Bajo la Sal

A good Mexican psychological thriller? Is it possible? Help me out, does one exist?

Mexican thrillers usually have that Catholic moral undertone to them and this one's no different. But this movie, despite it's sluggish plot and fairly predictable killer (although for reasons I didnt predict), turns out to be worth watching because, despite its flaws, it is a suprisingly moving story. The characters are just beautifully drawn and you sink into their tragic lives and something just clicked on a deeper level for me. This isnt Saw. It doesnt attack and entertain in a non-stop thrill ride like that one. In fact it fails as a thriller/horror in that sense, and miserably. Some might find it boring. Maybe because Ive been sick and dealing with flooded basements for over a week, therefore more open to invasions of such sentimentalities, This movie is melancholic and dark and weird, especially the 'Doll Sequences" and the little burgeoning love affair between the two young characters that is quickly snuffed out.

Worth a look, if you can find it.

REC

First off, Im one of the people think Blair Witch Project is an good film. The first time I watched I was genuined chilled and on edge throughout. The second time, it did lose a bit of its punch. The ending was a bit too vague and senseless, but in my mind the best horror film ever shot entirely from the perspective of a camera crew.

The second best is the one I just got through watching, REC. It is one amazing thrill-ride. The last 20 minutes or are harrowing, mysterious and just plain intense. It even ended on a big time horror movie cliche, where the victim gets dragged by the evil thing away in the darkness, but I didnt mind that so much. And kudos for using a substance that actually looked like real blood. It really helped to highlight the rawness of this film.

This movie is done by people who are steeped in the genre. There are hints from their influences throughout. There's Blair Witch, obviously, a bit of 28 days later (the rage virus and the plague in the apartment building are similiar in effect, if not similiar in origin) and Session 9 (the secret recordings found that clue us in on what's going on underneath the surface of the film).

One complaint I do have is the sudden and out of the blue connection between the virus, the little girl, and devil possession. It just leaves too many questions. So many that it seems a bit contrived and unfulfilling. Another quibble is, even though REC clocks in at a swift 75 minutes, it still could have been shaved down. A few of the early scenes seemed superfluous and easily axed without harming the integrity of the film. Obviously some of the slower scenes help to give depth to the characters, make them all the more human, etc, but still there was a bit too much of it, in my opinion. It was almost as if a nearly flawless short film was stetched out as far as possible in order to make it a feature length film..

There are of course the same logic problems Blair Witch has when making movies from the persepective of a hand-held camera. One being, at some point, when the terror and panic reach a certain level, it seems highly unlikely the cameraman is going to continue filming. But REC for the most part, and in some scenes ingeniously, by-passes this flaw.

All in all, a pretty darn pleasing and effective horror film.

Sunburn, by Colin Hersh

I have always enjoyed looking at the world through a window, but that’s only when there’s something to see. A willow tree, giving me nothing more to see than leaves, blocked the window I looked through in the mornings. I don’t mind seeing the tree, but the window next to it gave a view of the whole front yard where my grandchildren sometime played, and the country-side beyond glittered with life nearly all day in the sun. I would have given almost anything to look out that window just then... but the Lazy Boy recliner that I spent so many good years in was in the way. It's Jason's now, my damned son-in-law. When he came home from work I got to watch him relax in my chair! That boiled my blood. But it was a new morning, and new beginnings; I still had hope things would change.

As always, Lilly took me from the window to the breakfast table, fed me my plain oatmeal and told me all of her woes as she spooned globs into my mouth, dragging the spoon back up the chin like you do when feeding an infant. I would have liked to tell her that one of my woes is that she never adds sugar, cinnamon, or any damn thing to the plain Quaker Oats to give me a little variety, but I can’t, so I just sat and took it. This morning she told me that she didn’t know what she was going to do about Jason. Jason, she said, has been going out more and more to the casino, spending more, and more of her money. Her money! That’s a laugh! I’d like to explain to her that it was my money but I can’t so I just sat and listened. I always just sit and listen. After feeding me she did a half ass job of wiping off my face before she left, leaving me at the table alone, leftover oatmeal drooling from my mouth. How did I still love her, my only daughter; it seemed impossible but even now, I do.

Soon after, Jenny, my granddaughter, came into the house with a friend I had never seen before. They were talking excitedly about the things they would see in the woods today. Jenny’s friend stopped talking when she saw me and asked who I was. Would she introduce me? I was slightly ashamed I got my hopes up over such banal events. But I longed for anthing to break the monotony of the Willow Tree. Jenny only moaned that I was her grandfather and told Karla ( I got to know her name at least!) she should stay back because I smelled like pee. Jenny pinched her nose to emphasize the fact. Man that hurt! I knew I smelled like pee, but how could she treat her own grandfather so disrespectfully? Would she turn out to be like Lilly? How I loved my little Lilly when she was just a girl, and still do, and she is not so bad (a girl must become a woman). No, she is not so bad. Is she? I was the one who had the devastating stroke, not her. She's had to deal with me the best she knows how. But I thought I taught her better. To pay attention to little details about people. To truly care and love deeply. How could her love for me turn so shallow? Why don't I just die. But I don't want to die; I want to see the world outside from my recliner! Give me my goddamned recliner back!

Karla asked what was wrong with me and Jenny rambled out something about my stroke. But she told it in a way that made it out to be all my fault, like I inflicted my stroke on my family and myself. Hearing this, I was deeply ashamed. She went on to mention how she was forced to move into my house and live with me. Of course she left out the part where she and her parents were ‘forced’ to take all my money, throw out my belongings after first selling off most everything of value, then treating me like some old piece of ugly, smelly furniture people only kept around for sentimental reasons. At first I was glad to see the look of shock on Karla's face at how my granddaughter was talking to me, but her friend wass quickly assured that I could not hear them. In fact, she called me a "vegetable". Her friend laughed and asked, "What kind?"