With digital video equipment so readily available, the DVD market is flooded with enough amateur vanity pieces to give independent cinema a bad name. Once in a while something pops up to reaffirm my belief in the indie scene, often made by auteurs at least 5-10 years younger than myself. Imagine my surprise and skepticism at learning about Emily Hagins, a girl from Austin, Texas who produced her debut at age 12.

Pathogen is another entry in the zombie movie lexicon, a genre many filmmakers find easy to jump into. Emily admits this herself, and credits the splatterfest Undead for teaching her that horror can be fun and even funny. Regardless of this inspiration Pathogen plays quite seriously aside from brief moments of levity. The ending is much darker than I expected from both the story and the fact that Emily was 10 when she wrote it. Also notable is the originality she brings to the glut of walking dead films that tend to tread familiar ground.

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“Need 12-15-year-olds for a zombie movie directed by a 12-year-old girl.” Texas tween Emily Hagins had more ambition than many middle schoolers, but little did she know that her simple casting call would launch two full-length films. Or consume two years of her life.

Documentary filmmakers Justin Johnson, Erick Mauck and Aaron Marshall know a great opportunity when they see it and convinced Emily’s family to let them chronicle her progress. A risky prospect considering the odds of their subject actually accomplishing such a lofty goal. What starts as a fun extracurricular activity for Emily and her friends and family becomes exponentially more demanding as everyone involved learns just how difficult it is to make a movie. The project’s scope and expenses grow. Interruptions and school schedules bring filming to a halt for long stretches of time. Acting, special effects and scene direction are learned through trial and error, often resulting in multiple takes or reshoots. Through it all equipment fails, tempers flare, And interest wanes in cast and crew. Enough to discourage any kid from following through with such a folly. But this is no normal kid.

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A comedic horror-inspired rock opera with glitzy musical numbers, an effeminate Frankenstein monster in hot pants, and a damsel in distress. The Rocky Horror Picture Show may have perfected the midnight movie in 1975 but Brian DePalma’s Phantom of the Paradise set the groundwork a year earlier. While Rocky is expertly paced and choreographed, Phantom is a wild mess of styles, set pieces and split screens. The overloaded story doesn’t make a lot of sense – casting Paul Williams as an irresistible sex idol is the among the least of its leaps – smashing together bits of Faust, The Picture of Dorian Gray, The Phantom of the Opera and Psycho (with a toilet plunger replacing the infamous knife in the shower).

The plot pits Williams as evil record executive “Swan” against struggling songwriter Winslow Leach (William Finley). Leach just doesn’t take the hint when Swan steals his masterpiece and has him repeatedly tossed out of the building. Getting sent to prison and having his teeth pulled out also can’t keep the obsessive artist away, and a disfiguring accident only inspires him to haunt the venue where Swan prepares an extravagant show. Eventually a lunatic Leach confronts the diminutive Swan, who manages to turn the tables and enslave the mad menace willingly. Of course it’s through the use of a girl they both have their eye on who suffers from both their attentions.

Most characters fight for the title of most outrageous. Each has a signature affectation to be explored in their own episodic scenes. Leach wallows in misery as a musical monster. The Rock God Beef has a sissy breakdown backstage. Swan reveals the depths of his shallowness in a bubble bath. Chameleon pop group The Juicy Fruits subsumes a different gawdy novelty theme for every appearance. The villains and violence are simultaneously horrifying and hysterical. The frequent diversions and tonal shifts are somewhat schizophrenic, but each segment provides its own dramatic climax. These build to a riotous end that damns both the music industry and its fans in an orgy of destruction. Through it all DePalma crams in as many crazy colors and camera effects that he can find. It may make you increasingly aghast, but I guarantee you’ll be entertained.

Director Neill Blomkamp makes great use of the mock-reality video trend to tell his story of alien apartheid in Southern Africa. Cobbling together faux documentary, news and surveillance footage helps hide the seams between a depressing reality and the otherworldly creatures trapped in its slums. The multi-source narrative also adds doubt to the questionable propaganda and agenda of the supposed human good guys. Blomkamp thankfully abstains from the shaky-cam treatment that induced motion sickness in audiences for Rec and Cloverfield. But relying so heavily on first-person viewpoints somewhat undermines the more dazzling, special effects laden sequences in the shift to an omniscient perspective.

Luckily the effects aren’t the point, though there’s plenty of them. Focusing much of the time on the character development of a meek and menial bureaucratic drone is a risky move for a summer sci-fi action flick. Even riskier is making the hero so flippantly racist. It pays off in elevating the otherwise conventional third act beyond typical chases and stuff blowing up. Somehow always likable in a naïve Borat way, the protagonist earns our sympathy and respect through a gradual and painful appreciation for the extraterrestrials’ plight. Punctuating his emotional journey with a physical transformation worthy of David Cronenberg’s The Fly doesn’t hurt (audiences, anyway).

District 9 is anything but subtle in its ethnic and tribal stereotypes. The voodoo worshipping gang leader and his cackling thugs would seem broadly drawn in any film. Like the casual camera treatment they serve to push the fantastic creatures and futuristic technology to the background. Even a robot exoskeleton leaping through the frame exchanging heavy artillery is never for the sake of spectacle like Transformers. Each mechanical limp and hesitation resonates a human connection. The alien Prawns are more than cartoon monsters, they have believable motivations and dare I suggest souls. I left the theater thinking more about their personal struggles than their tentacles.

Like many people I was quick to dismiss this movie as tasteless trash and a blight on society. Yet against rational judgment I was compelled to watch it play out to its horrific conclusion instead of wiping my hands of it in disgust. As unsavory as I found it, the film stuck in my head for days. I knew I had to come to terms with it and its affect on me. It wasn’t until hearing the Cadaver Lab guys discuss it on their podcast that I realized what mental walls I have up against it. I believe it gets a knee-jerk negative reaction because people are unwilling to imagine themselves confronted with the decisions that the characters face, and worse, the temptations they give in to.

Deadgirl’s taboos aren’t new to film, but it’s the first time I’ve seen them explored for any realistic repercussions. The zom-com movie Fido teases with the premise of a guy keeping a zombie sex slave, but only to provide an icky wink and nudge. Even the disturbing themes of David Cronenberg’s Crash are limited to inanimate objects and living people. Sexual arousal and aggression towards a car or wounded people is one thing, especially when the characters are so detached, but teenage boys considering necrophilia as a bright point in their dead-end lives is something I bet few people with any morals want to think about.

A story as shocking as Deadgirl could probably only be released as horror, but that will also likely prevent it from receiving the kind of serious analysis that Crash gets. And while the film is burdened by the baggage of that genre, I wish it stuck closer to it. The weakest points are awkward attempts at comic relief that will even further brand the film as juvenile schlock.

I imagine the filmmakers knew exactly what they were doing. It’s being talked about obsessively for the very things that repel audiences. Even before seeing a wide release its mystique is growing, and no amount of hype will diminish the affront to conscience it delivers. While something even more sick and twisted is bound to come along to make Deadgirl seem tame, the repeated cycle suggested by the film’s ending should remind us that “kids today” are no more depraved than previous generations try to forget they were themselves.

As evidenced by the odd lyrical reference and the lush packaging that accompanies their albums, there has always been a sensual element to the work of Black Tape for a Blue Girl. However, this erotic undercurrent has sometimes been obfuscated by the swirling depths of the group’s epically ethereal aesthetic. If Quadranotics, a sampler of songs from the upcoming album 10 Neurotics, is a good indication, the next Black Tape record will substantially amp-up the sexual content and pair it with a new and exciting musical direction. At first blush, this seems like a risky prospect; not for nothing, Black Tape is one of the few darkwave acts who have a sound that is both immediately recognizable and distinct from the more imitative practitioners within the gloom-and-doom underground. 10 Neurotics, then, will be something of a gamble, but the songs on Qaudranotics indicate that such a bold artistic move that could potentially alienate the average Black Tape fan is actually poised to revitalize the project.

The first track on the sampler, a reworked version of As One Aflame Laid Bare by Desire’s “Tell Me You’ve Taken Another,” illustrates just how far Sam Rosenthal and company are willing to expand the group’s sonic palette. Where the lyrical narration of a man with a fetish for being cuckolded was formerly delivered amidst waves of synthesizer, it now floats along a breezy arrangement of guitars, flute, and Brian Viglione’s archly musical drumming. More startling is the increased range that the album promises; “Inch Worm” is a piano-based cabaret number, while “Sailor Boy” is a sea-shanty-with-a-twist. And yet, despite the changes, fans of ethereal whisperings shouldn’t turn up their noses at what is to come; “Caught by a Stranger” blends ethnic touches with electronics in a way that will likely please devotees of Wench, Dead Can Dance, Unto Ashes, et al.

I can honestly say, with no trace of hyperbole, that after hearing Quadranotics 10 Neurotics has shot to the top of my list of albums I am most anxious for in 2009. As a bonus, Sam R. has been blogging about the process of writing and recording the album here. Check it out and become enthralled!

In a fit of nostalgia I picked up an old Atari 2600 and about 100 game cartridges. While the kids are all off being Guitar Zeroes and Wii-ners I’m reveling in the primitive graphics and grating 4-bit sound effects that defined the cutting edge of my youth. It’s quite satisfying to re-collect the titles I used to own and filling in the gaps, even though I play just a handful over and over. In fact there’s one game I could easily give up the rest for if forced to narrow down the stack.

Yars’ Revenge was released by Atari in 1981. While the company typically concentrated on substandard home versions of popular arcade hits, movie tie-ins and board games, occasionally a unique idea pushed the console to its limits. Several titles defined now-popular gaming genres while others were singular oddities. Howard Scott Warshaw’s Yars’ definitely falls in that category.

It’s easy to overlook how revolutionary Yars’ was when compared to today’s high resolution, highly complex video games. Only a few items occupy an empty black space. The minimal display doesn’t even include a player’s score or remaining lives. Stripped of all unnecessary elements it is extremely focused and intense, despite its relatively unhurried pace. There’s no countdown clock or landmark goal to add urgency. A hypnotic throbbing drone replaces a traditional bouncy soundtrack. The flat blocky avatar and enemies are contrasted by a psychedelic strip of rainbow-colored noise dividing the screen. It’s easy to zone out to the zen atmosphere of this strange game.

A small comic book included with the package provides a bizarre back-story about super-evolved houseflies defending their adopted planet from hostile aliens. It attaches a creative mythology to the crudely rendered blobs of pixels. A vinyl record was also released that dramatically narrates the Yars’ tale. The album is pretty cheesy but the game’s cool box art looks great as a large cover.

The Yar itself is very responsive to Atari’s simple joystick, constantly flapping its wings at a hummingbird’s rate. Its nemesis taunts in a slow and deliberate back and forth slide. A small yet menacing missile haunts the hero that tries to chip away at the enemy’s shield. The basic interaction allows for a surprising variety of tactics. Another surprise is the inclusion of an easter egg revealed through a specific pattern of motions. (Incidentally, the term “easter egg” was invented to describe a hidden feature in another favorite Atari game, Warren Robinett’s Adventure.) Each successful round is rewarded with a dazzling full-screen explosion. Considering its unusual premise and absorbing gameplay it’s no wonder that Yars’ Revenge became Atari’s best-selling original title, and one I find enormously replayable.

Like Snakes On a Plane, the title of Roman Polanski’s second film is a perfect description of what an audience is in for. Catherine Deneuve plays Carol, an attractive young woman suffering a severe nervous breakdown. She gradually closes herself off from a distasteful world to avoid aggressive would-be suitors and the conflicted feelings they stir in her. She can’t even find peace of mind in the flat shared with her sister, whose loathsome boyfriend is a frequent presence. Sounds of their lovemaking disgust and fascinate the sexually repressed Carol. Even in the man’s absence his toiletries and underwear continue to plague her senses.

As if finding a portal into her mind a la Being John Malkovich we experience Carol’s paranoid delusions in real time. Instead of providing reasons for Carol’s mental illness Polanski disorients us along with his protagonist. There is no line drawn between real threats and visions of the world literally being torn apart. Her increasingly odd behavior must appear psychotic to observers but to us it’s a defensive reaction to private horrors. Carol’s waking nightmares of melting walls and groping hands make her oblivious to tangible shocks like a forgotten rabbit carcass rotting in the living room. Her eventual violent rampage seems to come out of nowhere to those in her path but for the audience it’s the inevitable spill-over of a boiling pot.

With little explanation for Carol’s condition the film could be written off as just a bizarre character study. Polanski and Deneuve lift it way beyond that to be immediately engaging and unsettling. The unusual sound design builds incredible tension with near-silent creaks and turns jovial street musicians into monsters. Subtle variations in banal day-to-day routines offer signposts to Carol’s deteriorating state of mind. Cracked pavement and plaster become manifestations of her crumbling reality. Deneuve performs a variety of physical tics that slowly undermine her natural beauty and poise. Her character’s obsession with small disturbances makes sudden contrasts in focus and volume quite alarming. The surreal atmosphere suggests Carol could very well live down the hall from Henry Spencer of Eraserhead.

The basic plot development of this downward spiral is not without some noticeable holes. Despite Carol’s radical personality change nobody catches on that she may need some help. The sister she is so close to sees no problem in taking a two week holiday and leaving an obvious basket case to fend for herself and pay the bills on time. The bachelors following her around must be too overcome with hormones to take her constant frantic fleeing and nauseous reactions to their kisses as “no.” Even her jerky landlord somehow looks past the appalling condition of her maggot-infested apartment to make unwelcome advances. At least Carol’s boss notices when she misses several days of work without excuse, but doesn’t fire her when she injures a client during a manicure.

Several weeks after watching this movie I’m still caught in its grip of confusion and, yes, repulsion. And yet like Carol stuffing a sweat-stained man’s undershirt into her face despite knowing it will make her sick, I know I’ll willingly return for more of the giddy and putrid high it offers.

The land of botched sequels gets a new queen with the straight-to-DVD release of S. Darko. I don’t know why it isn’t titled Samantha Darko, but my best guess is that the “S” stands for something other than the lead character’s name. And this movie is a pile of it.

As for many who saw Donnie Darko it quickly became one of my favorite films. Its spooky, bewildering symbols and imagery force the audience to think long afterward about what actually happens and why. Characters are odd and deeply flawed while remaining realistic and sympathetic. The plot and structure are boldly inventive. A devastating resolution implodes the circular, self-contained story. Writer/director Richard Kelly will be lucky to ever capture lightning in a bottle like this again. So why not make a sequel?

Movies like Ghostbusters II, Back to the Future II, The Blair Witch Project II, the American version of The Ring II and other misguided cash-ins are lessons in why not. S. Darko repeats their biggest mistake: cloning their predecessors’ key scenes and surprises but leaving aside the “rules” that make them somehow work. Let’s check off just some of the touchstones making an encore appearance.

• An unexplained object falling from the sky and missing its destined human target
• A sleepwalking character given ghostly guidance to burn down a building
• Mutterings of “they made me do it”
• Watery CGI tentacles and black hole portals
• Dim-witted religious types with questionable morals
• Revelatory visions in an empty movie theater
• Countdown to the Universe ending on an American holiday
• End montage of characters remembering bits of their alternate lives

The first film carefully pieced these into a complex puzzle with a defined (though cryptic) logic. With neither explanation nor context they seem completely random and silly the second time around. Worst is the return of a mysterious person in a creepy metal rabbit mask. The back-story making him a pivotal figure for Donnie is gone, but that bunny skull sure looks cool on a poster. With so many weird things already in place, the filmmakers must have thought that tossing in a bunch of other random craziness could only bump things up a notch. We’re treated to such obtuse and under-explained devices as a glowing feather, windmills, a phoenix, a book of Jesusology and even fourth-dimensional tesseracts. From the opening scene’s prancing unicorn cloud I knew this movie was doomed.

The only welcome returning feature is Daveigh Chase as Samantha. It seems an obvious choice to follow-up on the character’s life after being saved by her brother’s self-sacrifice. Unfortunately she’s pretty much an aimless mope who’s done little in seven years. She’s far from the mythology’s only unnecessary and dissatisfying expanded element. Were fans dying to know how her poem about Ariel the unicorn ends? Does Grandma Death need to have a war vet grandson that’s crazier than her? Does Samantha really think her days in Sparkle Motion will lead to a dancing career? And how much of a tease is it to bring back The Philosophy of Time Travel and not provide any new insight to its contents?

Speaking of tease, the sexual tension in this film is off the charts. Samantha and her sassy friend hunker down in a town full of hunks who do their best not to notice the girls’ hot pants and skimpy PJs. You know it’s an alternate universe when even the outcast nerd looks like Johnny Depp. At least the attractive actors hold attention while delivering terrible non sequiturs such as supposing that God’s farts taste like marshmallows.

I can’t believe I’ve devoted this much time and typing to such a terrible movie but it really has me incensed. I’ll at least give it points for being shot well and using Cocteau Twins in the soundtrack. Don’t see this film.

The musical progression of Unto Ashes is like a study in sonic reincarnation except instead of each incarnation coming closer to a state of blissed-out nirvana, every new iteration is darker and more grim than the last.  Which is really saying something for a project whose previous offerings yieldings songs with such dour titles as “Teach Me How To Drown,” “I Cover You in Blood,” and “Song for a Widow.”  In a sense, the Unto Ashes oeuvre is like Dante’s Inferno–only there is no end to the descent, just a bottomless well of misery.  And so it is with the latest release from Unto Ashes, The Blood of My Lady.  This incarnation of the project find most of more baroque influences stripped away.  In its place is a bare, spare apocalyptic sound with rich acoustic guitars and occasional cello and horn to round out the palette.  Again in contrast to past albums, on The Blood of My Lady Michael Laird has assumed the main vocal duties; the effect is much more solitary and much more personal.  And amazingly, the result is the most melancholic Unto Ashes album yet.  Perfect for thinking about days gone by, and days that will never arrive.