint.

A shadow begins to encroach on this pastoral paradise, however, with the arrival of the new commander of the garrison, the aristocratic Major von Stomm (Earle Fox). The officer is quickly revealed as a high-handed and bloodthirsty bastard, eager to turn Bavaria’s sons into hardened cogs in the Kaiser’s war machine. (He even wears a monocle, cinematic shorthand for Cartoonishly Evil German Officer until Grand Illusion’s von Rauffenstein came along.) Following an unpleasant run-in with the Major, shiftless Son Number Two Johann receives a letter from an American friend, and thereafter confesses to his mother a desire to cross the Atlantic in search of a fresh start. Mother Bernie, being a selfless parent, slips Johann the money he needs for the journey from her own modest stash of funds. In short order, the fresh-off-the-boat Johann is settling in as a delicatessen worker in New York City, wooing a vivacious American girl named Annabelle (June Collyer), and sending letters home that enthuse on the golden opportunities of Yankee life.

Back in Bavaria, however, the Great War reaches into Mother Bernie’s household and spirits both Joseph and Franz off to the front lines, leaving only Andreas to look after his old Mutter.  Eventually the day comes that Mother Bernie feared but did not dare contemplate: the Postman, head downcast, delivers the dreaded black-bordered envelope reserved for official letters of condolences from the German Army. The loss of Joseph and Franz casts an undeniable pall over Mother Bernie's now-lonely household and the village as a whole, but the widow endures through her grief. Meanwhile, Johann has thoroughly assimilated into American life, taking over as owner of the delicatessen, marrying his beloved Annabelle, and fathering a son of his own. When the U.S. finally enters the War, Johann anxiously but willingly answers the call, shipping off to Europe to stand against the nation of his birth.

Shortly after word of Johann’s enlistment in the American ranks arrives in Bavaria, Major von Stromm appears at Mother Bernie’s home to convey his official contempt for her son’s treasonous ways. To Mother Bernie’s anguish, von Stromm orders that Andreas must be drafted in order to compensate the Fatherland for Johann’s betrayal.  Some weeks later, as new American doughboy Johann hunkers down in the mist-shrouded trenches of a muddy battlefield, he hears a fatally wounded German soldier calling out in agony for his mother. Moved by the man’s cries, Johann crosses the No Man’s Land and discovers—shocker!—that the dying man is his youngest brother Andreas. Armistice Day follows soon after, and the reviled von Stromm finds himself facing a de facto fragging: his mutinous enlisted men offer him a loaded pistol, urge him to “do the right thing,” and shut the door with a smirk. The War’s end should be a joyous occasion for Mother Bernie, but another black-bordered letter arrives, announcing Andreas’ death and nearly extinguishing what little maternal strength she still possesses.

The war-weary Johann arrives back in the U.S. to find that his newborn son has grown into a fine boy and his business ventures have thrived under Annabelle’s shrewd oversight. Now that his brothers are gone, Johann is resolved to bring his mother to America’s blessed shores to live out the remainder of her days in comfort. Mother Bernie finally receives some overdue good news from the Postman with the arrival of Johann’s letter, initiating the film’s final act. It’s at this point that the tone of Four Sons shifts from a wrenching wartime tearjerker to a mildly screwball tale of Old World to New World hiccups. The U.S.’ literacy regulations for new citizens necessitate that Mother Bernie learn the alphabet, resulting in a sweet and silly scene where the local children provide clandestine support during her schoolroom quiz. Eventually, Mother Bernie makes the crossing and alights at Ellis Island, where her nerves get the better of her during the examination, resulting in an overnight detention. Johann arrives to demand that his parent be released, but due to a series of mix-ups, Mother Bernie slips away into the streets of New York City. The widow wanders Manhattan in a daze, asking random passers-by in broken English if they know her Johann. Fortunately, her odyssey does not last long. The police deposit Mother Bernie at the doorstep of her son’s swanky apartment, where Johann and Annabelle later find her snoozing before the fireplace, with her grandchild cuddled in her lap.

First and foremost, Four Sons is a moralizing celebration of maternal love as the most righteous of emotions. A mother's devotion might be battered by unthinkable tragedy but will ultimately be rewarded for its purity and perseverance.  The film also functions as an earnest paean to post-War American ideals, one that shines an unmistakably positive light on the immigrant's can-do spirit and their eventual absorption into the national fabric. To contemporary eyes, such a stance might seem mildly paternalistic, but in 1928, Ford’s film would likely have been seen as progressive in its portrayal of “good” German-Americans. World War-era nativist loathing for the “filthy Hun” was at its peak only a decade prior. While Four Sons goes out of its way to lionize Johann’s efforts to Americanize—he changes his establishment’s name from “German-American Deli” to “Liberty Deli” after April 1917—it also offers an empathetic view of the German people that calls attention to the universal nature of their virtues and foibles. (What could be more catholic than a mother’s love, after all?) This is consistent with the broad affection that Ford often displayed for “hyphenated-Americans” in his early films—evidenced in his depiction of the rough-edged nobility of the Irish in The Iron Horse and 3 Bad Men—while also presaging the manner in which the director’s work would wrestle with racism in the ensuing decades. 

Four Sons cannot be properly regarded as a war picture, as the actual battlefield sequences comprise only a fraction of the picture’s 96-minute running time. All the same, the film contains an undeniable (if ambiguous) streak of anti-war sentiment that emerges from the same moral locus as its humane portrayal of the German people. The loss of Mother Bernie’s three sons is depicted as a senseless waste, one that results from patrician lust for wartime glory and the hubris of German commanders who thought their armies invincible. The film’s sympathies are unequivocally with the grief-stricken mothers who are left behind, rather than with the warmongers who insist that it is sweet and right for Bavarian boys to die for their country. One can’t say with a straight face that the film is exactly searing in its indictment of war—All Quiet on the Western Front it’s not. At one point the intertitles even regress to the romanticism of Ford’s earlier pictures in describing the war as a “great adventure”. Still, there is a potent sense of empathy for the Enemy that pervades the script. In one of the film’s most delicately forlorn moments, a fellow American soldier quietly observes to Johann as Andreas’ wails drift across the lines: “I guess those fellows have mothers too.”

If Four Sons has a narrative misfire, it lies in the eventual evolution into a mildly farcical story about Mother Bernie’s journey to the United States. The stumble is not one of tone, as the film exhibits throughout its running time an affinity for employing both sincere emotion and broad comic silliness, often in the same scene. It’s simply that the “Mother Bernie Comes to America” scenes feel almost entirely like wheel-spinning, an effort to delay the old widow’s just reward for her motherly faithfulness in the name of dramatic effect. Granted, the entire film is constructed to highlight the poignancy of Mother Bernie’s sufferings, often by exploiting knowledge that the viewer possesses but the characters do not. (The arrival of the letter announcing Andreas’ death on Armistice Day is a especially sadistic slow-motion stab in the heart.) Accordingly, what’s problematic about the film’s later propensity to throw up obstacles to the mother-son reunion is not its cruelty but its tiresomeness. Four Sons is, after all, a 1920s Hollywood picture, meaning that it is not a question of whether there will be a happy ending, but how exactly it will play out. Eventually, one just wants to see Johann and his mother embrace and be done with it.

In keeping with Ford’s other surviving silent features, Four Sons boasts quite a few strange little gestures that mark it as the work of a filmmaker of increasing confidence and imagination. There are too many to catalog exhaustively, but a few are worth highlighting due to the significant impression they make on the viewer in the moment. There’s the authentic joy that the director conveys in the depiction of Johann’s early domestic bliss, particularly when his chubby, squirming newborn son knocks over a water basin to the exasperation and amusement of his parents.  There is phantom slap from Major von Stromm that strikes Johann when he reads a newspaper account of German military movements—a ghostly memory from across the Atlantic that prompts the immigrant to rub his cheek absently. And, most memorably, there is the mesmerizing comic mugging of a German soldier as he coaxes von Stromm to suicide, punctated with an almost vaudevillian exit through the door. In addition to Ford’s astonishing ease with a complex, world-spanning story, it’s terrific moments such as these that make Four Sons a pleasure, turning run-of-the-mill Silent Era drama into something more indelible.

Spring Breakers

2012 // USA // Harmony Korine // March 31, 2013 // Digital Theatrical Projection (Landmark Tivoli Theater)

Spring Breakers is a downright perplexing film. From a purely formal perspective, it is a quite handsome work, as cinematically impressive as anything writer-director Harmony Korine has created. In fact, it is far more striking to the eye and ear than its insipid, irksome story calls for, which makes it difficult to dismiss the film’s arresting aesthetic. In a sense, that aesthetic is all Spring Breakers has going for it.

There are plenty of elements to admire on the film’s glistening surface. There’s the gorgeous cinematography by Benoît Debie, who gives the nocturnal scenes a neon- and fluorescent-lit griminess that recalls his work on Gaspar Noé’s Irreversible and Enter the Void. There’s the spellbinding and chronologically jumbled editing by Douglas Crise, which cribs unapologetically from the works of Michael Mann and Terrence Malick to create a sense of dreamy reverie (or nightmarish dissolution) around particular sequences. There’s the mesmerizing sound design, with its buzzing, repetitive use of narcotic voiceover and its relentless punctuation of smash-cuts with gunshots and racking pistols slides. There’s the superb score by Cliff Martinez and Skrillex, which shifts smoothly between mournful waves of ambient sound and sweaty 140 BPM aggression.

However, beneath all of these enticing visual and aural components, the film presents a vacuous story about very stupid people doing very stupid things for reasons that never make much sense. Doubtlessly, Spring Breakers is the most lovely film ever made about vacationing bikini-clad undergrads who are enticed (with only a little prodding) into the criminal underworld.

The women in question are Faith (Selena Gomez), Candy (Vanessa Hudgens), Brit (Ashley Benson), and Cotty (Rachel Korine), who together attend a bleak, anonymous Middle American college campus. The four are short on cash and desperate to flee their dreary surroundings for the spray-tanned bacchanalia that is Spring Break in Florida. Candy, Brit, and Cotty formulate a plan to rob an all-night greasy spoon with water pistols in order to secure their escape to warmer climes—although the three conceal this scheme from the comparatively straight-laced, church-going Faith until after the fact (Faith... get it?). Wad of ill-gotten gains in hand, the coeds are then off to the Sunshine State to indulge themselves in all the Spring Break excess that can be had by straight, attractive, college-age women. (Which, it turns out, is quite a lot.)

Eventually, the days-long streak of hedonism comes to a screeching halt when the women are caught up in a police raid on a cocaine-fueled hotel party. The girls are broke, but their bail is unexpectedly paid by a leering hip hop artist and up-and-coming drug mogul named Alien (James Franco), who assures the ladies through his dollar-sign-studded silver grill that he has no ulterior motive (*oily chuckle*). Faith prudently gets the hell out of Florida at this point, but the remaining three girls shack up in Alien’s opulent beachfront abode, which boasts a poolside white grand piano, a television on which Scarface plays on an endless loop, and a truly ridiculous arsenal of firearms and martial arts weapons. In short order, Alien has talked his playthings into working as his pink-masked accomplices in a war on rival kingpin Archie (Gucci Mane). Or did the women talk him into it? Increasingly, it becomes apparent that the borderline-sociopathic Candy and Brit have no intention of ever returning to their former life of glum cinderblock dormitories and yawn-inducing history lectures.

If all of this seems fairly inane and even tedious... well, it is. The clash between Spring Breakers’ exploitative content and arty style is so glaring that the whole film just ends up feeling miscalculated and broken. Dissonance between form and content can make for a fascinating work in the right hands, but Korine is utterly uninterested in utilizing that dissonance in any meaningful way. Admittedly, the film does acknowledge the ludicrousness of the criminal antihero narrative by repackaging it in a gaggle of dim-bulb party girls. And, truth be told, there are flashes of coal-black humor here and there. One highlight: the girls’ voicemail messages to their family, which are overflowing with gushing descriptions of Spring Break’s distinctive, wholesome magic—in contrast with the out-of-control, licentious reality. It’s not exactly subtle, but the girls’ words are so ludicrously gooey and breathlessly disingenuous that the irony is pretty damn scrumptious.

Such moments are rare, however. The film’s fundamental problem is that it doesn’t really function on any level save the most lurid. Certainly, it doesn’t work as a satire of anything that is truly deserving of rhetorical savagery, and where worthy targets are concerned, it tends to pull its punches. The film is ambiguous with respect to Spring Break as a cultural phenomenon, for while Korine’s screenplay seems to recognize the staggering idiocy of the whole thing, it never takes an outright scolding stance. At times, the film even seems envious in its depiction of the celebrants’ beer-spattered, pot-clouded, hyper-sexual hijinks.

Perhaps most annoyingly and predictably, the film doesn’t offer any substantive engagement with sexism—or if it does, its criticisms are so obfuscated by the camera’s ogling of the female form that they might as well not exist at all. Spring Breakers is empowering in the crudest sort of way: by pressing handguns and assault shotguns into the hands of pretty white women. (Never mind the film’s excitement at the sight of those ladies cold-bloodedly exterminating countless Scary Black Men. Likewise the film’s almost oblivious use of lazy racial stereotypes.)  It doesn’t seem to occur to Korine to expend his energies on little things like characterization, since that might distract from the bloodshed and sex appeal. Of the four female leads, only Faith is given any well-defined traits, in that she is the Christian and the sole woman who displays a reasonable wariness regarding Alien’s intentions. Cotty is generally portrayed as the most libertine of the four, and Candy and Brit as secretly ruthless and cruel, but that is about as much character detail as the film will allow in its female protagonists.

This dearth of characterization is not merely a matter of a problematic attitude towards gender, but of the film’s vexing mismatch between style and content. If a filmmaker is going to create a scuzzy, lurid crime thriller which is set in Carl Hiaasan country and looks and sounds like a hybrid of Badlands and Heat, it damn well needs the kind of forceful script and performances that can support such a chilly, oneiric approach. Neither Korine nor his actors rise to the occasion in this respect, and the result is a film that feels almost shamefully hollow.  While Spring Breakers mimics a work of nuanced psychological portraiture or a sardonic statement about American values, it’s really just a crass wallow in female objectification and over-the-top violence. There’s nothing wrong with a crass wallow from time to time, but artful crassness requires a nimbleness and sophistication that Spring Breakers is wholly lacking.

The Croods

2013 // USA // Kirk De Micco and Chris Sanders // March 19, 2013 // Digital Theatrical Projection (Wehrenberg Ronnies 20 Cine)

It’s probably unavoidable that any discussion of Dreamworks Animation’s The Croods will reference Hanna Barbera Productions’ seminal Boomer Era television series The Flintstones. Both are built around a nearly identical high concept: a pointedly anachronistic depiction of a Paleolithic nuclear family. Still, aside from this superficial similarity—and an affection for creaky jokes about a oafish husband’s loathing for his irascible mother-in-law—the two works share little in common. How the The Flintstones ever came to be regarded as a iconic children’s show is still a bit of mystery: It was, at bottom, a retrograde domestic sitcom, and seems to have left an impression on the pop cultural consciousness primarily due to its lame geological puns and dinosaur-appliance sight gags. The Croods, meanwhile, is a fairly straightforward middlebrow comedy adventure feature. As with Dreamworks’ previous theatrical film, The Rise of the Guardians, its visual design is undeniably wondrous, but The Croods is ultimately undermined by a bland and muddled story.

That story concerns Eep Crood (Emma Stone), a wily adolescent cavegirl who scurries across the prehistoric landscape like a bubbly, unstoppable bobcat. Eep dwells in a cave with her overprotective father Grug (Nicholas Cage), doting mother Ugga (Catherine Keener), dimwitted younger brother Thunk (Clarke Duke), baby sister Sandy (Randy Thom), and salty old Gran (Cloris Leachman). As Eep explains in a animated cave-painting prologue, her clan has outlived their less fortunate Stone Age neighbors by following Grug’s fearful rules to the letter. Those rules entail pummeling potential food sources with rocks, fleeing in terror from anything unusual, and cowering in fear in their hidey-hole after dark. Naturally, Eep chafes under her father’s watchful eye, longing for something more meaningful than mere scrabbling survival.

During an illicit nocturnal foray from the family den, Eep runs headlong into nerdy-yet-hunky solitary caveboy Guy (Ryan Reynolds), who is quite advanced compared to the Croods, what with his “shoes” and “fire”. The anxious Guy claims that the known world is on the brink of a cataclysm, and before long he is alternately following and leading the family towards the fabled land of Tomorrow, which will allegedly offer sanctuary from the looming apocalypse. This, of course, does not sit well with the prideful and reactionary Grug, who until now has managed to keep his little tribe safe from the Paleolithic’s myriad terrors by staying put and doing exactly same thing every day.

Inasmuch as The Croods has a fundamental conflict, it is the tug-of-war between Eep’s yearning for fresh experiences on the one hand, and Grug’s paternal compulsion to keep his family out of harm’s way on the other. It’s not exactly an original hook for a story, and the fuzziness of Eep’s longing just draws attention to how much her character resembles a generic sketch of every Disney protagonist ever. Compared to the emotional elegance and complexity of the parent-child relationship depicted in last year’s Brave, the Eep-Grug antagonism is crude, sitcom-level stuff. There is even a wincingly unfunny scene in which Grug haplessly attempts to ape Guy’s cerebral ways, in a variation on a hackneyed “Dad tries to be cool” sequence.

Still, there’s something appealingly geeky about the way that The Croods frames the generation gap within a cartoon prehistory context. In the same way that Dreamworks’ How to Train Your Dragon can be viewed as a myth about the domestication of animals, The Croods is a cockeyed, allegorical take on the triumph of Homo sapiens sapiens in a hostile world. It’s utterly ahistorical and not developed with any seriousness, but the theme of emergence from benighted, animalistic terror into the realm of language, culture, and creativity is always close at hand, even when the film is otherwise preoccupied with wacky critters and slapstick hijinks.

Despite such glimmers of intriguing potential, the screenplay by co-directors Kirk De Micco and Chris Sanders is arguably the film’s most glaring weakness. The Croods simply can’t figure out whether Eep or Grug is the Real Hero of the story. Eep is the narrator, and initially the film provides every indication that is a well-worn tale of adolescent rebellion, wherein the plucky teen discovers her potential while also learning that Family Is What Matters. But wait! Somewhere around the 65-minute mark, the film’s primary viewpoint unaccountably and indisputably shifts to Grug, and thereafter the The Croods spends most of its remaining running time establishing the depth of his paternal affection and self-sacrifice. Dual perspectives and storylines aren’t a defeating quality, of course, but The Croods doesn’t resemble a feature that aims to equitably depict the psychological journeys of both father and daughter. It just feels like a film that forgot what the hell it was doing and decided to do something else.

As with most of the more action-oriented Dreamworks films since Kung Fu Panda, the artistry of The Croods’ design is undeniable. The film refrains from doltishly scrambling the paleo-history of Earth—no dinosaurs and cavemen coexisting here—and instead leaps enthusiastically into out-and-out fantasy. The Stone Age landscape that Eep and her family inhabit is not a cartoon version of the past, but rather a wondrous, almost Seuss-like fictional world of twisted terrain and freakish life-forms. Despite the film’s flaws story-wise, it’s damn amazing to look at. The filmmakers pile on bizarre creature, landforms, and natural phenomena with the gusto of veterans who truly appreciate the potential of their digital canvas. The film features some eye-popping use of deep focus, and the anamorphic widescreen has never felt more essential to the studio’s creations than it does here.

Unfortunately, the character designs aren’t as easy on the eyes as they are in Panda, Dragon, or Guardians, and they occasionally veer into outright ugliness or uninspired rejiggering. The feline antagonist that bedevils Eep’s family in the first act draws a bit too strongly from Tarzan’s Sabor—although it has a nifty resemblance to a great horned owl from certain angles. (Similarly, Sandy looks like an exact cross between Pebbles Flintstone and The Incredibles’ Jack-Jack Parr.) It’s Eep that invites a truly conflicted reaction in the viewer. Her triangular silhouette—topped by scarlet Roseanne Roseannadanna hair—is truly arresting, and there’s something quite cool about a teen heroine who boasts a rugby’s player’s body. In certain shots, however, Eep’s features look downright unpleasant, more of a squashed caricature than a character. Then, ten seconds later, she looks for all the world like an adorable Raiders of the Lost Ark-era Karen Allen. It’s terribly disorienting.

The Croods is first and foremost a cartoon action comedy aimed at kids, and it’s packed with all that one expects of that genre in 2013: zany, hyperkinetic set pieces; animals that mug shamelessly for the camera; and copious gags involving characters being brutally smacked around to no lasting injury. It’s effective and inoffensive in this respect, but fairly forgettable. Nimble and modestly fun, certainly, but by the dizzying standards set by The Adventures of Tintin and Dreamworks’ own Panda films, it’s tame, disposable stuff.

The most distracting element to the whole package is Alan Silvestri’s music, which isn’t bad so much as it is schizophrenic. The opening hunt sequence is scored to a strange but attention-grabbing track that’s part half-time march and part Isaac Hayes funk—evoking, of all things, the anonymously groovy action soundtrack of a Quinn Martin television movie circa 1972. Unfortunately, the score tends to switch gears jarringly: first to classical bombast, and then again to saccharine sweep, and then yet again to the manic energy of a Technicolor musical. The score’s sheer unwillingness to settle on a tone—combined with the unfulfilled promise of that early eccentricity—leaves an unfortunately disjointed sensation.

Jack the Giant Slayer

2013 // USA // Bryan Singer // February 23, 2013 // Digital Theatrical Projection (Wehrenberg Des Peres Cine 14)

[Note: This post contains spoilers.]

Jack the Giant Slayer poses the eternal question of mediocre cinema: Is it preferable for a film to be uniformly bland yet serviceable, or to be teeth-gratingly bad with the occasional bright spot? Big-budget genre films in the post-Lord of the Rings era—or the post-X2 era, depending on one’s tastes—seem to be ground zero for this conundrum. Filmmakers appear to have drawn all the wrong lessons from Peter Jackson’s epic trilogy, littering their sorcerous and superheroic features with extravagant design and frenetic battle sequences, as though these components were a substitute for characterization or plot. The results have either been middling or outright terrible.

In the latter category of awful but fleetingly impressive films is last year’s Snow White and the Huntsman. Between its nonsensical story, desultory tone, and stale Grimm conventions, Rupert Sander’s debut feature is a straight-up mess. Granted, it does have Charlize Theron vamping about in some dazzling costumes, and a handful of striking bits: Snow’s acid-trip flight into the Dark Forest; an army of menacing obsidian automata; a butterfly swarm assuming the form of a stately stag. None of these elements even remotely redeem the film’s offenses, but they at least provide some ephemeral pleasures in a feature that is otherwise a wall-to-wall endurance test.

In contrast, Jack the Giant Slayer is at least nominally successful at the bare-bones task of presenting a digital effects-packed update to a classic fairy tale. Director Bryan Singer’s PG-13 retelling of the English story “Jack and the Beanstalk”—mashed up with the Cornish legend “Jack the Giant Killer”—is an inoffensive work, mildly entertaining yet thoroughly conservative from a formal and cultural standpoint. It will probably be forgotten in a year, but the bar has been set so dispiritingly low for live-action fantasy lately, it somehow feels like a success that Jack is not a complete train wreck. That's damning with faint praise, perhaps, but such is the state of cinema in 2013.

In an aggressively ugly computer-animated prelude, the film lays out its mythology. In ancient times, an order of monks created a strain of enchanted beans, which in turn spawned a colossal vine that stretched into the clouds. The monks had hoped to use this beanstalk to access Heaven, but instead established a link to the sky-kingdom of Gantua, home to a race of cruel and savage giants. The creatures descended the stalk and marauded across the earthly kingdom of Cloister, terrorizing the populace and devouring their livestock. Eventually, Cloister’s king fashioned a magic crown that enabled him to dominate the giants. Once he had ordered the brutes to return to Gantua, the beanstalk was chopped down in order to sever the giants’ access to Earth. (It bears repeating that this prelude is a singularly hideous sequence, not only by the high standards of animated flashbacks in other recent fantasy films—Hellboy 2: The Golden Army, Kung Fu Panda 2, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hollows: Part 1—but by the standards of 1996 video game cinematics.)

The rest of the film is essentially just a live-action retread of this tale, only louder, longer, and less unsightly. The same events occur with minor variations: the beans are rediscovered, Gantua and Earth are rejoined, the giants rampage through Cloister, and the power of the enchanted crown eventually wins the day. Nearly every jot of the story is a fantasy cliche, but the film is neither exuberant nor arch enough to qualify as a spiritual successor to the gee-whiz fantasy films of the mid-twentieth century, such as The Thief of Baghdad and Jason and the Argonauts. It just goes through the motions, occasionally with verve and wit, but more typically with the uninspired dutifulness of a production that has $195 million to burn through on extras, sets, costumes, and visual effects.

The noble-hearted hero of this tale is Jack (Nicholas Hoult), a peasant heartthrob who devoured legends of the Gantuan giants as a child and still longs for adventure. The film’s obligatory plucky princess is Isabelle (Eleanor Tomlinson), who yearns to wriggle from King Brahmwell’s (Ian McShane) doting but strict expectations, which include marrying her off to the kingdom's scenery-chewing, transparently treacherous steward, Roderick (Stanley Tucci). During a market day at Cloister castle, Jack crosses paths with Isabelle, and it’s love at first sight—or so the film asserts, although there's little evidence of it onscreen. To Jack's consternation, the king' Guardians, led by the dauntless Elmont (Ewan McGregor), appear suddenly to whisk Isabelle away. Shortly thereafter, an anxious monk presses a pouch of beans into Jack’s hand with an admonishment: never, ever get them wet.

In one of those oh-so-convenient fairy tale plot turns, Isabelle flees the castle that night and takes shelter from a thunderstorm at Jack’s mud farm. The peasant boy and princess engage in some gooey, nervous flirting until a raindrop moistens a mislaid bean and an enormous vine begins—*ahem*—growing uncontrollably. (To the film’s unexpected credit, the ribald subtext to this scene is played completely straight and never commented upon, making it far more effective and subtly amusing that it has any right to be.) Isabelle is carried up and away to Gantua by the towering beanstalk, while Jack is left behind, neatly setting up a standard-issue princess rescue mission. King Brahmwell orders Elmont and the Guardians to ascend the stalk and retrieve his daughter, and gives permission for both Jack and Roderick to join the quest, to the soldiers’ annoyance.

Things go pear-shaped before the rescuers have even surmounted the stalk, and everyone except Jack is eventually captured by the Gantuan giants. Now that the path to Earth has been regrown, the titans’ cunning two-headed general Fallon (Bill Nighy and John Kassir) intends to lead his people to King’s Brahmwell’s doorstep on a mission of vengeance. These plans are altered somewhat when Roderick shows his true colors and produces the fabled enchanted crown, which he uses to seize control of the giants and launch his own war on Cloister. Meanwhile, the king despairs that the giants will strike before Isabelle is rescued, and so he reluctantly commands that the stalk be hacked down. (This is a monumentally stupid decision given the size of the plant and the foreseeable effect it will have on the countryside when it topples. Still, it’s not half as stupid as waiting until the last second to flee the area, which is exactly what all the unwashed Middle Age looky-loos do.) This proves to be only a short setback for the giants, as Jack has carried the remaining beans to Gantua, and the enchanted stalks are apparently capable of growing down as well as up...

There’s quite a bit more to the story than the above summary conveys, but it hardly matters. The narrative is really just a scaffolding for the expected fantasy adventure components: searches, confrontations, chases, escapes, and a climatic, chaotic battle involving siege weaponry and enormous creatures. On this score, Jack the Giant Slayer delivers, although the film is more of an unremarkable diversion than a compelling work of escapism.

Neither Singer nor his usual cinematographer Newton Thomas Sigel—who two years ago provided such a visual jolt in Drive—do much that could be regarded as cinematically distinctive. Likewise, the production design by Star Wars prequel veteran Gavin Bocquet is appropriately lavish, but almost anonymous in its storybook predictability. Cloister is all Disney gloss, while Gantua is all Mordor grime, and both are swallowed up by the carelessness of the Once Upon a Time, England-but-not-really-England setting. Depending on the scenery or costume element in question, Jack could take place anytime between the twelfth and the nineteenth centuries. This is not normally a problem in fantasy films, but Jack awkwardly reveals in its final moments that—surprise!—Cloister was really England all along, and the giant-controlling crown was eventually forged into the present-day Crown Jewels of the United Kingdom. At which point any self-respecting Anglophile will be tempted to give the film the finger and walk out.

In most other respects, however, the film plays fair with its rules, presenting a fairly snappy plot that hustles from Point A to Point B without tripping over its own feet. The screenplay by Darren Lemke, Christopher McQuarrie, and Dan Studney maintains a sense of overpowering menace around the giants, and finds all sorts of engaging ways for the human characters to stymie the brutes without resorting to one-on-one physical confrontations that the giants would doubtlessly win. (The film's one fudge on this matter occurs when a couple dozen humans somehow manage to hold a drawbridge shut against the might of a comparable number of giants. How exactly does that work?) True to his folkloric roots, Jack defeats his foes by cleverness, not by transforming into a sword-wielding, giant-slaughtering demigod. This approach almost makes up for the film’s musty conventionality. Most predictably and gallingly, Isabelle is not given much to do after she is spirited away to Gantua, at which point the filmmakers seem to forget her previously established itch for independence. It’s a frustratingly retrograde story in many respects, particularly given that it’s been less than a year since Brave’s sneaky audacity.

It doesn’t help matters that Tomlinson fails to make much of an impression, as do most of the other cast members: Hoult is pretty, McShane is stern, McGregor is droll, and all of them are generally forgettable. Nighy’s voice work should be a pleasure, but Fallon so closely resembles his iconic turn as Davy Jones in the Pirates of the Caribbean sequels that the effect is distracting. Tucci sneers, struts, and waggles his eyebrows in an amused way that doesn’t so much convey malevolence as shout, “Can you believe I’m getting paid for having this much fun?” As Roderick, he alone seems keenly aware that he is a character in a fairy tale, and while Tucci’s performance matches almost nothing else in the film tonally, it’s at least enjoyable to watch. (This also means that Jack becomes far less interesting when Roderick suddenly perishes at about the 70-minute mark.)

Ultimately, what salvages Jack the Giant Slayer from middlebrow dullness by a narrow margin is not its acting, design, or storytelling, but the sheer formulism of its breathless, thunderous thrills. Singer’s no-frills, earnest presentation of boilerplate fantasy action, super-sized for contemporary multiplex viewers, possesses a kind of adolescent simplicity. Like a roller coaster that one has ridden a dozen times, it offers a soothing kind of excitement, but no genuine surprises or risk.

What Has Sunk May Rise: Die, Monster, Die! (1965)

1965 // UK - USA // Daniel Haller // February 17, 2013 // DVD - MGM (2005)

​Based On: "The Colour Out of Space" (1927)

[Note: This post contains spoilers. Part of a series on film adaptations of the works of H. P. Lovecraft.]

The titles of H. P. Lovecraft’s 1927 short story “The Colour Out of Space” and its 1965 film adaptation Die, Monster, Die! promise very different experiences, and both works deliver on their pledges. “Colour” is one of Lovecraft’s finest short stories, a frightening alien encounter tale that stands as both a paragon of the author’s distinctive prose and the purest expression of science-fiction-as-horror in his bibliography. Like most of the writer’s work, it’s an exercise in slow-burn dread, in which stalwart but guileless New Englanders slowly discern that a terrifying, unfathomable entity squirms just beyond the borders of their understanding.

Die, Monster, Die!, meanwhile, is what one would expect from American International Pictures in late 1965: a low-budget, flamboyant horror film replete with hammy dialogue, lush sets, and gruesome makeup effects. The film’s climactic rampage by a glowing, super-strong Boris Karloff is a weirdly emblematic moment, an almost perfect embodiment of the schlocky yet shamelessly entertaining character of Hollywood horror and science-fiction in the 1950s and 60s. Yet despite Die, Monster, Die!’s significant divergences from "Colour" in terms of both plot and tone, it quite capably conveys its source material's mingling of secular and Puritan dread.

“The Colour Out of Space” is in some ways the essential Lovecraft story, as it concerns humankind’s inability to adequately describe the breadth of the universe with its primitive scientific vocabulary. The meteorite that falls on the Gardner farm near Arkham, Massachusetts in 1882 is subjected to all manner of experiments, producing remarkable yet perplexing results. Most prominently, spectrographic analysis indicates an otherworldly new color that is dissimilar from any conventional hue. (Lovecraft performs some fascinating linguistic acrobatics in order to convey the striking qualities of this alien shade without referencing the familiar colors on the red-to-violet spectrum.) The meteorite and the mutagenic, mind-shattering entity that it carries to Earth are not mystical in nature, but “hyper-scientific”. They represent natural cosmic phenomena that lie so far outside the bounds of human understanding that our species’ crude science can characterize them only incompletely.

Cunningly, Lovecraft embeds this extrastellar nightmare within a rural New England landscape that is thick with spiritual fears, spooky folklore, and all manner of whispered Indian and colonial legends. While “Colour” suggests that a secular framework is ultimately the correct one for understanding the alien horror that gradually overtakes the Gardner farm, the occult anxieties of the locals lend the story a unsettling resonance. Moreover, the learned men who are so flabbergasted by the meteorite’s properties eventually return to the city after collecting their specimens and recording their observations. It is the superstitious country folk left behind who witness the area's subsequent slow-motion ecological catastrophe, as the local flora and fauna—and, most chillingly, the Gardners themselves—undergo disturbing changes. In this way, Lovecraft portrays the demon-haunted bumpkin worldview as flawed, while simultaneously enjoining the reader to value rural people’s intimate familiarity with their natural surroundings.

Exasperation with the wild fears of rural landowners, combined with dismissal of their environmental observations, would eventually became a hallmark of government and corporate attitudes wherever twentieth century progress sought to extend its reach into “underdeveloped” American spaces. Significantly, “Colour’s” tale of 1880s terror is couched within a 1920s framing narrative about just such an endeavor. The “blasted heath” where the Gardner farm once stood is scheduled to be drowned beneath a new reservoir, and a nameless land surveyor has coaxed local eccentric Ammi Pierce to provide his recollections of the weird havoc once wreaked by the meteorite. Upon hearing Pierce’s fantastical and unnerving tale, the surveyor confesses relief at the forthcoming inundation of the accursed area...and a resolve to never, ever drink Arkham city water in the future.

As H. P. Lovecraft short stories go, “Colour” has obvious advantages as source material for a cinematic adaptation. Its core scenario is relatively straightforward—a falling space rock brings radioactive terror to a small town—and would have been quite familiar to the young Atomic Age filmgoers that AIP notoriously coveted. The story contains several fascinating visual hooks, from the ominously glowing meteorite to the twisted vegetation spawned by its alien emanations. There is, of course, the vexing matter of that ineffable color that plays such a prominent role in Lovecraft’s tale, a hue that by definition no cinematic work could adequately convey. (This is likely the most abstract example of one might term “the Lovecraft problem,” the difficulty in translating the author’s baroque yet ambiguous descriptions into effective images.) The screenplay for Die, Monster, Die!, penned by genre television writer Jerry Sohl, sidesteps this problem by cutting out references to the impossible color altogether. Indeed, the script completely strip-mines “Colour” for its essential components and then recasts them in a more conventional gothic horror mold, complete with a forbidding ancestral estate and a comely virginal damsel.

It’s easy enough to see why executive producers Samuel Z. Arkoff and James H. Nicholson would push the film in this direction, even if it resulted in a feature that bore little resemblance to Lovecraft’s original story. AIP had just completed its Corman-Poe Cycle of films with The Tomb of Ligeia in 1965. Faithfulness to Edgar Allan Poe’s works had not been a prominent characteristic of those features—to put it mildly—and yet the films had been wildly successful. Doubtlessly, this was due partly to Poe’s status as an iconic American horror brand, partly to the presence of lead actor Vincent Price, and partly to viewers' ambivalence to concepts like “literary fidelity”. Certainly, Lovecraft’s name did not enjoy the same level of mainstream recognition in '65 as Poe’s. Indeed, this is what led AIP to disingenuously market 1963’s The Haunted Palace as a Poe adaptation, when in was in fact based on Lovecraft’s novella The Case of Charles Dexter Ward. Even in the case of Die, Monster, Die!, the first film to properly credit a Lovecraft work as its sole source, the writer’s name is spelled out on the movie poster in the tiniest text not reserved for legalese. A keen-eyed cinema patron could surmise from this graphic design snub that the faithfulness of the adaptation was not a significant concern for the filmmakers.

Although short on devotion to its source material, Die, Monster, Die! possesses a bevy of classic horror landmarks that quickly orient the viewer. Indeed, a filmgoer who had dutifully lined up to see the features in the Corman-Poe Cycle would have been right at home in Die, Monster, Die’s crumbling, fog-shrouded surroundings. Upon disembarking from a train in the English village of Arkham, American scientist Stephen Reinhart (Nick Adams) questions the local residents on where he might acquire transportation to the outlying Witley estate. He is rebuffed with almost comical gruffness by the villagers, who treat him as though he were asking for a lift to the Ninth Circle of Hell. Forced to make his way on foot, Reinhart passes by an enormous earthen crater surrounded by decimated trees and shrubs that crumble to ash at his touch. He eventually arrives at the Witley grounds, where he is unknowingly followed by a veiled, black-clad figure to the front door. Upon entering the grim manor, Reinhart is quickly confronted by the elderly, wheelchair-bound Nahum Witley (Karloff) and his owlish manservant Merwyn (Terence de Marney). The master of the house acidly but reasonably demands to know why Reinhart is trespassing despite ample signs that visitors are not welcome.

The scientist hastily explains that he is a former classmate of Nahum’s daughter, Susan (Suzan Farmer), and it was she who extended an invitation to visit the estate. On cue, Susan delightedly bounces down the stairs to embrace Reinhart, providing a fresh-faced, almost jarring counterpoint to the suffocating Old World atmosphere of the Witley manor. Despite the glowering objections of her father, Susan insists that Reinhart meet her ailing mother, Letitia (Freda Jackson), who wheezes behind the curtains of a massive four-poster bed. Susan and Reinhart’s not-so-secret engagement pleases Letitia, but she asks to speak to her future son-in-law alone. In fearful whispers, she tells him of a servant girl who was similarly ravaged by a mysterious illness and subsequently vanished, and then begs him to take Susan far from the estate as soon as possible.

The encounter with Mrs. Witley rattles Reinhart, but he and Susan resolve to stay at the manor for least another evening, notwithstanding Nahum’s smoldering hostility to the younger man’s presence. It’s at this point that Die, Monster, Die! settles into a narrative pattern that consists almost entirely of Reinhart wandering around and attempting to untangle exactly what sort of foul strangeness is transpiring at the Witley estate. The film is not entirely beholden to his perspective, as it occasionally follows Nahum while he skulks about and pursues his own sinister agenda. In the main, however, Reinhart’s halting explorations are the means by which the plot unfolds, creating a sense of a piecemeal revelation. Bizarre occurrences abound: Merwyn collapses suddenly at dinner, an unnatural light pulses within the greenhouse, Letitia's condition suddenly worsens, and Reinhart is violently ambushed by the veiled stranger. As he begins to unmask the estate’s secrets, Reinhart finds that all of the weird goings-on seem to point to the aforementioned crater and the force that created it. Meanwhile, Nahum seems to be losing what little control he once possessed over a mysterious glowing object in the cellar.

This narrative approach doesn’t exactly lend itself to propulsive drama, as most of the film’s plot points consist of Reinhart discovering horrible things about the Witley manor and about Nahum’s schemes. Many of the film’s significant events would arguably have occurred whether or not Reinhart was even present at the estate. This leaves the protagonist in the awkward position of having no particular role in the story other than as a vessel for exposition, although he does ultimately deliver Susan from the film’s requisite climactic inferno. In this respect, Die, Monster, Die! is actually comparable to many Lovecraft stories—including “The Colour Out of Space” itself—in that the “hero” plays the part of a glorified bystander while fearsome cosmic forces lurch to and fro. Such stakes-free storytelling is risky, but it’s to the credit of Sohl and director Daniel Haller that the film is still quite engaging, even when it’s doing little more than gaping in fear at mutant horrors. The filmmakers maintain an appropriate sense of the uncanny throughout the feature, keeping the viewer slightly off-balance with intense but carefully parceled shocks.

Neither Haller nor cinematographer Paul Beeson have the same flair for widescreen compositions that Roger Corman and Floyd Crosby exhibited in The Haunted Palace and the AIP Poe films. Still, while Die, Monster, Die! is not exactly a visually stunning film, it is rich in memorable sights thanks to the vivid special effects by Ernie Sullivan and Wally Veevers and the downright stomach-churning makeup by Jimmy Evans. Nearly all of the film’s standout scenes center on a bizarre practical effect that sears itself into the mind’s eye. Karloff’s regression into a blank-eyed atomic brute at the film’s conclusion is a particular highlight, as is a startling sequence in which a revolting mutant stumbles through the estate in a bloodthirsty frenzy. There is even an all-too-fleeting glimpse of a formless, classically Lovecraftian monstrosity gibbering in a darkened cell. Haller and editor Alfred Cox—a veteran of Hammer Films horror features—present all of these weird, disturbing components in a manner that maximizes their horrific impact.

This sense of ghastly showmanship distinguishes Die, Monster, Die! from its more academic-minded source material. Nonetheless, both the literary work and film adaptation skillfully exploit the narrow, unsettled area where science-fiction and horror overlap. On paper, Die, Monster, Die! is a “pure” example of the former genre, given that the film’s menace originates from outer space and the story has no place for magic or other supernatural forces. (Indeed, the film draws attention to the hokiness of the “Satanic” devotions that were once perpetrated by the Witley ancestors.) However, Die, Monster, Die! relies to a significant extent on well-worn horror elements, from the mysterious locked room to the suspicious midnight burial. The result is a curious hybrid of an atomic monster feature and a cobwebby gothic mystery. While it doesn’t ever discover the singular, almost agoraphobic dread that characterizes “The Colour Out of Space,” the film does succeed in resolving its disparate generic constituents into a satisfying and genuinely frightening work.

Side Effects

2013 // USA // Steven Soderbergh // February 13, 2013 // Digital Theatrical Projection (St. Louis Cinemas Chase Park Plaza)

Squint a little, and one can discern a resemblance between Steven Soderbergh’s 2011 global pandemic thriller, Contagion, and the director’s latest and (allegedly) final film, Side Effects. Both features were written by Scott Z. Burns, who injects a conspicuous dose of public health relevance between lines of urgent, jargon-laden dialogue. Where Contagion aimed to highlight the anemic state of the world’s infectious disease countermeasures, the new film draws attention to the inescapable reach of psychiatry and Big Pharma in contemporary life. Production designer Howard Cummings and Soderberg—who, as usual, serves as his own cinematographer—employ a similar visual scheme in both films: subtle low and high angles, liberal use of shallow focus, and a palette that alternates between chilly blues and sickly yellows. Both features make good use of Jude Law’s affinity for conveying peevish, overweening characters, although his role as psychiatrist Dr. Jonathan Banks in Side Effects is more ambiguous (and more prominent) than the opportunistic, activist blogger he portrayed in Contagion.

There the resemblance between the two films ends, however. Contagion’s novelty as a scientifically literate pop entertainment conceals a remarkably one-dimensional film preoccupied with presenting a Cassandra-style warning of real world pathogenic catastrophe. On its surface, Side Effects appears to be a similarly shallow work, little more than a cluster of murder mystery tropes given a glossy, cold-blooded Soderbergh makeover. In this respect, the director’s new feature actually has some strong similarities to his underrated Haywire, a film which also shamelessly traffics in genre formulae. Side Effects is to legal, medical, and psychological thrillers what Soderbergh’s 2012 film is to the cloak-and-dagger action picture. Granted, there is nothing in Side Effects that comes close to the apex of Haywire’s visceral, voyeuristic pleasures: Gina Carano and Michael Fassbender in a protracted, barehanded fight to the death. Still, there is a kitschy appeal to the former film’s corkscrewing story, which borrows plot elements from a dozen episodes of Law & Order and wraps them in the garish outlandishness of a Brian de Palma feature.

The bloody smears and footprints glimpsed in Side Effects’ opening flashforward shots point to a looming calamity, although the viewer’s suspicions are at first directed towards an act of self-harm rather than murder. To wit: New York graphic designer Emily Taylor (Rooney Mara) suffers from severe and presently untreated depression, a condition that has been aggravated by her husband Martin’s (Channing Tatum) recent parole from a white-collar prison sentence. Following a suspicious car wreck—in which she appears to have deliberately accelerated into a parking garage wall—Emily comes to the attention of Dr. Banks, who swiftly places her on a regimen of prescription antidepressants.

Unfortunately, the leading pharmaceuticals afflict Emily with crippling side effects, among them vomiting, sleepwalking, and panic attacks. Banks reaches out to his patient's previous psychiatrist, the velvety Dr. Siebert (Catherine Zeta-Jones), and she urges him to place Emily on a breakthrough drug marketed under the trade name Ablixa. In short order, Emily is enjoying a sudden and significant upswing in her mood, and Banks is coaxing his other clients into an Ablixa study...in return for generous compensation from the drug manufacturer. For a moment, everything is going splendidly for both psychiatrist and patient, and then the floor drops out: Emily’s sleepwalking returns in spectacularly violent fashion, and Banks finds himself in a police interrogation room being peppered with awkward questions about his treatment methods and professional judgment.

Where the story goes from there is best witnessed first-hand. Even so, what makes Side Effects intriguing is not the fine contours of its double and triple cross-packed plot, but the ways in which Soderbergh and Burns upend expectations regarding how such thrillers are typically presented. Emily’s apparently pharmacologically-induced break corresponds to a slight shift in the film’s focus, such that it begins to favor Banks’ point-of-view rather than his patient’s. The back half of Side Effects unfolds in a manner consistent with countless cinematic tales of legal gamesmanship and media frame-ups, with Law playing the part of the unwitting dupe who must outwit malevolent chess masters in order to clear his good name.

However, even this familiar premise is given a cynical bent. The expected moment when Banks sees the light and his goals align with those of justice never truly arrives. The psychiatrist remains a full-fledged antihero to the end, obsessed with proving not merely that his suspicions are correct, but that he is more cunning and ruthless than his opponents. He is ultimately an unsympathetic protagonist, a preening prick whose arrogance is both the cause of his downfall and also his most significant well of strength. An argument can be made that this is an alienating way to present the story’s ostensible Good Guy. Nonetheless, it’s an approach that dovetails neatly with Side Effects’ broader depiction of humankind as a self-absorbed species battered by conflicting urges and pressures. In this respect, the film is the airport paperback cousin to Soderbergh’s frigid, elliptical tragedy The Girlfriend Experience. Side Effects conceals its nihilism behind a paper-thin upbeat ending for Banks, but it works to illustrate throughout its running time that people are fearful, backstabbing bastards at bottom.