Tag Archives: Miramax Films

Master and Commander: The Far Side of the World (dir. by Peter Weir) Review

Posted on by Arleigh

“This is the second time he’s done this to me. There will not be a third.” — Jack Aubrey

A lesser adventure movie would treat the ocean as empty space between battles. In Peter Weir’s Master and Commander: The Far Side of the World, it becomes an entire way of life. Meals, friendships, work, and terrible injuries all happen within the same cramped wooden walls, with nowhere to go when things get uncomfortable. That sense of confinement makes the film surprisingly absorbing. The cannon fire is exciting, but so is watching people figure out how to live together under pressure. What starts as a pursuit of an enemy ship gradually becomes a closer look at the man who refuses to let that enemy escape.

The film draws from the first and tenth books in Patrick O’Brian’s Aubrey–Maturin series, Master and Commander and The Far Side of the World, with the tenth supplying most of the central storyline. Rather than closely following the opening novel and introducing its characters from the beginning, Weir places us inside an established friendship and a working shipboard community. That choice gives the adaptation a lived-in quality. Aubrey and Maturin already have habits, disagreements, and ways of understanding each other that do not need explaining. We learn about their relationship by watching it function, which is more engaging than having their history handed to us.

Russell Crowe’s Captain Jack Aubrey commands HMS Surprise during the Napoleonic Wars. His target is the Acheron, a French privateer with enough speed and firepower to make their encounter seriously uneven. Weir establishes that imbalance through a brutal opening attack rather than a long explanation. The Surprise takes a beating, and suddenly the captain’s confidence has to compete with the evidence of shattered timber and injured men. Aubrey survives, but he cannot simply move on. Catching the Acheron becomes unfinished business, and everyone aboard gets pulled into his determination to settle it. The chase supplies the plot, but his reasons for continuing it supply the tension.

Crowe is a huge part of why this works. He gives Aubrey an easy authority that makes the crew’s loyalty believable. This captain can share a joke, appreciate a good meal, and make difficult decisions without appearing to switch between different personalities. There is warmth beneath his command, but also an expectation that his judgment will prevail. Crowe makes both sides convincing. You understand why the men feel safer with him in charge, even when he is asking them to do something dangerous. His confidence is attractive, and the film lets us enjoy it before making us consider its limits.

Those limits become clearer as Aubrey’s obsession with tracking down the Acheron builds. His assignment gives him a legitimate reason to pursue the French privateer, but the chase gradually becomes tangled up with his pride. Being beaten at his own game bothers him more than he wants to admit. Each setback seems to strengthen his need to prove that he can win. What makes this unsettling is how calmly he justifies himself. He never stops being intelligent or capable. Instead, military reasoning and personal ambition become difficult to separate. He can explain why the pursuit matters, but that does not mean he fully understands why it matters so much to him.

The person most willing to challenge him is Stephen Maturin, the ship’s surgeon and Aubrey’s close friend. Paul Bettany brings a dry, thoughtful quality to the role that plays beautifully against Crowe’s confidence. Maturin sees the wounded bodies behind the captain’s calculations, so arguments about duty are never purely theoretical for him. His scientific interests also give him priorities beyond the conflict. Where Aubrey sees a destination or a tactical advantage, Maturin notices something worth studying. Their disagreements make the voyage feel larger than its military objective. There is a whole world around them, even when Aubrey seems determined to reduce it to the distance between two ships.

Thankfully, the film does not turn their friendship into a series of lectures. Their shared musical sessions reveal a companionship that exists independently of whatever disagreement they are having. These scenes feel relaxed without becoming disposable. Watching them play together explains why they keep making room for each other despite their frustrations. Crowe and Bettany suggest familiarity through small changes in expression and tone rather than big emotional speeches. As a result, their arguments carry weight. They are not simply defending different opinions; they are testing how much disagreement a valued friendship can withstand, especially when one friend has the authority to overrule the other.

Weir gives the wider crew a similar sense of life beyond the plot. The Surprise feels like a workplace, a home, and an unforgiving social system all at once. Everyone has duties, everyone depends on someone else, and privacy barely seems to exist. Brief moments of joking or nervous conversation make the sailors feel individual without requiring formal introductions. The younger officers are especially affecting. Their uniforms and responsibilities cannot quite hide how young they are. Watching them try to behave bravely adds an uncomfortable edge to the adventure, because courage here is something children are already expected to demonstrate.

That attention to people makes the battles much more effective. By the time the guns start firing again, damage to the ship feels like damage to a community we recognize. The violence is messy and frightening rather than cleanly heroic. Splintering wood turns familiar spaces into hazards, while Maturin’s medical work makes the aftermath impossible to ignore. There is still plenty of excitement in watching a plan come together, but clever tactics do not erase their cost. Aubrey’s skill matters enormously, yet skill cannot guarantee that the people carrying out his orders will come through unharmed. Victory never feels quite as simple as being the better captain.

Just as importantly, the battles between the Surprise and the Acheron are exceptionally well-staged and executed. Weir makes the tactics understandable without draining the encounters of confusion or danger. You can follow the importance of positioning, timing, and coordinated work while still feeling how little separates an effective maneuver from disaster. The action moves between the larger contest at sea and the immediate struggle on deck, keeping strategy and physical consequences connected. There is a satisfying sense that the sailors’ everyday routines have prepared them for these moments. All that hauling, drilling, and following orders becomes the machinery that gives Aubrey’s ideas a chance of succeeding.

The climactic confrontation brings those strengths together, but its most satisfying ingredient comes from an unexpected place: Maturin’s interest in nature. Aubrey takes a couple of pages from his friend’s observations of camouflage and disguises the Surprise as a vulnerable whaling ship, hoping to lure the Acheron close enough to overcome its advantages. It is a clever solution because it grows out of the relationship rather than arriving as a last-minute burst of genius. After allowing the pursuit to overshadow Maturin’s scientific interests, Aubrey finds something useful in the very subjects he has been too impatient to appreciate.

That connection gives the final battle more meaning than a straightforward test of firepower. Aubrey succeeds by adapting, looking beyond his usual expertise, and recognizing the value of another person’s perspective. The plan offers a small but important counterpoint to his stubbornness: his confidence becomes more productive when it leaves room for curiosity. Meanwhile, the execution delivers the excitement the long pursuit has promised. Preparation gives way to sudden violence, and the fighting feels close, exhausting, and dangerous. The deception may create an opening, but it does not make the confrontation easy. Weir lets the tactical payoff and the human cost occupy the same scene.

Outside the fighting, the contrast between the crowded ship and the enormous ocean remains one of the film’s strongest features. Inside, everything feels close enough to touch. Outside, the water seems capable of swallowing the whole enterprise without noticing. The storms sharpen that contrast by presenting a threat Aubrey cannot intimidate or defeat through determination alone. His experience can improve their chances, but it cannot give him complete control. That limitation matters in a story about a man accustomed to trusting himself. Nature keeps reminding him—and us—that confidence is not the same thing as power, however reassuring it may look from the deck.

The film’s patience will not work for everyone. Some stretches linger over routine or scientific curiosity when a more conventional action movie would hurry toward another confrontation. The Galápagos sequences are the clearest example, shifting attention toward Maturin’s interests and slowing the pursuit. For me, that breathing room mostly pays off. It makes the world feel worth exploring rather than merely crossing, and the later camouflage strategy gives those observations a satisfying place in the adventure. Occasionally, the contrast between the two friends feels a little neatly arranged. Still, removing those quieter passages would leave a faster movie with much less personality and far less reason to care about its outcome.

By the end, the Surprise feels less like a spectacular movie location than a place whose routines you have learned. You understand why these men need their captain, why his friendship with Maturin matters, and why his certainty can be reassuring and dangerous at the same time. That is what gives Master and Commander: The Far Side of the World its staying power. Weir delivers the adventure without treating the people as equipment needed to stage it. The battles draw you in, but the lasting pleasure is the company—even when the man setting the course makes you nervous about where everyone is headed.

Review: The Crow (dir. by Alex Proyas)

Posted on by Arleigh

“If the people we love are stolen from us, the way to have them live on is to never stop loving them. Buildings burn, people die, but real love is forever.” — Sarah Mohr

The Crow is one of those films whose reputation has become inseparable from the tragedy surrounding it, yet reducing it to that tragedy misses why it has endured so powerfully. Alex Proyas’s 1994 adaptation of James O’Barr’s graphic novel is a revenge story, a gothic romance, a comic-book nightmare, and an MTV-era industrial-rock mood piece fused into something singular. It is not flawless, and its storytelling is often more archetypal than psychologically deep, but that directness helps its emotional force. The movie does not ask viewers to untangle a complicated moral puzzle. It asks them to feel the enormity of a love violently interrupted, and then to watch that grief return from the grave with black feathers, white face paint, and a very personal sense of justice.

The premise is almost mythically simple. On the night before their wedding, musician Eric Draven and his fiancée Shelly Webster are murdered by a gang of thugs who break into their Detroit apartment. A year later, on Devil’s Night—the annual pre-Halloween ritual of fires and chaos that hangs over the film’s ruined cityscape—Eric rises from his grave, guided by a crow, to hunt down every person responsible. The classic revenge-movie structure is there: identify the killers, stalk them, punish them, move closer to the figure at the top. But The Crow distinguishes itself by making revenge feel less like triumphant macho fantasy and more like an extension of mourning. Eric does not become a cool killer because pain has made him stronger. He becomes an avenging specter because he cannot accept a world in which Shelly’s final moments are left unanswered.

Proyas directs the film like a fever dream built from wet asphalt, broken glass, empty tenements, and perpetual night. The Detroit of The Crow barely operates as a realistic city, but realism is not the point. It is an expressionist landscape, a metropolis that seems permanently trapped between a crime scene and a graveyard. The production design gives the movie its extraordinary visual identity: towering shadows, alleyways lit by flame, apartments that look like mausoleums, and a skyline that appears to have been abandoned by daylight itself. This is Gothic cinema filtered through comic-book panels, German Expressionism, punk fashion, and the darkly romantic visual language of early-1990s alternative music videos. It has been imitated constantly, sometimes lovingly and sometimes clumsily, but the original still feels unusually tactile. The grime, rain, fire, and shattered architecture have physical weight.

That sense of atmosphere is helped enormously by the soundtrack, which operates as more than a collection of era-specific needle drops. Songs by The Cure, Nine Inch Nails, Stone Temple Pilots, Pantera, and others create a sonic environment around Eric’s grief. The music gives the movie a pulse that is melancholy, furious, and seductive all at once. For many viewers, The Crow became a gateway text for a specific kind of 1990s gothic-alt identity: black clothing, industrial textures, romantic despair, and the conviction that heartbreak could be transformed into style without becoming trivial. Its aesthetic influence is obvious, but it worked because it was attached to an actual emotional core rather than simply a pile of cool images.

Brandon Lee is the center of that emotional core. His Eric Draven is handsome and charismatic, obviously, but the performance’s real strength lies in its shifts of tone. Lee can play Eric as tender and playful in the brief memories of his life with Shelly, then turn him into a creature of eerie stillness and explosive violence. He delivers some of the film’s most famous lines with a theatrical flair that could have become silly in another actor’s hands, but he never entirely loses the sense that Eric is broken underneath the black leather and corpse-like makeup. When he says, “It can’t rain all the time,” it does not land merely as a quotable gothic slogan. It is a declaration of faith from someone trying to recover one small piece of warmth from an overwhelmingly cruel world.

Lee’s death during production makes that performance almost unbearably charged. He was accidentally shot on set during the filming of a scene involving a prop firearm and died at age 28. The production had to regroup, rewrite and restructure parts of the film, and use a combination of body doubles, careful editing, visual effects, and previously filmed material to complete Eric’s story. That practical disruption is visible only in limited ways in the finished product; remarkably, The Crow generally feels cohesive rather than patched together. Still, the tragedy affected more than the logistics of production. It fundamentally changed the public’s relationship to the film. Eric’s resurrection, his grief over a stolen future, and the repeated imagery of a dead young man returning to finish unfinished business all acquired a terrible real-world resonance.

That connection could easily have overwhelmed the movie, turning it into a morbid curiosity. Instead, it made the film feel elegiac. Audiences did not merely see a fictional tragic hero; they saw Lee’s final completed role, an image of an actor whose life had ended before the public had a chance to see where his career might go. The contrast is particularly painful because Lee’s work here suggests enormous range and movie-star potential. He is not just doing martial-arts action or inheriting the legacy of his father, Bruce Lee. He is creating an icon of romantic anguish and dark humor. The public reception of The Crow therefore carried an unusual mixture of admiration, grief, and protectiveness. Its cult status was built partly on its style, soundtrack, and comic-book mythology, but also on the feeling that viewers were witnessing a final gift from an artist taken much too soon.

The supporting cast gives the film much of its flavor, especially because Proyas treats its villains as grotesque figures in a corrupted fairy tale. David Patrick Kelly’s T-Bird is nervy and cruel, Michael Massee’s Funboy has a sleazy unpredictability, and Angel David’s Skank brings a wild, cartoonish energy to the gang. Rochelle Davis, playing Sarah, provides something vital in the opposite direction. She is not merely a child sidekick; she represents the lingering human connection between Eric’s former life and his revenant existence. Her scenes with Eric remind us that he is not simply a supernatural executioner. He is still someone capable of care, humor, and memory.

But Michael Wincott’s Top Dollar is the film’s true villainous masterstroke. Wincott has one of cinema’s most instantly recognizable voices: smoky, velvety, sardonic, and faintly predatory. As Top Dollar, he makes every line sound like it has been exhaled through cigarette smoke in a cathedral. He is not a conventional crime boss in the realistic, procedural sense. He is a decadent king of the city’s underworld, a man who appears to have converted criminal power into a private religion of violence, ritual, and spectacle. His lair, his manner, and his relationship with his half-sister Myca all push him beyond ordinary gangster territory into something operatic and mythic.

What makes Wincott mesmerizing is that he does not overplay Top Dollar’s eccentricities. The character has plenty of theatrical material to work with—occult touches, ominous speeches, a penthouse filled with weaponry and strange décor—but Wincott approaches him with a serene confidence. He rarely seems rushed or rattled, even as Eric systematically destroys his organization. That calm makes him more intimidating. Top Dollar understands the city as a machine of corruption, and he sees himself as the person with his hands on the controls. Wincott’s performance gives the villain intelligence, sensuality, and a distinctly sinister elegance. He is evil, certainly, but he is never bland. In a movie full of striking images, his voice alone becomes part of the visual texture.

The action in The Crow is effective precisely because it avoids pretending that Eric’s vengeance is a balanced fight. For much of the movie, he is invulnerable, and the violence plays like supernatural punishment. The standout set pieces—Eric’s assault on the gang’s hideout, his confrontation with T-Bird, and the final tower sequence—have the heightened, almost ritualistic quality of comic-book action rather than the grounded impact of a crime thriller. That can make some of the antagonists feel less like people than targets, but again, the film is working in the language of myth. Eric is a ghost walking through the consequences of someone else’s cruelty.

If The Crow has a weakness, it is that the love story depends heavily on fragments. Shelly is more an emotional presence than a fully developed character, preserved in Eric’s memories as warmth, laughter, music, and suffering. Yet the film understands that grief often works that way. We do not always remember a person as a complete biography when they are gone; sometimes we cling to specific gestures, rooms, jokes, songs, and images. The flashes of Eric and Shelly together are deliberately idealized because they are being recalled by a man who has lost everything. The movie’s romanticism may be blunt, but it is sincere.

More than three decades later, The Crow still works because it is a film of conviction. It believes in the visual poetry of rain and ruins, in the melodrama of eternal love, in the power of a memorable face framed in black-and-white makeup, and in the possibility that a soundtrack can become part of a movie’s mythology. Brandon Lee’s death will always remain a heartbreaking part of its history, and it is impossible to watch the film without feeling that absence hovering around it. But The Crow is not remembered simply because of what happened behind the scenes. It is remembered because Proyas, Lee, Wincott, and the rest of the cast made a pulpy revenge tale feel like a dark romantic elegy—one that still takes flight every time the crow returns to the skyline.

Review: Kate & Leopold (dir. by James Mangold)

Posted on by Arleigh

“What has happened to the world? You have every convenience and comfort, yet no time for integrity.” — Leopold

Kate & Leopold is one of those romantic comedies that sneaks up on you with its old-school charm, even if it doesn’t always stick the landing. Released in 2001, it catches Hugh Jackman right after his breakout as Wolverine in the first X-Men film, during that early stretch of hits leading toward epics like The Fountain, giving him a chance to shine in pure rom-com mode before the superhero world fully claimed him. It’s a time-travel tale starring Jackman as a 19th-century duke and Meg Ryan as a modern-day exec, and while it’s predictable in spots, it delivers some genuinely sweet moments amid the silliness, boosted by his fresh, pre-typecast appeal.

The setup is pure fantasy fodder. Leopold, the third Duke of Albany, lives in 1876 New York, tinkering with an elevator prototype that accidentally rips a hole in time. His descendant Stuart, a bumbling scientist played by Liev Schreiber, drags him to the present day. Leopold lands in modern Manhattan, bewildered by cars, skyscrapers, and people who don’t stand when a lady enters the room. Enter Kate McKay, Meg Ryan in full quirky career-woman mode, who’s too busy chasing a promotion to notice the fish-out-of-water nobleman crashing at her place. Her roommate Charlie, a slacker pianist, thinks Leopold’s a method actor at first, leading to some fun roommate hijinks.

What works best is Hugh Jackman’s effortless charisma as Leopold. He nails the role with wide-eyed wonder and impeccable manners, riding a horse through Central Park to chase a mugger, whipping up gourmet meals from sparse ingredients, and delivering lines about life’s simple pleasures—like how food must taste good to nourish the soul—with total sincerity. It’s disarming. Leopold isn’t just a pretty face; he’s a walking critique of 21st-century rudeness. When he calls out advertisers for peddling tasteless margarine or marvels at how folks wolf down burgers without savoring them, you can’t help but chuckle. His old-world chivalry clashes hilariously with New York’s hustle, like when he stands every time Kate leaves the table, leaving her exasperated but secretly charmed.

Meg Ryan holds up her end too, bringing that familiar rom-com energy she perfected in the ’90s. Kate’s a high-powered market researcher obsessed with a big pitch for some farmer’s butter spread—ironic, given Leopold’s later meltdown on set. She’s jaded from a recent breakup with Stuart, prioritizing work over everything, but Leopold slowly cracks her shell. Their first real connection comes over a picnic where he waltzes her around a rooftop to a hired violinist, and yeah, it’s corny, but Jackman sells it. Ryan’s got great chemistry with him; you buy their spark even when the script strains. Liev Schreiber steals scenes as Stuart, evolving from jealous ex to unlikely matchmaker, while Breckin Meyer adds comic relief as Charlie, who learns to woo his crush by channeling Leopold’s authenticity.

The fish-out-of-water gags land most of the laughs. Leopold navigating subways, elevators (his invention, after all), and TV commercials feels fresh enough, especially since the movie leans into his culture shock without overdoing slapstick. There’s a memorable bit where he tours modern New York, gaping at the Brooklyn Bridge and declaring it a marvel, only to learn it’s named after his investment. Director James Mangold keeps things light, blending screwball elements with a touch of Somewhere in Time nostalgia. The score swells romantically, and the production design pops—Leopold’s Victorian tux against neon signs is a nice visual contrast. Early 2000s rom-coms loved these fish-out-of-water tales—like The Holiday or Two Weeks Notice—but this one stands out for its sincere take on manners as a cure for modern cynicism.

But let’s be honest: Kate & Leopold has flaws that keep it from greatness. The time-travel rules are fuzzy at best. Leopold has to return to 1876 or the timeline implodes—elevators stop working, chaos ensues—but it’s hand-waved with vague portal talk. Stuart’s asylum stint feels mean-spirited, and the third act rushes into melodrama. Some supporting bits drag, like the endless ad pitch subplot, and the pacing dips mid-film when everyone’s just hanging out. The plot’s contrived overall, with that bridge-jump climax feeling abrupt, but the earnest vibe carries through.

Still, the romance earns its payoff. Kate and Leopold aren’t insta-lovers; they bicker over integrity versus ambition, with Leopold pushing her to taste life fully and Kate grounding his idealism. Their Central Park chase and final ball scene in 1876 deliver genuine swoon factor. It’s not subversive—Kate ditches her career for corsets, after all—but it celebrates courtesy and heart in a cynical world. Compared to edgier rom-coms like When Harry Met Sally, this one’s softer, more fairy tale than reality check. Ryan’s quirky energy bounces off Jackman’s poise, creating sparks that feel earned, even if the career sacrifice lands a bit dated now.

For a 2001 release, it holds up surprisingly well. No cell phones dominate every scene, letting face-to-face charm shine. Jackman’s glow makes Leopold believable as a duke who’d invent the elevator, and Ryan reminds us why she was America’s sweetheart. It’s PG-13 for mild language and innuendo—nothing racy, safe for date night or family viewing. Critics were mixed; some praised the manners humor but called the plot preposterous, which nails it. Watch it today, and it’s a charming time capsule, as out-of-step as Leopold in a subway.

Trailer: Sin City: A Dame to Kill For (Official Teaser)

Posted on by Arleigh

Sin City A Dame to Kill For

Hard to imagine it’s been 9 years since the original Sin City hit the big screen. It was a comic book adaptation that many thought wouldn’t work, especially how Rodriguez envisioned it to be slavishly loyal to not just Miller’s dialogue but also his unique art style.

The original film’s success quickly ramped up rumors that a sequel was already being planned using the second graphic novel in the Sin City series. Rodriguez himself stated he wanted Angelina Jolie for the role of Ava Lord, the titular “Dame to Kill For”, but after years and years of delay the role finally landed on Eva Green‘s lap (not a bad choice and one I fully support).

So, we’re now going back to Basin City for more tales of booze, broads and bullets in this hyper-noir film that should be loved or hated in equal measures by those who have followed Frank Miller’s career. Once again the directing duties have been split between Rodriguez and Miller. Here’s to hoping that Miller has learned how to be a much better directer after his last film, The Spirit, tanked.

Sin City: A Dame to Kill For is set for an August 22, 2014 release date.

Quickie Review: Phantoms (dir. by Joe Chappelle)

Posted on by Arleigh

If there was ever an actor in the last twenty years who has suffered ridicule regarding his body of work it would be Ben Affleck. Nevermind the fact that he has actually done very good work as an actor. People tend to view his acting work through some very bad film projects which the online film bloggers (and trolls) have lambasted year after year. One such film which has gained a cult following for all the reasons is the 1998 horror film Phantoms which was adapted from the Dean Koontz horror novel of the same name. This was a film which came out of nowhere and which no one really saw when it first hit the theaters. There’s a reason for this and the main reason for this being that the film was really awful though not without some entertaining bits.

Phantoms starred Ben Affleck in a role that really seemed more suited for an older actor. His Sheriff Hammond in the novel was much older and fit the backstory told in both novel and film that never truly fit Affleck’s youthful appearance and mannerism. He’s joined in this Joe Chappelle production by classically-trained veteran actor Peter O’Toole (who must’ve really needed the money to sign up for this film) in the role of Dr. Exposition dump aka Timothy Flyte who ends up explaining to the surviving cast of characters the very danger facing them in the abandoned town of Snowfield. Rounding out the cast is  Liev Schrieber as the creepy Deputy Stu Wargle who becomes a sort of plot device as the film moves forward. To add to this mix are Joanna Going and Rose McGowan as sisters who first discover that their town has just gone through a terrible event.

The novel this film was based on was pure scifi-horror pulp which stressed one’s suspension of disbelief, but was quite entertaining from beginning to end. Dean Koontz is like the generic fast-food version of Stephen King. This film adaptation borrows heavily from films such as Carpenter’s The Thing and the remake of The Blob. This wouldn’t have been a bad thing since the film’s story does bring into it an interesting concept of an ancient enemy which might or might not have been responsible for unexplained mass disappearances of people and animals throughout history going back to prehistoric times.

What Phantoms ends up doing which ruins the film as a whole was to rush through the narrative it was adapting it. The film pretty much goings through a checklist of all the major scenes in the novel, takes those scenes and truncates them to fit uncomfortably into a 90+ minute film. Some of these scenes could’ve been extended a few more minutes to add to a sense of grandiose to a film that needed it despite it’s B-movie foundation. One such scenes would be the arrival of a special Army unit designed to combat unexplained events, but the film treats this sequence from their arrival right up to their untimely demise in less than 15 minutes. I think in the hands of a much more capable filmmaker these scenes would’ve made the film much more entertaining.

Phantoms was a horror film that could’ve become a 90’s cult-classic if it had been given the proper time and effort from it’s producers, but seeing that it was the Weinsteins of Miramax and Dimension Films this final product was probably the best Joe Chappelle could’ve come up with. Weinsteins during the 1990’s were more concerned of pushing their Oscar-baiting film productions than actually giving time and effort to all their films. If there was any reason to see Phantoms it would be to see just why it kept being mentioned in Kevin Smith’s Jay and Silent Bob Strike Back. Other than that there’s really no reason to see it unless there’s nothing else on.

Trailer: Don’t Be Afraid of the Dark

Posted on by Arleigh

I love films, all films, in general but if there’s one particular film genre that really floats my boat then it would be in the horror category. This summer will see the release of a title that I’ve been anticipating since I heard about it at last year’s San Diego Comic-Con. The film I speak of is the remake of the 1973 tv horror film of the same name: Don’t Be Afraid of the Dark.

While Troy Nixey takes the director’s chair for this film he’s working on a story written by Guillermo Del Toro who’s been known to dabble in the horror genre (Cronos, The Devil’s Backbone). Del Toro promised a horror film that would bring back horror the way it’s meant to be and that’s with genuine scares and not horror predicated on torture and extreme use of gore. Don’t Be Afraid of the Dark will be a throwback to the atmospheric, almost gothic horror, that reached it’s peak during the late 70’s before the slasher boom hit.

The film has been delayed several times as Miramax Films was sold by Disney and the restructuring of the studio after it’s owners finalized it’s purchase put the film on the backburner. It now has an official August 26, 2011 release and it looks like the film got an R-rating from the MPAA for “pervasive scariness”. While Del Toro, Nixey and the rest of the film crew were hoping for a PG-13 rating the one given by the MPAA who seemed to really enjoy said “pervasive scariness” recommended it go out as an R-rated horror (one with little to no gore).

So, we have an upcoming horror film by an upcoming filmmaker handpicked by Del Toro. A film written by Del Toro himself and one which just got an R-rating which made Del Toro as happy as a clam. Plus, it’s a horror film that relies on genuine scares and not gore. My answer to that is August 26, 2011 cannot come sooner.