Velvet Buzzsaw

Spoilers are marked.

This movie is literally a critique of critics who are too pretentious to approve of anything released by Netflix, simply because of the casual, readily-available nature of Netflix automatically denotes them as low art, whether they're well-made or not. And the irony is, this movie is getting exactly the kind of criticism it condemns.

Written and directed by Dan Gilroy.

It's about the art world -- much like film art world -- run by the rich and influenced by the pretentious. Morf Vandewalt (Jake Gyllanhaal) is a critic and one such influencer. His reviews can make or destroy. He makes pretentiousness his signature style. Rhodora Haze (Rene Russo) runs an art gallery. Josephina (Zawe Ashton) is her assistant. Jon Dondon (Tom Sturridge) runs another gallery. and Gretchen (Toni Collette) represents collectors who lend their pieces to the galleries. Piers (John Malkovich) and Damrish (Daveed Diggs) are artists. Coco (Natalia Dyer) is a low-level assistant/receptionist, and Bryson (Billy Magnussen) is a technical repair guy.

One day, Josephina goes home to find her neighbor has died suddenly, and that his possessions are to be destroyed per his request. She happens to get a look inside his apartment and find that he was an artist -- and that his eerie work is exceptional. She takes it and hatches a plan with Rhodora to claim ownership and sell and show the work. Morf loves it. Everyone loves it. But the art is possessed with something. It moves; it burns itself; it infects other art and kills, Final Destination-style. It is, perhaps, possessed by the restless spirit of its creator, who wished it to be destroyed, not fawned over and sold for exorbitant prices by people who only care for it as a new, marketable commodity.

Just a couple artists appreciating some art...

On surface-level it is a fairly standard horror flick. Characters do bad things, and die in some kind of harsh justice or retribution exacted by the supernatural entity. Their interactions are mostly to establish what cold, backstabbing thing they're doing. Twists come along in their due time, and there is the natural, expected ebb and flow of drama and mystery. Pacing is exact; cinematography purposeful but not overly-showy or experimental -- it gives moments of simple subtle beauty. Death scenes are practically announced as they open, and then are played out in interesting but not particularly disturbing or overly-gory ways. The overlay of comedy these scenes take diffuses the horror too.

But then, dialogue is brilliantly hilarious, as everyone speaks in an artsy, highbrow way, so much so that I had to become accustomed to the way they spoke in order to understand what they were saying. Fortunately, the opening sequence is used to introduce characters and establish this hyper-language, so that once exposition is given through it, we've hopefully gained an ear for it, and don't get lost in extravagant articulations. This then flows into line delivery, which is every bit as brilliant, especially coming from Gyllanhaal, who continually made me laugh with his exact timing and detailed mannerisms. Meticulous, but relaxed. And Collette was almost equally good with far less time to work with.

"Kisses!"

Not everyone can be such extremes, but they were all excellent bits of casting, from the simple look that screams "douche" the moment you lay eyes on Jon Dondon (even the name is all you need!), to the subtle blank soullessness of Josephina. And they all have such unexpected moments of hilarity when they embody these caricatures of art world inhabitants. On this surface level, the film is odd, yet plays by the rules. The poking fun at stereotypes and absurdity of modern art has a dark humor flavor; yet the plot plays out by the numbers. You could almost say it doesn't take risks. But its point wasn't to be a risk-taking plot, or to break new ground within the horror tropes it uses, but to make a commentary using the medium, if you will.

See, this movie is very competent, and does exactly what it wanted to do, then it released through Netflix. I've long held the opinion that some critics tend to frown on any Netflix film simply because of its nature, and in the film Rhodora comments that they don't sell eternally viable commodities, but a mere perception. Netflix is a taboo that decreases the value of the art is distributes. In the film, they lie about how many pieces exist because the price rises if there are less. Netflix distributes to all; exclusivity increases value. And the film punishes characters who value the art only by what it's worth instead of what it means to them -- as art.

It deliberately sacrifices creativity to become the thing it is defending. It practically invites shallow criticism. It's kind of brilliant. 

At the end of the film -- mild spoiler here -- these paintings that had been fought and fawned over are being sold on the street for $5 a pop. But the fact remains: if it was good art before, it still is then. A lady and her man come by, are impressed by one, and very willingly fork over the few bucks for it; and you get the impression that they will suffer nothing for having it hang in their house, to appreciate as they walk by, day by day. Because that's what art is for.

As a horror flick, or even as a satire of the art world, this movie can't reach the standard expected of it. It perfectly well made, paced, filmed, and acted; but lacks that new, fresh quality that might denote it as Worthy Art. As a commentary on critical prejudices and defense of film as artful entertainment rather than something to own, boast of, and give prestigious awards to, it transcends itself. No, it's not Worthy Art -- for that is exactly what it despises.

Warm Bodies

What if you were undead? Inexplicably trapped in a body that no longer pumps blood. Doomed to shuffle around looking for food, and then feel guilty because you realize you eat humans. A zombie with a conscience.

Keep calm, don't be creepy, don't be creepy, and say something human.

That's R. He can't remember his name -- only that it starts with an "R" -- but he's a thoughtful corpse if ever there was one. He spends his days meandering through his airport home contemplating on how nice life must have been back before the epidemic when people actually communicated with each other, and making futile attempts to connect with his fellow undead. Sometimes he manages a word in amongst the grunts with his buddy M -- a word perhaps, like "hungry." Then they shamble away in search of brains...

Julie and her friends are survivors. They live in a safely walled off part of the city, but occasionally have to leave to collect supplies and such. They are at a hospital for that reason when R and his hungry comrades shuffle in. Cue grotesque human vs. undead battle -- no, cue cheesy romantic music and slow-mo close-up of love-struck zombie-face. Okay... cue both. R is, let's say, impressed with Julie's skills with a shotgun, but then he's distracted by some less-skilled guy shooting his shoulder. Instincts kick in and R regretfully dispatches the guy, biting his brain which causes his memories to flash though R's head -- the guy was Julie's boyfriend, and through his memories R feels a connection with Julie. He's smitten and determined to keep her safe. She makes him feel... alive.

Nora, Julie, and Perry, front and center. And other people, elsewhere.

I am not fan of zombie movies for one reason: their existence seems to be for the sole purpose of overwhelming and shocking audiences with relentless and glorified violence, gore, and horror. So you may imagine my surprise when I saw the trailer for Warm Bodies, having never heard a word about it before, and thought, "I want to see that." I didn't believe myself. Clearly, I have since been convinced and watched it, and what's more, I liked it.

It's a comedy and a romance, but is still a zombie movie too. And though it is toned down with a PG-13 rating instead of the usual zombie-R-rating, things get pretty complicated when your hero is a flesh-eating undead being. R eats Perry, and probably others before him, and there's no getting around it. It's disturbing. But here's where this zombie flick differs from others: instead of expecting you to mindlessly enjoy it, it admits that the violence is horrible. (Narrating, R even says he'd appreciate it if you'd turn away, and I complied) R is first conflicted, then ashamed and regretful of what he did as a corpse, and if that's not a satisfactory apology for the mayhem, it's at least an effort in the right direction.

In the supporting cast it's business as usual for John Malkovich as Julie's dad, and leader of the human rebellion. James Franco's younger brother Dave Franco plays Perry, and he gets more screen time, and lends more to the story than you'd think he would. Analeigh Tipton is Nora, a completely typical "best friend" for Julie. And Rob Corddry is M, who gets a bunch of jokes and a good amount of development for being a corpse and a side character. And if corpses let go of any remaining shreds of humanity, they turn into "bonies," evil, totally scary skeleton-like zombies, who are exactly the classic zombie-antagonists the film needs.

On a mission. Yes, this movie does actually have a plot.

The existence of a movie like Warm Bodies seems paradoxical. There are no two genres so completely opposite as rom-coms and zombies, yet somehow, incredibly, it works. How, I'm not entirely sure, but I can't ignore the facts: It's funny and charming, and the hero is a zombie (except they call them "corpses," instead.) And our corpse hero is interestingly the source of it all. Nicholas Hoult does a splendid job balancing the wit and the awkward sweetness with the super creepiness. You think you shouldn't like him (because he's a zombie!) but it's inevitable. Via a clever and thoughtful voice-over, we understand him, and the humanity he's managed to cling to, and we begin to root for him; to win the girl and save the human race... or to just get those words out -- he has a charmingly difficult time with speaking. 

Hoult's performance is the backbone and highlight of this film, but Teresa Palmer, who plays Julie surprised me by being very good as well. I expected a model type who is obviously way too invested in her appearance to worry about trivial things like acting, and that her character would be sappy and annoying. I was happily wrong; she is pretty, but in a realistic way, and is more typical of action heroines than romantic ones. Julie is wary at first (to put it mildly), but she and R slowly develop a light, sweet friendship. They're no Romeo and Juliet -- though their names awesomely allude to the couple, and there's a cute balcony scene -- but... oh, actually, that's my point; they're cute together, and it's fun to watch. 

Interesting fact: Palmer is Australian and Hoult is British. What is it about non-Americans who play Americans better than Americans can?

The contradicting results of these effortlessly blended genres left me in a daze. It was disturbing, then gleefully quirky. Shallowly romantic, then selflessly loving. Campy, then strangely thoughtful. A little scary, and surprisingly funny. Never forced or awkward, (except when it was supposed to be) and I'm uncertain of what to make of it. Here's one thing I do know: this movie made me think, and that in itself is good. I enjoyed it thoroughly, but not with abandon, and elements that were hard to swallow made me more appreciative of the hopeful, endearing themes of life and love. Warm Bodies is now my definition of a diamond in the rough, just like its inconceivable hero -- they are odd and unnatural, but under that cold grey skin, a warm heart beats. And in that case, Julie's view of R mirrors mine of the film; as the story progresses with lighthearted earnest, and our hero finds life again, we fall warily, absurdly, and happily in love.