Bereavement - Movie Review and Critique

There are stories that are familiar, some that keep you guessing – Bereavement falls into the rare category where the familiarity is used to cushion the chaos. Bereavement is the deranged story of two people: Martin Bristol (Spencer List) and Allison Miller (Alexandra Daddario).

Living in a destitute Pennsylvania town, Martin possesses the rare condition called congenital analgesia – he is insensitive to pain. He can feel a touch, but his pain receptors are completely useless. At the age of six, Martin is kidnapped by a stranger and over the next five years, while living in an abandoned slaughterhouse, Martin is forced to watch this madman torture and butcher women.

One day, Allison moves in to town shortly after the death of her parents to live with her uncle Jonathan (Micahel Biehn) and his wife and daughter. She takes no thrill in living with them and finds solace in training for the track team, running down long lifeless roads day after day. While running, she passes by the slaughterhouse and sees a young boy standing behind a broken window, staring out at the world not knowing that her world is about to take yet another devastating turn.

Bereavement is written, directed, and scored by Stevan Mena, writer and director of Malevolence. He does a good job of depicting the isolation felt by the two main characters with the cinematography capturing the vast emptiness of the small, out of the way town.

The beginning is rough, slow paced as the piece is as psychological as it is bloody. He draws from such films as the original Texas Chainsaw Massacre to emphasize the presence of gore rather than act of it, but for all the gore hounds out there, there is plenty to be witnessed. Bereavement also seems like a love letter to John Carpenter’s Halloween, and after watching this film, personally speaking, I think I would have chosen Mena to direct the remake instead of Rob Zombie. And judging only by the story, it seems Mena likes to study serial killers.

The plot holes are apparent but not damaging, even laughable. At times you start wondering if Uncle Jonathan has a day job since all he seems to do day and night is continue building the new additions to his family’s quaint home. Plus, the shedding of Allison’s remaining innocence is parallel with the shedding of her running gear and the enlarging of her breasts capped off by a short, eye opening stay in a meat locker.

The musical score captures the atmosphere of a lonesome dirt town while the thriller sequences are standard striking melodies. The acting ranges from bad to believable, but sometimes the bad acting is what makes some scenes believable.

Even with its faults, Bereavement is a well made film that makes you squirm and even though you have seen these storytelling techniques in dozens of horror movies, the pacing and execution (heh heh) are well played.  

I wonder if Michael Biehn ever walked up to Edward Furlong and asked "Who's your daddy?"

Destruction Frequencies

Thinking about the power of sound, what first comes to mind is the old trick of the opera singers shattering a crystal glass using their vocal cords. This is possible as long as the glass is crystal. You tap the glass, and the pitch of the sound that is made is the frequency necessary for shattering it. Then, I started thinking about other forms of matter. Do they have their own shattering frequencies? What would they be? It isn’t so easy to find them. You can’t tap a polyester jacket to find its shattering frequency.

It is possible to shatter most forms of matter not through frequency but through sheer force of sound. Unfortunately, the sound needs to be so loud a human being would shatter their own eardrums first before tapping through the density of, say a computer screen or a brick wall, but if there were a way of tapping into the proper frequency necessary in splitting other forms of matter, the world would be so much more fun.

We would seek the frequency of a planet, find it, and the rest destroys itself.

Lazy Journalism - Know the Rules Before You Criticize (MMA vs. Boxing)

I wish sports reporters would do the one aspect of their job which makes them actual reporters - research - which they seem to think is too time consuming and totally beneath them. Why work when they can just record sound bytes and through social networking diarrhea regurgitate someone else’s story. At least the kooky sound byte netted their Youtube and Facebook pages a few thousand more hits despite obliterating their credibility as a journalist.

My main ire with these cud-spewing leeches is the general ignorance and bias towards trying to understand the rules of mixed martial arts and how they are designed to protect the competitors. Unless they are fans of MMA they automatically dismiss the sport as lawless; having no rules while holding boxing’s rules to such a pristine standard.

Bottom line – the rules of mixed martial arts are structured to stop a helpless fighter from taking needless, possibly career-threatening, even life-threatening punishment. It is at the referee’s behest to decide when a fighter is no longer capable of defending themselves and because the punishment they endure is slightly more severe than in boxing, an MMA referee is likely to end the fight quicker. However, in boxing, if a defenseless fighter can stand up and feign functional composure before the count of eight, they are sent back into the fight where they’re brains are allowed to absorb further punishment, usually ending up in long-term brain damage.

The facts do not lie, more boxers suffer much more severe head trauma – life altering head trauma than mixed martial artists.

MMA injuries vs Boxing injuries

Brass Monkey Business

The tuba sounded the note that I wanted but at an uncontrollable octave - far too high. I pulled my head back, noticing I had implanted a baritone’s mouthpiece by mistake. The previous night’s whiskey escapades and pill-popping parade was still in effect.

Regardless, I continued playing, but the octave was far too high. Quite the clueless conundrum, but after I pulled my head back I noticed that there was a baritone’s mouthpiece inserted instead of the regulated tuba kind. Probably because of all the dope and booze I’d downed the night before. 

Was it deja vu or a concussion? Only the voices during my blackouts new for sure.

After settling the tuba inside of its crimson-cushioned case and hurling the baritone’s mouthpiece through the sliding door, consequently shattering the glass and circumstantially splitting the gardeners head open with the mouthpiece, I disrobed. Clad only in my red silk panties and an angry carnivorous hard-on, I descended into my tuba-shaped pool. The fingering keys were diving boards. 

Music had been good to me. As for the unrecognizable trio passed out on the submerged staircase, I'm not sure if they had been good to me, but they were alive. I didn't need another incident like the billiards room and the overdosing Croation princess again.

 All three stragglers were brunettes; two of them were momentary strangers while the one with her chin dipped into her breasts was Aklana – a flutist from the orchestra I was performing with. After my first lap through the pool, I looked at the backs of the other twos heads and recognized them immediately. Joanna – a cellist and Elizebel – a violinist, both from the same orchestra. Or were they hookers I found outside of Miko's tavern?

Whomever and whatever, I hoped they didn’t mind waking up naked, strung out on the homemade cocaine my agent provided. That was how I found them; birthday suits, powdered noses and all. That yayo left quite the impression on one’s senses. I once swore that my heart was beating so fast that I travelled back in time and performed an undiscovered concerto with Antonio Vivaldi entitled Hallowed Dildo in Winter.

Joanna soon awoke while I was dipping my nose into the share of the homemade narcotic I had formed race lines with across her chest. Luckily she was still remarkably thrashed. She smiled and once I crossed the finish line she dipped her head underwater, removed my favorite panties, and performed a tongued rendition of Johannes Brahms Cello Sonata in F along my grumpy cock. Fineldo, the gardener I had accidentally brained and quite possibly lacerated with my incorrect baritone mouthpiece made a gurgling noise which wasn’t a good sign, so I grabbed an empty, over tipped champagne bottle and brained him again. That shut him up.

Unfortunately, it was also time for me to make my way to the stadium to prepare for that night's performance. I hoisted myself onto the pool’s edge with Joanna clinging to my now un-grumpy dick like a catfish to a log of meat hooked to a fishing reel.

My fishing enthusiastic friends were right; you have got to get them early when they’re hungry.

I dressed in a t-shirt and jeans, threw on some sneakers and my favorite black trench coat all the while searching for my favorite tuba mouthpiece, which I could not locate. I kept a spare in one of the stadium’s lockers for such an occasion, so I ceased probing for my favorite one, but the mystery of its location left me uneasy, but a bump of home-cocaine and a mouth-rinsing swig of Gentleman Jack perked me right up. I told the ladies to see themselves out and call an ambulance for Fineldo, saluted my photograph of me and Vivaldi holding a dildo shaped like a Christmas tree, and headed for the bus stop.

The ride was pleasant, mostly because I was numb from the last bump of Snow White. I stood so as not to pass out and miss my stop like I had two days ago after the night the conductor invited me to his home for a dinner party/transvestite modeling show, which was quite impressive, and trannies always seem to have the best drugs.

I was dropped three blocks from the stadium. At the second crosswalk I dug my hands into my coat pockets. In my right one I felt something metallic. It was my favorite tuba mouthpiece. I was elated, then I sniffed it – I always sniff it when I first hold it – don’t know why. It smelled like Joanna’s mouth, which was perplexing but not uncommon. I’m just wondering how the hell it wound up in my coat pocket.

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Don't Act Like You Know Me

People continue to use the word "intimidating" in their description of me. "Nice," "kind," "smart" also pop up, but "intimidating?" I don't see it, I don't understand how they do; yet, I 'm not going to change.

I tend to live a solitary life. It's the only life I have ever really known. The day that I was born, I was the only infant birthed that day in that particular hospital. I had the place to myself. I grew up as an only child, and while I may be spoiled in some mental aspects - I can be stubborn when I want to and my well of sympathy is drizzly at best - my grandparents ensured that I was not going to be the brat throwing a tantrum in the middle of the store because mommy wouldn't get me the candy I wanted. They instilled within me a sense of honor and discipline heavily lacking in these last few generations.

After recently partaking in discussions with my circle of close lady friends, they all agreed that I am an intimidating figure; that I'm too smart for my own good, and although currently I'm not at my physical peak due to circumstances beyond my control (a medical procedure coupled with a sparring injury have kept me out of the gym these last two months), I am able to perform a rigorous cardio workout at the local park which I designed myself, incorporating the local structures and landscape, I'm still in above-standard shape.

The one thing that truly bothered me; no, not bothered me - flat out infuriated me - "You're too smart," she said.

Well fuck you too. If I'm "too smart," feel free to be "too smart" with me. The only one running away is you. I'm an easy person to find, but when I choose to disappear you won't even notice my footsteps when I walk behind you. You won't recognize my profile because you never wanted to see me in the first place.

If I'm going to find a woman that I love and respect, they will feel the same way for me either because of or in spite of my intelligence and the eccentricities included with it.

As far as friends go, I have enough friends. I have the greatest friends in the world. I don't need any more friends.

I refuse to lower the standards that I have set for myself. I am willing to experience this planet alone. I go out to restaurants alone. I attend all varieties of junkets alone - museums, concerts, operas, plays, movies, sporting events; I travel alone. Anything that catches my personal interest I usually experience alone. If you are the type of person that cannot, that's fine, I respect that, but I don't sit around waiting for anyone. When I want to do something I go out and I do it.

I will not sink down to their standards, they need to rise up to mine.

Five Drafts Later and All I Want is One Bullet Chambered

It’s been several years since I’ve ever had a story give me such a hard time. Normally I get the babbling out of the way and the characters lead me on the journey, but Cemetery Ballroom has proven to be a cantankerous, donkey-dick-slapping-whore. What began as a Loose Idea is now a full blown short story, but it has not been without headaches.

Things being what they are, I have a shrivel of hours to spare into a piece of work be it a written piece, a drawing, music – whatever – I can’t put as much effort into it as I would like, but I’ll be damned if I’m not going to finish what I start. I read all four Hobbit books by the highly overrated and holier than thou J.R.R. Tolkien, so I’m pretty sure I could follow Dante’s footsteps and map out the entrances and backdoor warehouse of hell.

Cemetery Ballroom has gone through five different drafts; four handwritten one typed, but each time I had to strip it to the bare bones, study it from all angles, and try and try again. I seriously doubt that the finished product will be any good, but at least I will have completed it and have told a story that I wanted to tell. It’s a piece that is character driven except the characters are a high school student and a cemetery. The cemetery has an attitude, it springs to life, but I feel that I’m just not capturing the essence of it all.

I know I won’t be happy with the finished product, and there is no assurance that I won’t return to it later on down the line, but as sure as my heart is jaded and my mind is tainted I will finish this story.

We Can Talk Horror

We can talk about horror movies. We can talk about their effects on audiences and individuals. We can discuss the relationships created with these characters from all sides of their existence; from the creators, to the actors, to the viewers.

There is a primeval wonderment that is associated with fear. Existence is partially based on survival. Alligators and sharks have no natural known predator, only mankind kills those species by the thousands every year. What is mankind’s only known natural predator? It’s the same thing that kills alligators and sharks by the thousands every year. And, occasionally some of our brethren get eaten by a bear, an alligator, or a shark; however, we can experience a tiny fraction of that fear within a controlled environment like the movie theater or the living room.  

Fear causes the human body to instinctively increase the flow of adrenaline throughout the body as the brain shifts its flesh and blood host into the fight-or-flight persona. Knowing that we are secure in our own personal space, we lightly tread into danger because the taste of fear is far too compelling, nearly addictive, but in a real life situation common sense says run, but thanks to movies we have people with a subconscious death wish or a guilty conscience willing to tackle these reprehensible murderers. Their sacrifices are sometimes heroic, comical, or well deserved for just like any other movie that is vastly respected or deemed watchable by consensus, a good horror movie is driven by a basic, plain ideal: likeable characters.  The audience needs a person that is relatable, someone they can connect with on some sort of level; aesthetic or psychological. These character are meant to remind you of someone you know, even remind you of yourself while telling what is hopefully an interesting tale; whatever it takes for you as a viewer to identify with them.

Of course, within every cavalcade of future corpses there needs to be those scoundrels that deserve seeing their intestines tugged through a hole in their throat. They reflect the pieces of society that the masses find unbearable; the snobby rich kid, the loud mouthed thug, in-laws, and the crabby old maid that keeps all of the sports balls that land in her backyard. However, these are the fun kills, we look forward to these. The kills that we still expect but feel sympathy are a horror films true test, and it always doesn’t come down to wanting the character to be a good person, the actor needs to win the audience’s support which is difficult because most horror films are plagued with terrible acting, but it is terrible acting by people who work cheaply which is the main reason most of them are retained.  

In horror films we have seen people devoured by animals of both realistic species and completely imagined species mechanically engineered into existence. We have seen mothers, children, pets, trolls, and demons enact gory fury upon beloveds and complete stranger, but being able to cling to someone in a movie viewing environment excites the mood instead of manipulating it because there will be no axe-wielding maniac coming for us, but we are lucky enough to catch hint of what that might just be like. Embracing fear is an acquired taste, but we all feel it and at some point we all give in to it.

Bilo's Family Tree

Unwrapping the present, hearing the gunshot; at the end of it all Bilo felt that in some superficial way he unleashed hell on his family.

It was the first present his biological dad had ever given him. Bilo dropped the box when the gun sounded, sending a slug through Aunt Iris’ latest husband – fifth times the charm.

Well, maybe not for Aunt Iris – her brains got mixed with the potpourri.  

Bilo’s mom had salvinated for this day for 19 years, the day she never believed could happen was now in full gear, but she waited for Bilo’s dad to off the annoying relatives.  THEN she came out swinging with her daddy’s axe. The axe Bilo’s grandfather had used for 49 years with the fire department.

As a little girl, Bilo’s mom once asked her fireman father if he ever wanted to use the axe on people. He replied, “Sometimes.”

“Me too,” said Bilo’s mom.