Asesino a sangre fría

Caught a special screening of The Lost this past weekend at Horrorfind Weekend in Hunt Valley, Maryland where author Jack Ketchum was in attendance. Ketchum introduced the film by saying how impressed he was with the end result. An opinion I share whole heartedly. First of all, the cast is a top notch mix of veteran character actors and relative novices, all of whom are very good at what they do. This is something one doesn't often see in such a low budget project. Many familiar faces grace the screen and talented ones at that. It is the presence of such a cast that sets the film apart from the crowd right at the start. The Lost also has a great look to it. Aesthetically speaking, the film doesn't appear to be as low budget as it actually is. That's an element which can really hold a film back and one which I was afraid might be an issue here. Fortunately the film looks wonderful. As I mentioned, The Lost is a very faithful adaptation of Ketchum's book. This isn't to say that a few liberties aren't taken. Nothing that should offend fans of the book though.

In all, The Lost is a very satisfying film which Ketchum fans should enjoy. Hopefully the film will be shown the appreciation it truly deserves.

The Lost starts like a fairy tale. Once upon a time there was a boy called Ray Pye. He put crushed beer cans in his boots to make himself look taller. We meet him with his two friends, Tim and Jennifer, in the campgrounds of a wood. Ray strolls towards a wooden toilet cubicle erected on the hill, the door opens, and a naked girl steps out, quickly apologising as she thought she and her friend were alone. The image is so startling that you know at once this will be no ordinary movie.

Ray has killed rabbits before and decides to kill the girl and her friend, to 'see what it feels like'. Tim and Jennifer, whom he dominates, are coerced into covering up. Four years later, Ray hasn't been caught, in spite of one cop who is determined to make him pay. Ray goes on to much nastier things.

If The Lost teeters on the edge of violence that is so extreme as to revolt most audiences, the question that will hover in the mind of many serious viewers will be whether the end is going to justify the content. Some will not stay that long - in the screening I went to, several people, after a section of intense and escalating violence, walked out at a point where a pregnant woman is stabbed in the back. You have to be able to stomach quite a lot, calmly to consider whether the film, in spite of this, has artistic merit. During the end credits, it says, "If you liked the movie, read the book. If you didn't like the movie, read the book." Ironically, many may not have stayed to this point.

While the film is not a masterpiece, I will argue that it does have considerable artistic merit, even if I feel slightly uncomfortable at disenchanted, gun-toting American teenagers watching it. It delivers both in style and in substance, and if censors want to intervene, that is maybe more a reflection on the people they think might be influenced by it than on its standing as new, invigorating and perfectly valid art-house cinema.

Firstly, the film gets a reaction. Not one of bored disgust - it provokes a gut-feeling, it makes the audience test and question its own tolerance levels. The acting is good all-round, but that of the lead character particularly memorable. His psychotic, drug-fuelled mannerisms stick in the brain like a traumatic encounter. The storyline and editing are stylish. Characters, almost in keeping with the once-upon-a-time introduction, have a two-dimensional quality, like those in fairy stories and we tend to see only traits that are essential to the plot. The characters' development does not go so far as being tongue in cheek or a caricature, but reaches an almost symbolic level where they become ciphers in a particularly challenging onslaught to the senses.

The cinematography and art direction is inventive. There will be switches to high grain film, or unnerving mixes of slow motion, missing frames and superimposed images. The bedrooms of Ray, and also Katherine, a lush that he falls in love with, use vivid reds and blacks to create a surreal effect, and props that include a statue of a black panther. Ray wears black eye make-up, throwing himself into a Bowie-esquire larger-than-life image to give himself an almost god-like appeal to the other, less dominant, teenagers. In contrast, when he finally comes clean about 'the worst thing he ever did', he is sitting dressed in black but on a pure white sofa and background. Katherine, who thinks at first she can 'handle' him, puffs languorously at a cigarette through red lips as Ray talks and she becomes sexually aroused.

Marc Senter's performance (as Ray) is like a turbine that drives the film ever faster forward. The potent soundtrack reflects a cocaine-frenzied adrenalin rush, and even the 'normal' characters offer only some queasy sense of relief. There is 60yr old Ed, for instance, who is in a relationship with teenager Sally; and Detective Charlie Schilling (Michael Bowen), who might seem crazy until you put him next to Ray. Unlike many films that try to capitalise on excessive violence, The Lost wins partly because it is not repetitive. There is nasty violence, quick violence, prolonged violence, mental torture with cruel and violent treatment, 'justified' violence and sick violence. Then there is even offhand violence - "I didn't like you anyway," says Ray as he aims and fires, killing someone with all the casual pride of a sharpshooter at a fairground. (In case you haven't guessed, there is quite a lot of violence!) Supporting scenes draw on popular subculture for realism, such as the rush to flush drugs (grass) down the toilet with limited success when the cops try to bust a party, or the 'friend' who tries to shave an unnoticeable amount of resin from Ray's cannabis delivery. Sensuous, opulent, and recognising few limits, The Lost strains at the sequins to be a cult nasty and succeeds. Even the sex scenes throw in a level of wit not found in the average shocker. "I'm sorry that was a little fast," says Ray after f*cking Katherine the first time. "I've had it faster," she retorts nonchalantly.

While featured songs such as "Drink, Fight, F*ck," might sum up the superficial ethos of the film, it rises well above the trailer-trash slasher that it could easily have become. More concise and elegant than Freeway, more intelligent and visceral than Natural Born Killers, demonstrating a considerable array of talent in its determination to shock that was so noticeably absent in The Great Ecstasy of Robert Carmichael, less high-brow than Irreversible, and more hypnotic than American Psycho. The Lost, however repugnant many people will find it, lives up to its promise of being controversial and worthy of attention by all lovers of the genre.

Possible Spoilers!!-I attended a preview screening of "The Lost". Having read the book, as well as an account of the true story on which Jack Ketchum's tale is based, I had an idea of what to expect, however, I was unprepared for the integrity shown by the filmmakers in their unflinching look at narcissistic violence. The main character, Ray Pye (chillingly portrayed by Marc Senter) represents the childish nature of current American Pop Culture in which we have become so accustomed to instant gratification that, when we don't actually get what we want when we want it, the infant inside us can explode. And that indeed is the story of Ray Pye. "The Lost", for me, is a return to 1970's style film-making, ala "Taxi Driver" & "Straw Dogs". To call it simply a horror film is to sell it short. The writer/director Chris Sivertson has created a character driven story in which Pye's need for control is driven up a notch with the introduction of each new (independent) female character, women with their own problems, and so not as naive as the two "robots" Pye has controlled since high school. This loss of control, combined with the scrutiny of a dogged police detective, is what ultimately causes Pye's "makeup" to crack, if you will. What results is violent indeed, but shown with a realism much needed in this day and age of CGI "shock and awe" gore. And unlike some of the unnecessary cruelty depicted in movies like "Saw", scenes of torture shown seemingly for no other reason than to "top" the competition, the culmination of Pye's frustration has a very specific conclusion, and without trying to psychoanalyze too deeply, it is indeed symbolic that Pye's rage is infantile in nature. The ending of the film will cause many to gasp, but is in no way gratuitous. At any rate, it is not my intention to "review" the film, per se, although it is made with much technical skill and good knowledge of effective camera angles, dynamic sound effects and some very inventive "kinetic" editing sequences, giving the viewer an "adrenaline" rush, coming from fear, as if we are in the room with Pye and his victims. If you have read any of Ketchum's work (or are familiar with the true story of Charles Schmid) you will know going in that this film is no fairy tale. And yet, it is hoped by this film fanatic that "The Lost", BECAUSE of it's realism, and BECAUSE it depicts violence as it really is, neither glossed over nor unnecessarily gory, will find distribution to as many screens as possible, because believe it or not folks, there is an audience out there who remember the great independent filmmakers of the 1970s and have been wondering for a while when the next batch of Scorceses and Schraders were gonna come along. Coming from a totally original perspective, two of them are here now: Chris Sivertson and Lucky McKee. They have made an excellent character study here. With "The Lost", they have cast a steady gaze on the nature of violence, holding Ray Pye up in the mirror to show us the real reflection of what takes place when a culture of indulgence goes unchecked for too long. In this day and age of ho-hum mass murder and twenty-four hour turnaround "change the subject" news media, to make a film like "The Lost" takes courage and integrity. Sivertson and McKee have these qualities, as well as talent in spades. Let's give them the recognition they deserve!

The Lost is a film that had a lot of potential, some great directing, a good cast, and a decent script. The problem is that it goes on forever.

The movie starts with a bang, and then kind of slows down, and the audience is given a group of characters to follow around. It is during this part of the film that all structure falls away, and things just kind of float. There is no real movement. Now, The Lost is based off of a novel, and the scenes in the novel probably had a bit more power because the reader can get into the character's head. It is much harder to do that in film, and because of that the importance of some of the scenes is unclear. Whole scenes could have been excised, and nothing would have been taken away from the story.

Then we get to the ending. I'm not going to say what happens, but I will say that it is very easy to see when things are starting to pick up and get back on track, and once they do, all bets are off. The ending of this film is one of the most disturbing and painful things I have ever watched in my life. The thing is, the audience knows that this is coming, but still, it is hard to brace yourself for the intense cruelty that you'll witness.

This is a film that gets an A for effort, but a C+ for execution. While the beginning and the end are tight, the middle of the film seems to lack direction and focus. Nothing happens, and very little is gained. So, this one is a rental.

An okay indie thriller about the gradual meltdown of a psychotic teenager. It's a solid screenplay bolstered with some excellent performances, starting out with a dirty, gritty authenticity that's reminiscent of classic exploitation flicks of the past. But about halfway through, director Sivertson seems to be possessed by the muse of David Lynch. We have the bad-boy Greaser, the red-lipped femme fatale, the nighttime drives and seedy motel rooms, the graphic sex and violence, the contrast of raucous jazz with grating death metal. Unfortunately it lacks the all-important intellectual rabbit holes and surreal artistry. The tonal switcheroo is kind of distracting, and the second half drags terribly to an over-the-top WTF last act of shameless overacting. Sivertson clearly has talent, and he manages to convey a suitable sense of unhinged psychosis and disorientation. But he needs confidence in his own style and vision instead of cribbing from the playbooks of others.