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Manhunter (1986)

With the Hopkins starring vehicles becoming the dominant emphasis in the "Hannibal Lecter Shared Universe" - which must be the oddest of all franchises - this early-doors Michael Mann feature has become a bit of a black sheep in some ways; while in other respects, its existence as a footnote was perhaps somewhat self-wrought? This wasn't a film without charms or nuance, and certainly the main components that lifted it all out of pure 1980s schlock were where Mann's predominant thematic obsessions and technical approaches shone through.

Mann's almost mythic use of protagonists with an obsessive, often self-destructive drive towards their chosen profession was in full show - and perhaps never more precarious, psychologically speaking - than with William Peterson's brooding Will Graham. Vincent Hanna might have been off his head on coke, but at least he wasn't identifying with the murderers he chased; I did think the concept of a profiler getting into the headspace of the killer, thus revealing insights and eureka moments otherwise missed, was and remains a bit of a daft concept but it was to the credit of Peterson and Mann that they executed with enough sobriety to make it work. It was all a bit surface level mind you, the corruptive effect not seemingly as pronounced as the script liked to declare it.

Perhaps then the most gripping part of the whole film was the direct, linear thrills of watching Graham and his colleagues workshopping the mystery of the Tooth Fairy from their (impossibly stylish) office. The best scene within all that a literal ticking clock as they tried to divine meaning in a found message they had to return to Lektor's cell before the prisoner realised it was discovered; that love of procedural legwork of Mann's fully on show as technicians and police poured over the evidence with diligent haste; and even though it was only Mann's second fully-functional film (I'm just gonna write-off The Keep as nothing you can truly assess - certainly Mann has!) you already saw the director's rigorous sense of kinship with & passion for showing the drive and unshakable professionalism of those with a singular, propulsive craft. Again, it could have been irreparably cheesy and instead was a fabulously tense sequence of conference calls.

Yet even with those arresting elements present, I'm not sure this somewhat aesthetics-dominant phase of Michal Mann's career was a natural fit for the material: all throughout this prototypical Serial Killer movie that arguably predated the genre by a few years in many respects, there was this constant pulse and energy of a stylish music video - a distraction not helped when moody 80s tracks played over certain scenes of quiet contemplation. Or indeed the fact this film ended on a freeze-frame; yeesh. Like many great directors Mann's aesthetics would grow and mature over the years, and you could certainly see those later elements in places with Mann's overall exacting clarity of image, and aforementioned moments of introspection - but other elements felt like he still had a foot in Miami Vice's wardrobe.

Tom Noonan was always the tonic here mind you: while he was surrounded by gaudy 80s excess, his performance of Dollarhyde was a quietly simmering presence of focused malevolence. Again a driven man, like all Mann's leads, however corrupted and villainous he might have been; Noonan's unconventional appearance did somewhat scream "hello I am a serial killer", but the overall package wasn't that overplayed either. This was an internalised performance of an obsessive briefly waylaid and conflicted by an unexpected emotional connection, and I think it worked better than Petersen's own performance.

Then there was the cannibalistic elephant in the room. In regarding Brian Cox's performance as "Lektor" (whose eating habits never came up, interestingly), I honestly don't think there was enough to form a comparison with Anthony Hopkins' own turn - or indeed Mads Mikkelsen's; here, 3 small scenes felt like thin gruel to formulate an opinion on a character only tangential to the overall story. What could be said is that by all accounts this was a less affected, theatrical performance (sticking to the two cinematic versions): Hopkins' hissing, bug-eyed monstrousness was not of this earth in Silence of the Lambs - and rightly praised mind you - but his subsequent two appearances swung the wrong side of hammy. It was always the kind of performance easily lampooned - all the easier for Hopkins to slip into self-parody.

With Cox, what we got here was him playing the infamous cannibal as more performative with his apparently relaxed manner, but the performance here was Lektor's, not the actor's; ostensibly affable but always tensed, like that of a predatory animal putting on a show of indifference. That's me spinning a lot from a few minutes of screen-time, but it was certainly the first impression left; that this Lecter was suppressing an urge for violence - but the raw primal kind, not a cannibalistic one.

The Exorcist (1973)

Hot Take incoming: this was a great movie 'til the Exorcism started & then it kinda went a bit ... well. Downhill? Now, that got your attention eh? Hear me out though.

Firstly, my immediate wondering in the aftermath of this long belated rewatch was if modern audiences would have patience enough for the 2/3s of this that operated more like a slow Domestic Crisis drama than some iconic supernatural tale of terror; but the emotional and personal drama that unfolded was where the Exorcist's gravity had the strongest pull on my attention. Sure, I'd be lying if I said I wasn't rattled by the constant vibe of dread saddling the narrative, or arresting moments like the "spider-walking", but the more Regan became a snarling movie monster, the more my brain and heart decoupled itself from the existential anguish of the still-human leads. For me the lodestone here wasn't as much Regan's possession, but a mother's despairing impotence in the face of her child withering in front of her, or the crisis of career & faith that left Father Karras wondering about his choices and sense of Imposter Syndrome; his own impotence born as his ageing mother lessened and died in front of him, incapable of providing the succour expected of him. We're powerless to watch our loved ones grow ill and suffer, the real horror not one created by the devil but our own vulnerability and impermanence; grief is the monster, always coming and never far from our shoulders.

Ellen Burstyn's Chris felt like the fundamental heart of the story here alongside the manifestation of the sub-text I picked up about the lies we tell ourselves as parents; that no matter how robust our determination to love, protect and nurture our children can be we are ultimately powerless creatures if and when sickness takes hold. I dunno, maybe this is yet another meandering gearshift born from fatherhood; the new chemicals sloshing around in my brain triggering different reactions to on-screen emotional torment - where before I'd have thought nothing of it? I do think our age and experiences change how we perceive films content - so maybe this is just another case of that.

So for me the first couple of acts weren't about the horror of the devil but a sort of horror of paralysis: sitting in sterile waiting rooms or behind glass screens and wondering if the cure was as bad as the disease while doctors debated giving Regan yet another spinal tap. Throughout all this, there were few musical stings or cinematographic artifice but a fairly rudimentary, procedural approach that kept it all grounded in a primal reality; sure there was the odd subliminal flash of Captain Howdy, or the occasional creak from an otherwise empty attic, all reminding there was a dark malevolence behind it all but Friedkin played his hand with a restraint almost non-existent in a genre now overtaken by superficiality & bombast. The widely slammed Exorcist: Believer testament to that. Indeed it was funny how little Tubular Bells actually figured in that spartan score; and iconic track but not deployed ad nauseam either.

And I was moved so much by the intimacy of the crisis in the first half, I'd be inclined to agree with suggestions by some that the film became lesser the more Regan's possession manifested through spinning heads and projectile pea soup; in fact I'd go so far as to suggest the spinning head itself came off goofy not terrifying, a party trick really, while the psychological manipulation Regan conducted on the emotionally brittle Father Karras a more effective scalpel of unease, this child deftly fragmenting Karras' resolve.

That's not to dump on the entirety of when the horror took centre-stage 'cos by all accounts the production on the last acts was absolutely fabulous; the choice to shoot the bedroom scenes in an ice locker a choice of malevolent genius. Sure, the modern day approach to use CGI to insert some puffs of fogged breath are the safer, less cruel option but damn: the obvious physical debilitation and utterly frozen faces of the actors did sell the sheer intensity and misery of the entire scenario; Friedkin was clearly a maniac and borderline monster - but you'd struggle to argue with the end results.

The Mist (2007)

Rewatched mostly off the back of @Fysh 's mention of the B&W version, even if it was a búgger to track down.

There's a niche but noticeable trend of late where a film gets a "black and white" release, born perhaps from a reductive logic that washing out the colour imbues a film with a headier sense of prestige or the classically cinematic - sometimes with mixed results. There's more to black & white photography as an effective art-form than turning down the saturation after all, with Godzilla Minus One's limited greyscale run the most recent example of this affectation.

So here was an intriguing situation where the reverse scenario played out: a film intentionally shot for black and white from the outset, yet a studio's aggressive lack of caution insisted either Frank Darabont cut the theatrical release in colour - or it would never darken a cinema's projection room. The B&W version only existing as an extra on the Blu-Ray here was a chance to put the two versions side by side ... and watching the "proper" cut it suddenly answered the question about why the original's look was so ... off. There was an odd & muddy texture to the colour version, plus a lack of craft or clarity in the image and it all became clear watching this director's cut: because Darabont's lens and lighting had always been thinking in shades of grey and how those might accentuate any given scene - so without that creative choice the predominantly single-location of this supermarket became neutered and achingly televisual in full colour.

Truly the studio revealed Hollwood's reseting creative myopia in that decision - not that the true version would have guaranteed better box office - because in undercutting its own product, the enforced colour version had the effect of robbing the film of much of its tone, while also throwing more attention on the frankly subpar FX. It took the removal of colour to give this film a greater pulse of life, becoming a much grislier and more visceral and primal beast when the compositions became starker and more attuned to the use of light & shadow; scenes with previously odd camera choices suddenly became positively noir'ish when the colour was removed, the depth of the blacks broadening that sense of both the dramatic and horrifically uncanny. It also helped soften the blow of those inescapably shoddy FX (the budget was < $20 million, in 2007), even if it couldn't outright "fix" some moments that reminded you the actors were swatting away at tennis balls on sticks. While even some of the creature designs themselves felt a bit "stock".

Even so: any arresting premise and execution can do much of the heavy lifting bad FX can't, and what was already a good film about the descent into communal madness during crisis became leagues better presented in all those inky shades. External scenes within the titular mist became haunted abyssal grey limbos, while set-pieces like the pharmacy run became creepier by dint of the extra atmosphere added by the new aesthetic. Presentation aside, this film was always an atmospheric and gleefully bleak supernatural horror, one with a grim misanthropy within its genetics until that last act that deserved both an open jaw and slow golf-clap; a stone-faced swing of brutal fatalism that elevated the whole thing into a twisted, steroid-infused Twilight Zone episode. Final moments that asked that audience that hey: just before you commit to a decision, just wait 5 minutes and think about it, eh?

Now. All that put aside: what the hell happened to Frank Darabont? a mere 5 films, with 4 that ranged from stone-cold to cult classics; followed by the best [first] season of the Walking Dead then ... nothing. Perhaps it's as simple as the fact the combination of the studio's clumsy hand here, plus AMC's unceremonious sacking of Darabont 'cos he dared to make an ambitious zombie show, created a Road to Damascus Moment where like John Carpenter before him Darabont realised he was spending much of his time fighting an industry that was causing more trouble than it was worth. But even so, you'd think with streamers now clamouring for material and pop-cultural hand-holds, Netflix with its bottomless slushfund of cash would throw a few shekels Darabont's way, had the man an idea or two.