According to mythological or folkloric history, the notion of vampires has been around for ages and fictionalized in many incarnations – from the benchmark of Bram Stoker’s Dracula to the reduction of fucking Twilight. Fortunately enough, Fright Night revitalizes the genre reinstating it’s ancient medieval ritualistic beliefs in this 400 year old vampire called Jerry, played by Colin Farrell who gives his best acting performance to date. Jerry moves in next door to highschool kid, Charley Brewster (Anton Yelchin) in a small community desert subdivision on the outskirts of Vegas whereby he proceeds to immediately remodel and mark his territory unbeknownst to the neighbors – except from McLovin whom Charley dismisses cause he’s got a bad case of the Imogen Poots. But suspicion rises when Jerry comes over to mooch some Buds but is unable to cross the threshold, yearning to be invited in as he points and admires some cabinets and strumpets.
Inevitably like all vampire movies a lot of blood is spilt but between the gore I was taken in by the sinister dark cinematography contrasted by natural desert beams following our hero Anton, who is so charmingly believable within this campy framework that I found myself beside with laughter and amusement. As a remake, this might be an exception that is better than the original and the most fun I’ve had at the theater this year so please don’t give me shit about it.
After the debacle of Scoop and Cassandra’s Dream, Woody Allen redeems himself with his fourth consecutive movie shot outside his beloved Manhattan. With a stellar cast, Vicky Cristina Barcelona erases the memory of Colin Farrell and Hugh Jackman. Unlike those posers, Javier Bardem tosses aside flipping coins and his captive bolt pistol from No Country for Old Men for a painters brush and an eye for beautiful American tourists (Scarlett Johansson and Rebecca Hall) vacationing in Spain for the summer, trying to coax them into a menage a trois by seducing them with their artistic notions of spanish guitar, architecture and wine. But just when you think this trio is wrought with erotic lesbian tension Scarlett finds she can’t hold her liquor, even with the additional weight of her huge ass melons, and Javier and newly engaged Rebecca end up in the dark unwittingly shagging in the bushes.
Yet this episode is just the setup for the introduction to Javier’s ex-suicidal wife, Penelope Cruz, who reveals what a true tortured romantic artist really is through her genuine latin passion, her flights of fancy and raw emotion juxtaposed to those self absorbed Americans. Rounding off this ensemble, Rebecca’s husband (Chris Messina) takes time off from his high powered, social climbing, Wall St. job with the intention of getting married in Barcelona where we see what a dweeb he is compared to Javier who makes out like a bandit by screwing all three girls before he even arrives.
However, with the standard love triangle scenario, Woody shows a different angle of clashing cultures through a brief summer love affair (shot in Spain’s gorgeous light) and how New Yorkers may be too preoccupied with their own neurotic issues of stability and identity and are out of touch with the kind of unadulterated passion and love like the Spaniards. On a sour note, what boggles me is not the use of a narration but that it’s narrated by some dude who reminded me of Bill Scott’s George of the Jungle and Super Chicken and not Woody himself, along with the repetitive one song latin soundtrack from it’s opening to closing credits by Giulia y los Tellarini to help remind you where the movie is set called, “Barcelona”.
Menage a Trois?