Article: Procedural - Cure (1997)

Some of the best horror is effective because of how the uncanny quietly seeps into the mundane. Director Kiyoshi Kurosawa is masterful in injecting the eerie into the everyday. Pulse (2001) prophesies a world of deadly loneliness and makes the loss of connection commonplace, with characters quietly succumbing to the “ghost in the machine” once the internet's grip takes hold. Creepy (2016) has its antagonist distressingly abuse the social contract of neighbours in a manner which films like Speak No Evil (2022) riffed on years later. With Creepy, hidden rooms, sedative drugs and corpses become the order of the day, simply due to discreet manipulation of people’s obligatory requirements of “being nice”. Cure (1997) was released 2 years after David Fincher’s deeply pessimistic Seven (1995). However, Kurosawa’s enigmatic feature plunges us into a discomfort that crawls deeper under the skin. The frostiness which inhabits Cure is illustrated in its “middle distance” visuals. There are rarely any close-ups employed to humanise the story’s characters. Isolation is the name of the game here. Dissociation rips through regular people in Cure with a steeper potency than the deranged pseudo-religious crimes of John Doe. The crimes in Seven can be isolated, pinpointed and despite the repercussions, somewhat contained.  In Cure, it’s suggested that transgressions that occur will have no end. That what conspires may spread like a virus, quietly destroying the unassuming nature of its victims. This leaves them with a terrifying outcome and no idea of how such violence came about.

Kenichi Takabe is a police detective who is balancing his troubled private life while trying to solve a spate of violent killings. The murders are puzzling, as each case has the perpetrators caught close to the scene with no explanation as to why they’ve committed the murders. This is despite freely confessing to their crimes with complete recollection of what they did. Takabe is fighting to crack the case while also struggling to care for his schizophrenic wife, who is slipping away from him mentally. Soon it is discovered that each killer encountered a mysterious drifter named Mamiya. Takabe slowly uncovers that Mamiya, despite his extreme short-term memory loss, is the architect of these crimes. Asking simple questions and triggers actions using the elements. Very soon, Takabe and Mamiya collide, with the mysterious nature of Mamiya’s “mission” gradually taking the detective to breaking point.

You meet an unassuming stranger, who disarms you with a series of innocuous questions which subconsciously loosen your inhibitions. Moments later, you are compelled to murder someone close to you. Something you would never consider when your civility is armoured around you. Everything you do to the person you remember, and while you were shocked at your actions, your intentions suggest it was always at the back of your mind. This hideously simple yet terrifying conceit lies within Cure, a film in which its antagonist quietly fractionates those around him through frustration, repetition, and obfuscation. Cure toys with the idea that people believe they’re more in control than they are. With the thin veneer of polite society as the one thing that stops the chaos, Mamiya’s ability to easily remove that layer of civility makes Cure terrifying. We like to believe that we have control. Even when it’s evident that we don’t. Mamiya's actions are devastatingly simple, and the menacing aspect stems from the fact that he doesn’t even seem to know himself how easy it is to arm multiple timebombs. Lit fuses that are primed for volatility because their courtesy is so neatly removed, and the last thing you would expect to be keeping you from becoming a raging killer. By removing people’s consideration for others, Mamiya unlocks a seething repression that lies within the characters. Cure proposes that this violence is always within us, and by opening them up to this brutality, it purges one's soul. They become vessels for a blank-faced missionary.

Takabe is a classic flawed protagonist. His quiet animosity towards his ailing wife, along with his frustrations on the case, slowly blend him into a dark anti-hero, a cop who’s only a couple of degrees from boiling over. The mannerisms between Takabe and Mamiya are in stark contrast, yet the motivations of both pursuer and pursued are muddied and troubling. In the scant confrontations between the two, there’s always the feeling that Mamiya’s quiet manipulation will unlock Takabe’s restrained anger. Mamiya’s mission appears to be setting people free from the restraints of society. Takabe is so tied to society through his wife and job that he’s unable to break free. Yet Kurosawa crafts the scenes of the duo in such a way that we’re never too sure if Mamiya hasn’t infiltrated the fracturing detective’s mind.

Cure plays on the known unknown. Tearing at the fabric of Japan’s well-known social norms of etiquette. Kurosawa primes everything to unsettle, with even the hum of a washing machine becoming something which unbalances the ambience. A familiar appliance which we use for cleaning is now something which rattles the nervous system. While no sequences in the film are executed as grimly as in Seven, the detached way Kurosawa situates his characters manoeuvres Cure into becoming the Yin to Seven’s visceral Yang.

Cure’s ethereal ambiguity and dread make it tough to talk about but absorbing to watch. Every watch gives a fan something new to chew on, yet it never feels possible to get a full handle on the events at play.  Its vaporous nature gleefully rewards you with added strands to any theory you may have, while also obscuring any previous certainty. On a previous watch, I was more certain about the melancholic relationship between Takabe and his memory-depleted wife. This current viewing left me further in doubt, with more reason to question Takabe’s possible malevolence.

Such thoughts bring me to the film’s ambivalent finale, which suggests a possible “passing of the torch” or a previous continuation of events that had never diminished. That the film is happy to leave its conclusion in the delicate hands of its viewer is a strong example of its assuredness. It’s also the best display of the film’s ambiguous power. The final moments remind me of another deeply disquieting thriller: Michael Haneke’s Cache (2005). We’re given a wide shot loaded with information, but no clear explanation of the outcome. If you rewatch both scenes, it’s possible to pick up something deeply unsettling that may not have been considered before.  What makes it more horrific is how easily the threat of violence is lost within a sea of the mundane. Something insidious occurs but is soon lost within a crowd of the everyday, which is how Kurosawa likes it.

 

Cure is available to buy on Blu-ray. 

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Article: Procedural - Longlegs (2024)

I was rewatching Longlegs, and I once again found myself repeating the same two sentences: “Is Nicolas Cage in the wrong film? I think he may be in the wrong film.” I’m not a Nic Cage hater. Francis Ford's nephew is one of the only bankable movie stars still around who is allowed to make big choices in his Hollywood performances. When his performances land, they do so exceedingly well.  However, his distracting performance in Longlegs feels like one of stunt casting. A strange, bonkers performance that feels out of place in the admittedly short amount of screentime that he appears in. Despite this, when my recent viewing of Longlegs finished, I asked myself, “Who else would you put in there? Who would do such a character justice?”

Cage plays the titular Longlegs: a suspected serial killer with a disturbing M.O: The ability to have all members of the families he chooses to be grisly murdered, yet leaving no trace of involvement at the scene of the crime. The FBI are baffled at how a multitude of gruesome killings, spanning over decades, have occurred with not a hint of a solid lead coming their way. Enter Lee Harker (Maika Monroe), a dedicated yet knowingly disturbed agent who is recruited on the case due to being “highly intuitive”. This becomes a substitute for being somewhat psychically clairvoyant. Harker’s apparent gift allows the FBI to start making headway into the case. But as Harker delves deeper into the case, a connection between the killer and the agent is slowly discovered.

That dollop of synopsis may feel like too much of this police procedural is revealed. There’s more than good heft of the film’s plot found there. Yet Longlegs is a horror crime thriller that manages to be rather straightforward, yet bizarrely obscure at the same time. The film, a box-office hit when released in 2024, polarised audiences, to say the least. Nonsensical to some, yet chillingly atmospheric to others. It’s easy to dismiss, because the film seems uninterested in stitching the narrative fabric into something with more grounded logic. At the same time, Longlegs is compelling because it’s an American thriller that feels closest to Kiyoshi Kurosawa’s Cure (1997); a film where rhyme and reason are at odds with its stiflingly claustrophobic mood. If the film’s oppressive ambience feels cosy enough for the viewer, they may not be too bothered with how everything is knitted together. 

I’m still unsure if the wool is still over my eyes. Director Osgood Perkins brand of horror is alluring because he has such a tight grip on the film’s environment. For a film which shoots only in wide-angle and medium shots, why do you feel so boxed in? Are the red-eyed film photographs of unfortunate family members a subtle indication of the supernatural bleeding to the surface? Maika Monroe is fascinating as Harker, an FBI agent who is the opposite of Jodie Foster’s Clarice Starling. Unlike the diligent, confident Starling, Harker can barely keep things together throughout. The psychological strain is wedded onto her face so tightly that she seems to be humming with anxiety. As the narrative slowly sinks into its themes of Devil worship, sinful mothers and possession, you can sense the FBI agent pulse with tension with every ongoing moment. With Lee Harker, Perkins has added another compellingly troubled yet vulnerable female protagonist to his steadily growing list. Watching Monroe deduce, detect and wander through each meticulously composed frame is as engrossing as it is eerie.

But then there’s the Nic Cage of it all. 

Cage’s performance is so unhinged it destabilises the film's mood. He’s bellowing out T-Rex songs, but the rest of the film doesn’t seem to be harmonising with him. One bizarre scene has Cage’s Longlegs interact with a young shopgirl in a way that’s somewhat amusing yet feels more akin to Perkins’ own The Monkey (2025). Cage’s outlandishness can often be a good fit in off-kilter material. While it’s easy to laugh at the likes of Vampire’s Kiss (1988), Cage’s manic energy is a perfect foil for that film’s tone. The deranged display that inhabits films like Mandy (2018) is another great example of how to utilise Cage rage. But with Longlegs? It’s difficult to see what other casting choices could be slotted in for replacement. However, this Cage performance is like that of his ill-fated turn in The Wicker Man (2006), when you wonder what could happen if someone dialled down his love of scenery chomping. Maybe something more akin to Alicia Witt’s performance as Harker’s mother. It’s startling to see Witt, the once fresh-faced final girl of Urban Legend (1997), slowly move towards unhinged final boss, channelling Carrie White’s mom vibes. But it’s an enjoyable surprise.  

What’s more debatable is the film’s condensed finale. For some, the film's final third is the moment narrative logic cascades in on itself. A film that was steadily unravelling at the tactful pace of all Perkins' movies suddenly unscrambles in a way that feels as if the film doesn’t want you to think too much about the reasoning behind what’s occurring. Basic questions could have been answered, but Perkins is uninterested in spoonfeeding. So, Longlegs ends with a muted, uncomfortable and ambiguous climax that refuses to give typical closure, but in doing so delivers the kind of uneasy tension that horror fans such as myself are often clambering for.  In a film which markedly features images of two American Presidents, both noted for lying to the American people, the final moments of a deranged maniac cackling Heil Satan while our fragile protagonist watches despondently at a violent aftermath that she has seemingly no power to stop, it’s an illogical yet disturbing finish that rings the right note for America’s current despondent and isolated status in the world.  

Longlegs is available to buy on Amazon Video. 

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Article: Procedural - Insomnia (1997)

Christopher Nolan’s 2002 remake of the Nordic crime thriller Insomnia was perhaps most known for being the feature which allowed him to make inroads into the mainstream. However, it can feel that Nolan’s snappy feature, filled with Hollywood stars and flashy direction, has overshadowed the demurer original film that inspired it. Nolan’s Insomnia is a crowd-pleaser. A mid-range that gets a director noticed. But the 1997 original film feels like one of the quieter progenitors of the Nordic Noir thrillers that became more popular in the 2010s. It’s bleaker in its execution of the same material, and possibly all the better for it.

Stellan Skarsgard plays Jonas, a Swedish cop who arrives in Norway to help solve the murder of a troubled teenager. The case becomes complicated when Jonas mistakenly shoots his partner in the fog during a planned stakeout to catch the suspect. Jonas goes against owning up to his culpability as he realises that most of the force believe the suspect is behind both murders. However, it becomes apparent that someone knows what really happened in the fog, and Jonas’ guilt, represented by his insomnia and the glare of the midnight sun, becomes blinding. 

Erik Skjoldbjaerg’s thriller is a streamlined, matter-of-fact affair that is not bothered with the American heroism and sacrifice that Nolan’s remake brings to the table. Jonas is more stoic and less trustworthy from the off. Even before the death of his partner, the interactions with the force already feel frosty. Meanwhile, his sexual appetite is not only swiftly highlighted but deeply problematic.  Skardsgard enters the fray as aloof and proud before the guilt of the shooting and insomnia start to wear him down. Once this happens, he only ever feels more questionable. The sun begins to bleed through the hotel room, creating a daytime that never ceases. The fractured perspective of Jonas is highlighted further with the use of simple visual motifs. Distorted viewpoints are brought on by cracked or rain-drenched windshields. The visuals become more burnt out and bleached during certain daytime sequences. Meanwhile, the film is often cleverly cut to skew the geography surrounding Jonas, making scenes feel disjointed and unpredictable. 

Despite this, Insomnia 97 is a subtler text. The flashy spectacle that Nolan brings to the larger budgeted American film isn't found here. And while enjoyable, it is not missed. This is a muted and more disquieting affair, which never lets its main character off the hook in the same way its remake does. The difference between Skarsgard in 1997 and Al Pacino in 2002 is night and day. Nolan’s Insomnia may have the better antagonist, with a superlative Robin Williams. But Skjoldbjaerg strips down the idea that Jonas is any sort of maverick hero. Making his version of the film the more uncomfortable affair, as it suggests Jonas is damned for his actions, even if justice may occur. 

Insomnia is available on BFI Player via Amazon Video. 

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Article: Navigating The Small World of Sammy Lee

Sometimes I find myself reminded of, and exasperated by, Britain’s neglect of its own cinema heritage. Chasing the American dollar has British modern filmmaking leaning on the Hollywood market for years. Our best talent often leaves for greener pastures overseas. British cinemas appear uninterested in their own product. Award Ceremonies like the BAFTAs only serve as a precursor to the Oscars. In the modern age, British film is only seen in piecemeal, with older movies feeling unheard of by anyone born past 1995.

1963’s The Small World of Sammy Lee, directed by Ken Hughes, didn’t shine at the time of its release. It found itself forgotten for decades, outperformed by weightier “kitchen sink” films of the era. Hughes and star Anthony Newley had seemingly high hopes for their “serious” tragicomedy, which has one foot in the emerging pop art cinema of its era, all the while glancing back to the noirs of previous decades. The Small World of Sammy Lee didn’t make its splash much to the dismay of Hughes, who was said to have bristled at being more known for the likes of Chitty Chitty Bang Bang (1968). 

You’d think there would be room for Sammy Lee in a country that bangs on about Only Fools and Horses all the bleeding time. ‘Sammy Lee’ is a gem of sixties noir, that now encapsulates a London that to me is both familiar and foreign at the same time. Imagine a sixties set Good Time (2017) or Uncut Gems (2019) before the Safdie Brothers were twinkles in their father's eye. A precursor to those unhinged crime tales, ‘Sammy Lee’ is a film centring on a man nourished by addiction and desperation. He adores standing on the edge of the cliff. Wondering how close he might get to falling. There’s an unsettling feeling that he wouldn’t mind being pushed. 

 ‘Sammy Lee’ starts with its titular character getting absolutely trounced in a poker game. Losing £150 during this game has increased his six-month outstanding debt to £300. With five hours to locate and pay off the bookies, Sammy spends his time dodging, dealing and hustling in the streets of Soho, searching for ways to pony up his bill. 

While The Safdies lock viewers in with frantic, tightly framed visuals and hysterical barrages of overlapping arguments, ‘Sammy Lee’ distils a different kind of tension. A slow creeping, quiet desperation that inhabits ‘Sammy Lee’. Often displayed in simple images. Early on, we catch a glimpse of a previous victim bearing a Chelsea grin. There’s a look of abject misery on Sammy’s face as his plan slides further into anguish. Then there’s Soho itself. The film opens with a wry visual metaphor of the grime being washed away from the Soho streets in the early morning, while the interior strip clubs are smoke-filled tombs, filled with suited men leering at half-naked women whose dreams have met their limit. It’s almost like everyone has fallen into a greasy pit with no desire to escape. 

The Small World of Sammy Lee is a run-all-night film. Other examples of this would be After Hours or the previously mentioned Good Time. Procuring a deceptively unattainable financial goal is often the struggle of these protagonists. The problematic flaws that inhabit the antihero only exacerbate matters. Sammy Lee is a great run-all-night movie, although much of it occurs during the day. Sammy needs £300. This kind of money isn't the hardest to obtain. But with only 5 hours to retrieve the cash, it’s a target that’s just enough to be out of reach for a chancer like Sammy. When you see this low-rent compere working out the finances of his scheme, you witness someone whose addiction to the rush of playing the game helps impede his goal. Sammy repeatedly refuses help from people. It would be the easy way out. So swift is he in denouncing nine-to-fivers as mugs for earning their crust. He loves the complications of the creative breadline. 60s Soho is the perfect location for this master of ceremonies. It's a type of place where money feels loose enough to be borrowed, but difficult to claim back.

Sammy tries all manner of ploys to reclaim his debt. Borrowing from family, bargaining with the local merchants. Wheeling and dealing against the bookies, all the while, a naïve young girl, Patsy (Julia Forster), who’s travelled from the north to be with him, develops in the background. He juggles all this while telling his lewd-lite jokes at the strip club he works for in between. This is an absolute showcase for leading man Anthony Newley. The acclaimed Renaissance man was already highlighting how ahead of his time he was with surrealist sitcom The Strange World of Gurney Slade (1960). His turn as Sammy is equally as infuriating and affecting. Newley never hides the fact that Sammy, for lack of a better term, is a prick. Yet his charm and wit are infectious. Patsy makes a questionable decision, travelling from Bradford to London on the vague belief of a grounded, honest relationship with Sammy. But his charisma accentuates why someone like Pasty would bypass the soon-to-be-clear red flags and make the trip. Kudos go to Forster’s performance, which is light but holds just the right vulnerability to be affecting. 

While Sammy Lee didn’t make a splash as expected, it’s easy to see why. Sammy is tough to love, and his world is easy to dislike. The likes of Bosley Crowther found the film monotonous in its execution. It certainly isn’t a complicated picture.  Sammy needs to find that money. His relationship with Pasty may blossom. But the film isn’t one with airs and graces. However, Hughes' film is an exercise in mundane stress. The stakes aren’t huge, and yet with Sammy, they feel so high. Not many mugs would engage with such desperate, seedy life. And it's difficult love a man who runs on exploitation.  Yet what’s so engaging is what Sammy is willing to give up keeping the charade up for what may only be another day. One late scene is a wonderfully crafted moment in which Sammy gives in to sacrificing something of sentimental value. The moment is executed in one take and involves information handed to us in some seemingly throwaway lines earlier. But when the weight of Sammy’s decision lands, it’s a quietly saddening affair.

Hughes film flitters skilfully between the saddening and the sincere. Tap dancing amongst puddles of sleaze and tension. It is a film which highlights what British film does so well if left alone to play with genre. Sammy Lee is a heady blend of multicultural, kitchen sink and noir that doesn't get much airtime anymore. It hops from Soho to Whitechapel, showcasing a rare glimpse into British Jewish life, just because it can. For the most part, the action lingers around Soho, revealing (and revelling) in a sub-culture of cheesy MCs, lonely white-collar workers and London thuggery which has all but disappeared in the now much more gentrified district.  With the 1960s Soho now gone, films like Sammy Lee become a unique postcard to what had come before. If the audience cared a little more back then, we might have had more Sammy Lees and fewer Chitty Chitty Bang Bangs. If we cared more about the Brit films of the past, maybe we’d see greener fields on our own turf. Much like Sammy, we can all but dream.

The Small World of Sammy Lee is available on Amazon Video. 

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Article: Rewatching The Hitcher

Roger Ebert hated The Hitcher. His zero-star review shows more disgust with it than a finger in French Fries. But Ebert's abhorrence is why I find The Hitcher effective. It stands within the transgressive space, which Ebert sometimes had little time for. His review shows frustration at Robert Harmon’s film for its murderous antagonist having no perspective. Believing there is something gross between the symbiotic relationship that quietly grows between Jim Halsey (C. Thomas Howell), the young motorist whose life takes a catastrophic turn when he decides to pick up John Ryder (Rutger Hauer), the titular Hitchhiker. But the unrepentant and transgressive identification with evil that the film has brings an unsettling allure to the viewer. Provoking the idea that evil is far more seductive than we may like to think, and we often do well not to succumb to it.

With certain films, I don’t feel that forces of nature need a motive. The desire for clear-cut intention can often be cloying. A quiet need for control amongst chaos. Something to explain away so we can all be safe when the book closes or the credits roll. I’ve always loved how The Hitcher eschews this. It keeps you off kilter. Installing more fear than a multitude of slashers released around the same time. The Hitcher’s screenplay was the brainchild of writer/director Eric Red, who had a successful run of notable screenplays such as Near Dark (1987), Cohen and Tate (1988) and Blue Steel (1990). His stories often have a knack for having people relate to the seductive nature of violence. The Hitcher has this idea in perhaps its purest form. Its story is distilled to that of a Grimm fairytale. In the Momentum Pictures Region 2 DVD release of the movie, the extras disc features Red talking about The Hitcher in a documentary entitled: How do these movies get made. Red labels Ryder as a “tough and resourceful” murderer who wishes to pass on to this impudent youth a “sense of survival”.

Red’s fascination with the allure of violence appears throughout The Hitcher in complicated guises. It’s easy to contemplate a lesser film with Rutger Hauer as a more simple-minded psychotic. Roaming around with the typical bloodlust, no different from many horror movies. However, Hauer’s Hitcher is constantly throwing strands of ambiguity, even empathy, to his character. Huger pushes scenes of this character into areas of discomfort. Not romanticised but almost bordering on something like understanding. He loads the character with a myriad of unexpected expressions which fracture our expectations of such a character. Whether it was Ryder’s impressed smirk when first thrown out of Jim’s car, the look of distain Ryder has for Jim when he threatens him with an empty gun, or the pained look of fear and resignation late on, when about to kidnap Nash (Jennifer Jason Leigh), a trusting young waitress who believes Jim’s story of the disturbed traveller stalking him like the angel of death. Hauer’s performance is disturbing due to how Hauer quietly manages to make his maliciousness strangely enticing. From the film’s first moments, it’s clear that Jim doesn’t want to murder anyone. Yet this aggressive fight for survival with Ryder slowly unlocks something primal within him. Eerily suggesting that Jim isn’t too far removed from John. What's scary isn't just the grisly nihilism on display, it's the unsettling idea of how well Jim, and by extension us, start to identify with such torturous despair.

The Hitcher was a debut feature for Still photographer Robert Harmon, who quickly moved into T.V. not long after. Hard not to see this as unfortunate, as The Hitcher does a formidable job of showcasing Harmon as a genuine creator of atmosphere. Shot by Oscar-winning Australian cinematographer John Seale, The Hitcher is hideous in theme but beautiful in its visualisation. It’s early, tightly framed car shots are suitably claustrophobic. When the film allows the beautiful Californian vistas to enter the movie, there’s a feeling that you might be able to breathe again, if the film weren’t so relentless. It is as propulsive as it is repulsive. Shifting gears from existential horror to full-blown action western with little trouble. While its set pieces, even now, are still eye-widening. The jewel in the crown is still the grisly, often-noted sequence involving a character bound between a truck and its trailer hitch. The moment not only subverts the expected outcome but stages the set piece in an almost Hitchcockian manner. Harmon mines the tension so well that people believe they’ve seen more than they do.

The old complaint that 'we don't make them like we used to' is tiresome. Writers like me need to refrain from saying a phrase so tedious. But watching the remake of The Hitcher many moons ago, I sharply realised how much secret sauce that made the original idea exhilarating seemed to have disappeared. Movies like this work due to their weirdness. Their resistance to playing by the rules. The otherworldliness they bring. Studios sense money like the smell of blood to sharks. And when the reboots, remakes and sequels come calling, that strange essence is first to go. The Hitcher feels like lightning in a bottle. Is it a surprise that the glossy Platinum Dunes retread is little talked about? The 1986 Hitcher draws from so much. An unbridled nature is developed between Eric Red, Robert Harmon and Rutger Hauer in The Hitcher that other movies cannot compete with. But most movies aren't looking to become an urban legend cum mythical neo-western actioner, this movie is. In the eyes of Robert Harmon, The Hitcher isn't even a horror story.  He's not even interested in the genre. Despite this, Harmon has crafted one of the films that has helped define the genre for many. That’s some feat.

The Hitcher is available on various streaming platforms. 

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