One of the key weaknesses of a lot of modern films is their quickness in getting to the moneyshot. The brain is a most powerful organ and one that I suggest demands ample stimulation. At some point in the mid-seventies the Hollywood machine deemed it imperative to hunt for the lowest common denominator and they have stuck with it ever since. When I was more deeply focused on a filmmaker's journey I saw myself rubbing elbows with the Steve Buscemis of the world at the Indie Spirit Awards, preferring eccentric button-down glory to antiquated coat and tails and tanning beds.
I think horror movies are the biggest victim of this tendency. I can assure you as someone who's held booms, script doctored, and co-produced for the least of them, seemingly everyone thinks they can make a horror movie. Sorry folks, but you're gonna have to do better than some schlocky latex, fake blood, and something about a vague ancient curse or conveniently invisible nemesis. Horror takes a certain character connection, storyline interest, and panache of execution and build. Give me context and psychological foreplay and I'll give you horror, full of chills, tension, and that insatiable unsettling visceral response.
In 2001, within weeks of September 11th I saw Tori Amos in concert at the Tupperware Convention Center just south of Orlando. The whole affair of getting from the parking lot to the building was full of an excess of police, pat-downs, and panic. The thought that terrorism could strike at any point was on everyone's tongue. Following a sit down opening act performance by the ever whiny, reasonably talented Rufus Wainwright, Tori hit the stage with a surprisingly chilly opener: her recent cover of Eminem's deep album cut, 97 Bonnie & Clyde.
For an album full of tepid Tori-fied covers, "Strange Little Girls" was a bit of a mess so far as her catalog goes, but this one stands out. She unravels all of the dark humor of the original in favor of a cold, brittle, bare bones song built on whispers and strings.
Whereas Amos streamlined her dark tune, Britain's Sneaker Pimps over-inundate and muddy their ironically titled Clean. The argumentation between the synthesizers, guitar, and bass never let up, creating a great, unnerving tension, and Kelli Dayton's powerful pipes are put to the test as she recounts some sort of questionable apocalypse.
As the dust settles, across the hill we can hear the heavy strumming of a banjo and the haunting harmonies of Alison Krauss and Robert Plant. The album they did together was something brought to music fans by the Gods, and the song Sister Rosetta Goes Before Us has always hit me a bit deeper than all of the rest. It's outwardly simple and straightforward, but I find the texture of it suggesting and building to something far more intense. Whether it arrives or not, we can be left unsettled and emotionally unprotected.
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