Friday, July 10, 2009

Exterminate With Extreme Dispassion: Death Wish To Death Wish 3

“We got hell here,” old man Balsam says to old man Bronson, returning home the prodigal son to New York City and he ain’t kidding: these ravaged streets look like the badlands of Deadwood, the bombed-out edifices of war-torn Iraq, or Brooklyn’s Nostrand Ave. Rampant violence in open daylight and cops of Keystone variety just drive by. Multiracial gangs dressed like Little Rascals, led by Nosferatu with a backward Mohawk – barber misunderstanding the guy and I’m sure he was killed shortly thereafter. Extortion at will, an elderly thug picking at plaque with the barrel of a .357 and everyone listens to Jimmy Page. This the milieu and here we go – our hero, once Conscientious Objector, now bold Black Angel of Death arriving just in time.
Bronson: “What about the cops, they do anything?”
Rodriguez, nice Rican neighbor (given last name only, presumably out of respect for the character’s Latino heritage): “Yeah - they enforce the parking laws.”
Nefarious miscreants bust into respectable senior citizens’ homes through the fire escape at any given time of day – ex-architect Bronson fortifies apartments in much the same way young Kevin will the family house in Home Alone:
Balsam: “What’re you doing?”
Bronson: “Thinning the herd.”


All culminating in a full-scale uprising bearing startling resemblance to the L.A. riots – brutal beating of a Caucasian male passerby, stoning of police vehicles, looting, pillaging, buildings on fire, flames eight-stories high.
I remember thinking these films cheap, cheesy and crude initially. It was only after reading Brian Garfield’s original Death Wish novel (which had its own, more thoughtful literary sequel, entitled Death Sentence) some years ago that I observed the first.


One of the best American films of the 70s, Death Wish belongs with Taxi Driver, The Exterminator, and Bad Lieutenant as mad, sad, urban feverdreams, sharing a same sensibility, one both distinctly New York (paranoia, sense of irony, knowledge of neighborhoods, subway lines, history and general way of city life) and male. Anti-hero myths, “Movie” movies masquerading as social commentary (unlike, say Norma Rae or Serpico).
It can further be categorized, along with Electra Glide in Blue and Easy Rider, as time capsule for The Way We Live Now and Why (the recent Crash seemed to want to be in this family).
Acting (here, Bronson – less an actor than a presence – attempted a performance, his character subtle and nuanced; it was something like Clint in Unforgiven, coming at it with all that tough guy, man-of-action baggage and flipping it, making it mortal), score (one-time Miles Davis protege Herbie Hancock), direction (Brit Michael Winner would go on to pimp the next two sequels, but here his work was sound; moody, unflinching, satiric when necessary – a handsome shot of a clean, sunny New York and the camera zooms out to reveal it’s a postcard, the picture-perfect tourist façade portrait sitting there in the midst of the cesspool that is the real one), script and locations conjoined to form a solid, satisfying slab of concrete.
Plus that killer parting shot, rivaling another ‘70’s New York classic, The Taking of Pelham 1-2-3.
Bronson’s grief here was palpable – though not as much as in the book, there sad to the point of unbearable – and we watch a process occur, an arc to our unstrung hero; gradual escalating real-world behaviour (his first weapon is pitifully makeshift – a sock full of quarters; after the first killing, Bronson scurries home to his bathroom and hurls), change that made sense. We could relate and so were involved emotionally in it and not just observing. Presenting a moral conundrum, as we invariably, vicariously experienced the thrill of baiting, then offing convincing street punks (like Welcome Back, Kotter’s Washington) in real-world settings (Washington’s scene in Central Park, the film shot entirely on location in New York City, with a brief but crucial jaunt to Arizona).
The violence here hurts – Bronson gets cut (his first war wound) and winces, breathing irregularly while tending in real-time to his injury, and that hard and tragic and funny irony is there – this civilized, mild-mannered businessman nursing a stab wound the mugger he murdered gave him just before dying.


Released during our Nixon/Ford era, the film caused a stir, inspiring outrage and debate. Not so for its children, however; Death Wish II, released during Reagan’s first term, was trashed and any subsequent additions ignored, diminishing any respectability toward the original.
Part two indeed utterly reprehensible, but in a nihilistic enough way to have invited my affection – those scenes of him hunting, dressed in black, knit hat pulled down to his brow, beady eyes scanning dark shadows; steady tracking shots through the crime-ridden, seriously rat-infested underbelly of downtown L.A. at night, scored to Jimmy Page and Gospel hymns emanating from ghetto storefront churches next door to liquor stores and hock shops; a decade since my last viewing and I remember these details.
You want violence and urban decay, we got both like a muh fucka and, to be sure, this one basks in it confidently, tactlessly, unapologetically, almost gleefully, and there’s something to be said for that. No character development, only brief setup and payoff, all gratuitous and not just a little akin to a slasher film, only grittier and more mean-spirited.


By Death Wish 3, we’ve an invincible automaton, downright psychopathic, dispatching vengeance in a clinical manner with nary a quip – not Bronson’s style, baby. Exterminate with extreme dispassion.
No conflict or complexities here, the message simple: early on, a shot of a cockroach scurrying across the floor, the corrupt police lieutenant on whose side we’re supposed to be stomping it with his shoe and saying, “Cockroaches – I hate em.”
Later, he’ll smash one against the wall with bare fingers and ask Bronson to cool it for a few – too much heat comin down, y’see – which Bronson will refuse, saying, “It’s like killing roaches – you have to kill em all, otherwise, what’s the point?”
Bronson now a vigilante by profession, blackmail-hired by aforementioned police lieutenant to “take out the trash” his men cannot. Tools of trade including a Wildey Magnum (“a shorter version of the African big game cartridge” – bullets the size of your middle finger) and a couple heavy-duty vintage machine guns need two strong arms to hold. Plus a missile launcher.
One long commercial for the NRA, by the film’s climax, all formerly terrorized residents will have procured guns – some pried from the clutching hands of dying thugs they themselves have killed – and used them without trepidation, running rampant through rioting streets, shooting indiscriminately at minority youths, ostensibly taking back the night.
Fire with fire – “Exterminate all the brutes.” (Joseph Conrad, Heart of Darkness)
Page’s nervy, wall-to-wall score (lifted from part two) lending the only edge to a cynical venture.
Yet, there is also something to be said for cold simplicity. Produced today, you can be sure them three seconds it takes Bronson to load would be drummed into its own action sequence – two-thousand cuts deep, shot from every angle and with a glossy sheen so beautiful you’d want to eat or fuck it. Each punk shot receiving his own thunderous movement, jacked up camera in constant motion, low-angle tracking shots, triple-extreme hand-held close-ups cascading into a climax with said punk’s towering body and Bronson’s ejected cartridge intercut as they descend to the ground, bouncing twice before lying still, crashing music score quelled to silence, followed quickly by a throwaway quip, bring us all back from melodrama.
Bruckheimer bombast, sound and fury signifying Peckinpah spitting out his cigar and rolling in his grave.
All the carnage occurs here, it’s the women who suffer most; Rodriguez’ wife, for example, despite having zero lines, will be kidnapped, beaten, gang-raped and murdered, making it personal for our once cheery, now devastated token Rican (who weeps in his sombreros-ridden apartment – no joke). Females are victims only, occasionally used as pawn – you’re a hoodlum and an old guy threatens your rep, your very manhood, you rape his lady, maybe punch her in the face, blow up his car while she’s passed out in it.
Us men have a bloodlust and an insecurity that cannot be denied and without them traits, these men – Bronson, Eastwood, Norris, Seagal, Joel Silver – would not have had careers.
Thus the message of Death Wish 3 (“Screw complicated Roman numerals,” said marketing) is simpler, even more Republican-American than “an eye for an eye”/ stomp all minorities and liberals. Said message: I am here to make money, and exploiting your basest fears and fantasies is how I’ll do it.
At one point, Bronson chidingly asks fellow Korean war vet Balsam, “This is America, isn’t it?” while concealing the massive Magnum behind his back.
Balsam’s look is troubled, but in case there be cast doubt, the American flag hung (droopily) in the corner of Bronson’s bunker confirms it.

(To be filed under Meaningless Trivia is the Goldblum-Fishburne connection: Jeff in number one, ruffian leader knocks Bronson’s wife out, then supposedly "paints" his daughter’s face, leading her to catatonia; Larry/Lawrence in number two, wiry follower likes to fiddle with a hunter’s knife, joins in gang-raping Bronson’s Mexicana maid, murdering her afterwards, then kidnapping his still-catatonic daughter, gang-raping her as well, and yes, killing her dead in the afterglow. Auspicious beginnings.
They would later unite for Bill Duke’s smart, half-blazing, half-familiar Deep Cover [co-written by novelist Michael Tolkin], which would contain career performances from both and whose score would be snarkily built around direct samples of Page’s fuzzy, frenzied, lunatic riffs from number two. And everything comes full circle.)

- from May of 2005


Monday, June 22, 2009

Waiting For Jesus In The Shadow Of Kong

From 'Kong Week' at Access Hollywood. (Note: "K" = girlfriend, at that time staying in Kentucky)


L.A. people, supremely silly. They wear pink booties like puppies and – ever the optimists – sunglasses in the rain.
In town for Kong Week, of which we are in the eighth day.
8,000 people will see the over three hour product at 42nd and 8th tonight. Were I a terrorist, this’d be the bullseye.
George Lucas will be there. The Governor. The entire NBC family, also owned by Universal. The Queer Eye guys. Jesus may show. It will snow.
Right now, Pier 92 – location for premiere party. 420-500 feet – three football fields. Four man crew, shooting useless footage – Universal wants us to interview caterers, we do it. Cogs in the machine are we.
Skull Island recreated. Vines hang from ceiling. Waterfalls in dark corners. Trees flown in from Whofuck, Knows. Wade through jungle to get to tables.
“All this money,” Sound Guy says in my direction, shaking his head.
3,000 people will eat here tonight. 850 pounds of beef sirloin, swallowed with vodka flown in from New Zealand.
I’d rather be in Kentucky.
Past the jungle, 1930s New York Chinatown and Little Italy. Fake storefronts and the most remarkable fake snow – it’s cold! it’s wet! it’s malleable! And no doubt toxic.
I eat some.
Leopard-skin benches, chairs, tables. The Empire State Building in the corner.
Pale, lithe dancers (Rockettes) move choreography on a black stage beneath beaming ‘Burlesque’ sign.
Screens in each corner will project M and A Farewell to Arms.
Past these mean streets is Morocco, circa 1932. Zebra slipcovers. El Morocco Club re-erected, replete with black and white dance floor.
Where you are in the field is what you eat. "Pasta in Little Italy, fried dog in Morocco, human feces on Skull Island."
L.A. women in 1980s shoulder pads whisk back and forth, thinking they run the show. Mafioso-looking muh fuckas mill about, commenting nefariously on said women and the surrounding décor.
Latino brethren sweep the floors and push massive dumpsters. Told to “Shhh!” while we shoot, they take the opportunity to wipe their sweaty faces with filth-stained white shirts.
I watch the hands of interviewees. They shake nervously. Any sign of humanity I look for and cling to these days.
Big, round college cafeteria tables with names like Brody, Black and Kidman printed on laminated off-white cards sit atop them uncomfortably.
Kong has his own table.
As does Peter Jackson, blazing, unconventional writer, director, editor, actor, make-up artist, puppeteer. His wife is his partner, having written and produced. It reminds me of K and what could’ve been.
Craven caterers and pointless publicity people – everybody wants a shot on camera and we’re behind schedule.
I don’t care; I have strep throat.
Next is Today Show Christmas/Tenth Anniversary party. Am containing my exultations lest I be fired.

42nd Street E Walk, AMC closed all day. I am in and out of both of them throughout – “He’s legit,” they say when they see me and give me free reign.
In the street, carpenters at work on The Red Mile.
A big deal – bigger than all of us. Universal, even.

Later. Standing out in the freezing fuckin cold, clamoring for alacrity and some decongestant, lest my cough be caught on mic.
Different, Mafioso-looking muh fuckas mill about. One wears a sombrero; he opens limo doors.
Twelve hours after first call, nine hours in numbing cold, they begin matriculating from long, lumbering limos.
Lucas, Aronofsky, other directors no one cares about.
Tim Robbins and his brood. He recognizes me but not from where – a nod in my direction and a fellow PA-Slash-Whatever is impressed. I tell him we go back like car seats, though I met he and Ms. Sarandon only once, at a Women’s Conference.
The Donald doesn’t remember me, but his wife does. By way of recognition, a surreptitious wink. I play it off, turn to look at the guy behind me. Bald and shivering, he has no idea what’s happening.
Tiny Naomi Watts and towering Liev Screiber, the latter on whose first film I worked back when I was an embryo. And I told everyone, this guy’ll be winning Oscars soon. No one believed me but just watch Mixed Nuts or Spring Forward.
Adrien Brody and his bountiful beads. Jack Black. Mr. Jackson. Gollum.
Lindsey Lohan. Go get her, someone faintly familiar says to me. I do, mind stuck somewhere between Grande Egg Nog Latte and K’s sweet, viscous lips on mine. Ms. Lohan’s nips are the first thing I notice - it is, after all, seventeen degrees.
She smiles and “Don’t worry, I’m legit,” I say, though she don’t seem too perturbed at this strange man-boy in his leather jacket gently accosting her.
She’s a baby. And ridiculously lovely, I think, though no match for Sarah, Penny or Allison.
“Where’s your black suit?” she replies and the leemers pounce. Our Billy Bush wins, dragging her crackhead-skinny ass over to the Access corner – the one with the fireplace and hot chocolate.
It occurs to me that getting paid for doing this makes just as much sense as working for free.

All alone again in this lonely city, I am ripe for redemption and this is just the season for it.
Love and satisfying work. Both elusive. Everywhere I look, missed opportunity.
I stand here with no hope for my future. None.
It begins to snow. I blow my nose and wait for Jesus.

Shitty disposable cam shot of O'Dell, Bush and 
Lohan on red carpet for Kong premiere. 
I got a better shot of the dress than

Disposable cam shot. Beginnings of Kong red 
carpet on 42nd and 8th, early December, 2005.
Eighteen hours later, we went home.

Disposable cam shot of Robbins, Bush and one of those Kong signs.

Disposable cam shot of Naomi Watts' back 
and Billy 'Slap Me Five' Bush's profile. 
Watts' head covering date Liev Schreiber's, 
her right shoulder covering Nancy O'Dell. 

Wednesday, June 3, 2009

From Assault on Precincts To Wind Chills

'Capsule' reviews from defunct mag...

Assault On Precinct 13 (2005, Jean-Francois Richet) - Remake of John Carpenter's original riff on Rio Bravo, random violence, and siege in small spaces.
Promising pre-title sequence plunges into predictable after the legend, "8 Months Later" - this one's gore and gadgets, color-corrected and chopped to death, full of empty homages (Richet another young movie-obsessed director has none of his own ideas) and CGI.
Again chilling allegory is turned into subtext-free genre picture - there are stock explanations for everything happens here, ultraviolence wrapped in a forgettable Hollywood action flick for the ADD masses. And Carpenter never needed all that bloody exposition to stick a knife in your gut.
What is, though, is: a mother of a cast, top to very bottom, doing fairly solid work with a paint-by-numbers script.
All that technology and we can't make a scary movie.

Cloverfield (2008, Matt Reeves) – Monster runs amok in NYC, caught on shaky DV yuppiecam.
Producer J.J. Abrams perhaps views his self as modern cinematic Jules Verne or H.G. Wells – visionary old-school storyteller with new technology at his disposal. To me, he is equivalent to David Copperfield, Vegas lounge act with multimillion dollar backing – all opportunist showman. As such, kudos.
Twenty-two minutes into Cloverfield, palms started sweating and I hoped those involved in its making would eventually go to hell; shortly thereafter, felt myself begin to dissociate, that 9/11 PTSD kicking in. Only way to finish was to mentally CGI what I was viewing into metaphor for what hipster yuppies have done to my city (i.e., destruction).
As spectacle solely – or another clever but ultimately capitalist-cynical celluloid stunt (certainly, it is some kind of technical feat) – it works, ID4 Pt. 2 by way of Blair Witch. Those looking for thoughtful and resonant, seek 1989’s Miracle Mile, with Anthony Edwards and Mare Winningham.
Sound and fury, you know the rest – it would all be so pointless if it weren’t so depressing.

Civic Duty (2006, Jeff Renfroe) – Man thinks next door neighbor’s a terrorist.
Claustrophobic, almost unbearably discomforting little thriller, the rare American film feels provocative, not exploitative, and remains unpredictable till its final moments.
Reminiscent of both Falling Down (“sociocritique” with unhinged protagonist at center) and Clean, Shaven (remaining wholly subjective – we experience events entirely through central character’s possibly skewered perspective – a feat even Taxi Driver doesn’t follow through on).
Perfect performances.


Die Hard 2: Die Harder (1990, Renny Harlin) - Ex-New York City cop uncovers terrorist plot at Dulles on snowy Christmas Eve.
Cynical, forgettable Big Hollywood Summer Action Movie©, sound and fury signifying lots of dough for all involved.
A rushed affair - threadbare script (the first film's was sharp), stunt and mannequin doubles worse than mid-80s grade-Z Golan-Globus fodder, and Our Hero is no longer reluctant, but Rambo relentless. Missing, too, is claustrophobia, and the wife subplot is superfluous and anticlimactic.
But John McClane is ever appealing, as are a solid company of character actors and the usual sure-as-shit Silver score by Michael Kamen.
Mainstream and tired where the original was fresh and anarchistic, if anything, Die Harder points out how on the money Die Hard With A Vengeance would be.
Directed by Renny Harlin, who did a far superior job on Adventures of Ford Fairlane, principal photography of which wrapped days before this one's began and the fatigue shows.

The Fast and the Furious: Tokyo Drift (2006, Justin Lin) – American teen in Japan gets sucked into Yakuza and underground car racing.
Breezy, cheesy, somehow benignly sexist, FATF:TD is less 50’s American International Pictures knockoff than hybrid 40’s B-gangster programmer and The Karate Kid, with direct references to latter.
Amidst low-note genre motifs (nay, constraints – including ubiquitous flash-blink CGI throwaways) are a handful of intoxicating cinematic passages.

Halloween (2007, Rob Zombie) – Remake of John Carpenter’s original slasher.
In the 1970s, we had first generation American film school auteurs of varied ethnic backgrounds, just coming out of Vietnam’s shadow, raised on Godard, Hawks and 60s counterculture. What we have now are fanboys (along with the usual capitalist Michael Bays), suburban-raised on Spielberg, Hughes, Porky’s and so-called “trash cinema” (see Eli Roth, Brett Rattner, Quentin Tarantino).
Despite truckloads of graphic violence, these films are stripped of subversiveness, politics, originality – there is NO THING beneath their glossy MTV/Bruckheimer photography and editing (three seconds a shot, max), film geek in-jokes and kitschy cameos galore (those in Rob Zombie’s Halloween include Sybil Danning, Brad Dourif, Henry: Portrait of a Serial Killer’s Tom Towles, The Hills Have Eyes/The Howling/E.T.’s Dee Wallace, The Monkeys’ Mickey Dolenz, the ubiquitous Udo Kier, the list goes on – and on and on – Zombie is indeed a hardcore horror Kevin Smith).
It’s all very cute, but, as Seinfeld's Elaine said of The English Patient’s bathtub sex scene, “Gimme something I can use,” followed by, “It doesn’t even work.”
As expensive home movie riff on Henry: Portrait of a Serial Killer, it moves at a clip and works. As revision of John Carpenter’s classic, it’s the usual offense.
Here, Mr. Zombie makes the existential/metaphysical into the sociological. In Carpenter and Debra Hill’s original, Michael Myers came from a nuclear family (made literally nuclear in Wes Craven’s The Hills Have Eyes), his evil a chilling anomaly. By injecting “reality” into the myth, he not only misses the point and dulls its power, but points out its own ridiculous inconsistencies (would such white trash folk be literally caught dead in such an upper middle class suburb?).
Of all of the original series’s plot points kept, he keeps the worst – that of Laurie Strode being Michael Myers’s sister, a supposedly revelatory conceit (dropped into Halloween II) Carpenter his self has since attributed to alcohol and arrogance.
Nothing here is match for Dean Cundey’s bleak and gorgeous Panavision photography.
Last half hour works best (Zombie getting Carpenter’s running motif of siege and small spaces). Also, the transformation of Dr. Loomis from idealist to opportunist exploiter is on point, knowingly capturing 60’s hippies’ transformation (descent) into 80’s yuppies.
In fanboy terms, Rob Zombie’s Halloween makes Dominique Othenin-Girard’s Halloween 5 look like John Carpenter’s Halloween.
It’s as graceless and obvious as they come; as such, it’s only a matter of time before it’s called a classic.
Romero, at 68, seems our only revolutionary filmmaker left.

Love Lies Bleeding (2008, Keith Samples) – Young lovers on lam from straight law and crooked Fed.
Like Mickey Dees or the latest Hollywood rom-com, there is equal comfort to be found in the lovers-on-lam-from-law flick (“this thing writes itself”) subgenre of noir.
Marred by two leads too blank to be generic everypeople, made up for by downright refreshing absence of reflexive Tarantino irony (despite having plot of True Romance and that film’s Christian Slater as Bad Fed) or flashy Bruckheimer bombast (tripod point and shoot, no under/overexposure, washed-out colours; genuine orchestral score with only one pop music montage – what would Nora Ephron say? – to Stevie Ray Vaughan and it’s straightforward cinematic, minus MTV quick/cross-cutting).
It hits its notes flatly, but earnestly, and these days, that counts for classic.

Mr. Brooks (2007, Bruce A. Evans) – Diary of a family man/serial killer.
A-list actors doing very bad things.
Smug, superficial, not for one moment believable, it’s nevertheless bloody entertaining until it insults our intelligence two-thirds through.
Not even the slow onscreen death of Dane Cook helps its crass last half hour.
Knockout score by Raman Djawadi.


Until Death (2007, Simon Fellows) – Bad Cop put in coma by Bad Guy recovers to exact revenge.
Moody character piece disguised as straight-to-DVD actioner picks up where Bad Lieutenant left off, realistically redeeming our anti-hero in a poetic second act (the most thoughtful portrait of a recovered coma patient’s process back to life I’ve seen – Jean Claude Van Damme plays it like Frankenstein come back to atone for past sins) before returning him to pulp grandeur avenger for its last.
Weak script offset by strong central performance (aforementioned Van Damme perhaps playing variation of his former volatile self), muscular score (Mark Sayfritz) and a director understands character and composition (Simon Fellows’ obvious model is Woo).
Weakest link is Steven Rea (his half-day’s work of four or five slapdash scenes spread throughout), badly channeling Woods in a throwaway Henriksen part.
Startlingly effective when not laughably pretentious, this is the stuff of noir.
Note: This type straight-to-DVD fare bottom rung – shot cheap and fast in Bucharist or Bulgaria, utilizing stock footage, bad dubbing, both voice and body doubles sound and look nothing like their stars, the likes of Wesley Snipes and Steven Seagal, pimping former reps to loyal armchair tough guys clamoring for ye old-school (pre-CGI) action flick, fans dutifully, desperately hanging on the same way urban intellectuals do with every bi-yearly Woody Allen release.
Nice to see filmmakers bothering to lift creative finger.


Urban Justice (2007, Don E. FauntLeRoy) – Steven Seagal searches for son’s killers.
Immensely enjoyable lunatic pleasure us stunted Seagal fans have been waiting on since Exit Wounds.
Always the sociopathic, narcissistic, anarchistic anti-hero at heart, here he finally grows into that role, playing the part with considerable aplomb (we even get a teary monologue, mirroring the one in 1991’s Out For Justice, that Seagal archetype eulogizing his dad, this one his boy), and no body or voice doubles.
Exploitation at its purest (blacksploitation in reverse, actually), which is to say more admirable than anything Eli Roth or Michael Haneke has released this year.

We Own the Night (2007, James Gray) – Family of cops take down Russian gangsters and themselves, circa 1989 NYC.
James Gray is a real Filmmaker, chronicling working class Brooklyn and yes, Queens, New York since 1995’s Little Odessa, turning socio-dramedy of writer Heywood Gould into mythic existentialism of Dostoevsky, via celluloid.
It’s possible no other American filmmaker has made noir this real, personal, urgent – including Michael Mann.
Sleek, haunting, powerful, with at least three bravura sequences (best involving Phoenix’s visit to a coke-cutting/packaging tenement house). All despite semi-“presence” of Mark Wahlberg (whose brother is better), weak next to the electrifying Joaquin Phoenix and Robert Duval (similarly one of the problems with 1997’s The Corruptor, in which he was paired with a volatile Chow Yun-Fat). Of course, this and his comparatively short screen time allow Joaquin to light it up, which he does considerably, naturally.
Whether its rhythms and themes are relevant/resonant or laughable to MTV/Bruckheimer-bred generations is questionable, but I appreciate the (near-obsessive) dedication, the polar opposite of slipshod.

Wind Chill (2007, Gregory Jacobs) – College students stranded on isolated, snowbound backroad encounter ghosts.
Like Vacancy, Wind Chill is Open Water done right – elegant, simple, old fashioned (despite presence of cell phones and CGI).
Director Jacobs understands Carpenter’s motif of siege in small spaces and using Panavision to its full extent in driving that dread home (utilize the whole screen and don’t insult your audience) – though, unlike Carpenter, there is no subtext.
Spot on casting and performances.