Two words . . .

 . . . CRYPTO BOOM . . .

. . . are but a prophesy of two more words . . .

. . . CRYPTO BUST . . .

MANGA REVIEW: HOROBI (1990-1991)

 

Story and Art by Yoshihisa Tagami

Originally published in Japan by Tokuma Shoten Publishing Company, 1987

English adaptation by Len Wein and Matt Thorn.

Touch Up Art and Lettering by Bill Spicer

Edited by Jerry A. Novick and John Togashi

Managing Editor Satoru Fujii

Executive Editor Seiji Horibuchi

Publisher Masahiro Oga 

English version published by Viz Comics, 1990-1991 as Horobi #1-8 and Horobi Part Two #1-7.

…

"The flesh of men . . . twisted by ancient horrors!"

…

Review by William D. Tucker. 

An accumulation of small anomalies and sinister omens in late 1980s Japan coalesces into a grandiose Apocalypse in the manga Horobi.

We begin with seemingly disconnected events and visions:

A couple on the run drives off a cliff and dies in a fiery TV-movie explosion in order to escape a hectoring disembodied voice.

This doomed lovers' escape is seen in the nightmares of a sexually frustrated environmental biology researcher. 

This researcher gathers data on newly birthed mutant salamanders who keep dying off at regular intervals almost as if they were being born only to die . . . 

. . . kinda like an illicit glimpse of a spectral monster by a couple having uncomfortable sex in the backseat of a car on a backwoods lovers' lane . . .

 . . . an impossible one-eyed monster resplendent with writhing tentacles manifests like a horror movie villain to punish sex-out-of-wedlock . . .

A group of middle school students are torn to shreds by a looming demon with a horrid face after they discover a sacred object . . .

. . . that has seemingly gone missing from a Shinto shrine that was destroyed when the fleeing couple's car crashed into it . . .

Throughout, the various characters-scientists and psychics, for the most part-chat about the frustrations of dating and sex and love and lust. Horobi emphasizes abstruse, occult connections between binary gender conflicts of men and women; environmental degradation; huge phantasmal monsters appearing like Godzilla to wreak havoc upon Japan; the secret lineage of gods, demons, and humans down through the ages; secret conspiracies of ESP empowered factions fighting for control of the world; and human bodies merging with ancient, sacred artifacts like Japanese mythology filtered through a Lensman novel . 

The rationalized, technocapitalist reality of the Bubble Economy bursts to reveal mythic forces that are pissed off at being displaced by science, technology, and materialism. 

Humans become the tortured vessels of divine wrath.

Grotesque gods fight desperately to claw back their dominion upon the earth and enforce an Apocalypse Regime requiring a magnificent slaughter of all that lives.

Our cast of scientists and psychics are smart enough to wrestle with the bizarre mytho-poetic themes manifesting before their eyes. This serves as both exposition and drama in a clever twist since Horobi ends up being about the conflict between materialism and the supernatural. There's plenty of mayhem, but these dilemmas also require people to sit and think and talk about them as well. The scientists and psychics fight for and against the return of the Apocalypse Regime, and they struggle within themselves to decide how and why to make their stand. 

Horobi, needless to say, bites off more than it can chew, but it is always fascinating, and I was pleasantly surprised by its conclusion. I think it makes for an interesting companion piece to the similarly apocalyptic Akira, another manga that uses psychic powers and mass destruction to express discontent and uncertainty about the future. Horobi is more concise, and its characters are more down-to-earth as opposed to the outlaws and oppressors of Akira. 

Of course, good luck obtaining an official copy of Horobi, which has been out of print for decades. 

I guess the sinister gods of the Apocalypse Regime don't want anyone reading it . . .

Two words . . .

. . . DOOM NUT . . .

. . . this is what the Ancient'N'Corrupt national father figure decides to bust when he's robbed and raped and murdered and exploited everything else.

The treasury is empty.

The right wing state media cannot possibly polish his wee nasty notional knob any shinier with anymore obsequious rhapsodies and Memory Hole mythologies. 

There's no more democracy to sabotage. Every last vote down to the kindergarten art contest has been rigged.

The banking system pretty much turns down anyone who isn't an oligarch, a Christian fundamentalist, a gangster, or a useful mercenary terrorist. 

The national father figure just breached his seventies. Out of one corner of his mouth he preaches A Return to Traditional Masculinity and Family Values; but out the other side he whispers to his procurer to bring him young women a quarter his age . . . even though he hasn't been able to properly perform since his sixty-second birthday. 

His bowel movements are at a standstill-except when he randomly shits himself.

He's had six secret operations to fix his urinary tract. And his river still runs with blood . . .

Hey, maybe it's a sign.

My river runs red with blood . . . does it have to just be mine?

Well, he can't shoot off proper anymore, but that nuclear arsenal could serve as a wonderful set of adult toys, couldn't it?!

That's how the Ancient'N'Corrupt national father figure edges ever closer to busting the Doom Nut . . .

VIDEO GAME NOVELIZATION REVIEW: RESIDENT EVIL: CITY OF THE DEAD (1999)

by S.D. Perry

Adapted from the video game Resident Evil 2 by CAPCOM.

Published by Pocket Books in May 1999.

Republished by Titan Books in September 2012.

. . .

"He'd make it or he wouldn't; either way, he didn't think he'd be surprised. "

. . .

Review by William D. Tucker. 

1998 . . .

Once upon a time in Eagleland, U.S.A. . . .

In the mountainous Midwest . . .

In Raccoon City . . .

Infectious zombies, devil dogs, and long-tongued head eating leapfrog whatsits-terrible demons!-have gone on a wild killing spree decimating the cops, the government, the voters, and no one beyond the Arklay County line seems to have a clue what's going on or who's to blame. Is it an occult force? An xtro invasion? A secret experiment gone awry?

Into the devastated city come a rookie cop, a college student, and an industrial spy each with his or her own goal. The rookie cop is looking to start his career in law enforcement. The college student seeks her missing brother. The industrial spy is after a sinister lab-created 'treasure.' Each must face down external monstrosities as well as internal conflicts if they are to survive the night. 

This is an adaptation of the popular Playstation One game Resident Evil 2, the Godfather Part 2-esque sequel to the survival horror flag-planter Resident Evil. RE2 was bigger, bolder, and more beautiful than its predecessor. It carried forward the dual protagonist structure; the panic-inducing tank controls that encourage you to tread lightly when monsters that are faster than you are about; the limited quantities of ammo that compel you to choose your battles wisely and place your shots carefully; limited healing items; and, crucially, limited ink ribbons-which means limited saves. The game mechanics are calibrated to keep you on edge with each step as you cross each threshold . . . what's gonna kill me next? Am I gonna get stuck in a bum save with life threatening wounds, no bullets, and nothing but a combat knife to fend off the undead hordes?

Now, we're not talking about the game. We're talking about the novelization. A video game novelization. How does it adapt the gaming experience into prose fiction? Why read the book when you can just play the video game? Isn't reading supposed to be boring? If all these video game movies suck, wouldn’t a boring-ass book version suck at chrome-removal levels? 

Depends on who you ask. If you're asking me, well, here are my answers . . .

Author S.D. Perry's (not so) secret weapon is the internal monologue. She adapts the dual protagonist structure into a multi-protagonist structure. I don't want to give you an exact number, but you have three mains . . . and then you get some other perspectives-a few more than what you get in the game. Perry cycles through a variety of subjective points of view on the ghastly disaster that has befallen Raccoon City. Everyone's got their reasons for being in a monster hot zone, and that is where the strength of this novelization lies. In the original video game, you get absorbed in maneuvering carefully through treacherous, confusing environments, and that raw experiential tension defines the player characters. In the novelization, we see how different characters bring different agendas and different kinds of expertise to the bewildering succession of horrors whether they be human or monstrous in nature. Or both. 

Some characters are very earnest in wanting to help other people survive and escape. Others have selfish agendas. One especially sick fuck is a murderous monster hiding behind a facade of respectability. 

Perry's novelization also evokes different styles of horror: Gothic obsessions; being stalked by an invincible killing machine; mutational body horror; oversized critters . . . yes, there's some zombie stuff, but not quite as much as I would've liked, but that's a minor lapse.

The tricky thing here is that this novelization is technically the third book in a four book sequence. So, maybe Perry didn't want to overdo the zombies after the first two volumes? Aside from this, City of the Dead mostly stands on its own, although there's no reason not to read all of the Perry authored Resident Evil novelizations, which consists of seven books overall. But if you were to only read one . . . then this is the one to read. 

I like the multi-POV structure. I like the way Perry sticks very close to the characters and settings, but ruthlessly streamlines the goofy-ass lock and key puzzles that gatekeep the different sections of the game. I really like Perry's rhythm for how she writes the setpiece clashes between humans and monsters. Perry's words go faster when danger's afoot, the violence is crunchy and grisly, and the characters are believably freaked the fuck out. 

And it isn't so much that Perry's trying to make the source material more realistic, so much as she's embracing the B-movie craziness of the monsters, the plot twists, and the atmosphere, whilst filling up the characters with engaging emotions and varied levels of understanding about the horror that's engulfed Raccoon City. 

It ain't Proust. It's not Shakespeare. It's not even Dostoyevsky. It is media tie-in product. But it's also a lot of fun for what it is. Proceed with caution. Use as directed. 

Two words . . .

 . . . PORK CURSERS . . .

. . . hordes of pigs driven before proper two-legged soldiers to trigger landmines. As the pigs are blown apart, the superheated bits are caught between slices of bread held like catcher's mitts by the soldiers. This is the Way of Snack. But more importantly, the angered spirits of the blown apart swine fly about collectively as a hot-gibbering, moist-vulgar wind full of elaborate execrations and hexes and denigrations aimed at the advancing soldiers who marched them to their recent doom. These pig ghost winds will themselves into phantasmal guts-beasts, who verge on full corporeality, not quite all-the-way-embodied, usually manifesting as a burning glaze of goo which, on contact, induces hallucinations inside the rubbleminds of the soldiers. If the soldiers are sufficiently armored, then the gear will come alive with wild ambitions, equipment more real than character. The omnidirectional chaos and strife that ensues as each soldier-or set of soldiering gear- pursues visionary dreams of New Regimes and New Religions and New Nations and New Fad Diets is alarming to behold, but generally held to be an excellent form of exercise in terms of battlefield arts. Tho' loyalty is the primary virtue of a soldier, one cannot but be impressed by desires to pursue New Endeavors, even beyond the normal bounds of Authorized Existence. Even the Kings and Ministers and Gods of the Kingdom more often than not feel inspired to leap out of themselves and into Fresh Forms of Fun. Therefore, shy not from the hot wind of splattery gore as the mine-swine march dutifully into blast after blast. You just might catch a New Nation Self for all the damn mess!

POETIC VIDEO GAME REVIEW #23: CHRONO TRIGGER (1995)

 

oh, yes, yes, yes,

this was the one that taught me the absolute joy of New Game+, which is the feature that allows you to play through the game again and again, always retaining your elevated statistical strengths and high-end weapons and armor and healing items and such, and I would cycle through until I got all the different Endings, and then my stats were all maxed out to double stars, and I'm hypnotized by the awesome visuals, and the music-I didn't have the Chrono Trigger OST on CD, so cycling through the game was my chance to listen to the music while I scythed Enemy hordes like a very death god, even after I got all the endings, why play another game ever again where you have to start all the way at the bottom, just fuck every last bit of that, and live forever as a perfect death god,

oh, yeah, yeah, yeah,

Chrono Trigger's a classic!

-January 2020-February 2022

POETIC VIDEO GAME REVIEW #22: EarthBound (1995)

 

This is the one

where it's overhead

but low-angle

you're children 

looking up at cops, space aliens, cultists, beach bullies, feral animals, pogo punks, armored space warriors, tentacle robots, mobile self-immolating trees, zombies, dinosaurs, flying saucers, giant mutant animals, weird strangers, reeling drunks,

and you use baseball bats, frying pans, bottle rockets, DIY rayguns, psychokinesis powers right out of X-Men or Scanners or Mai the Psychic Girl to vanquish these antagonists,

but it's not always clear who's evil

and who's just under the influence 

of extraterrestrial mind control

'cause that's also a thing

with a behind the scenes villain known as Giygas,

a malevolent Lovecraftian whatsit that hides in a pocket dimension of time-outside-of-time,

or something,

exerting sinister dominions over the deep dream lives of the folks'n'critters who endeavor to put pain into your ass

I encountered it

at the beginning of high school 

so it was a reverse aspirational experience 

"get back into your elementary school self"

which I totally resisted

like it was brain waves from Giygas Itself

I kept reimagining it as a violent action sci-fi thing

Aliens and Blade Runner by way of John Woo, Tsui Hark, and Ringo Lam,

with body horror by Barker, Carpenter, Otomo, and Cronenberg

inside my head cannon fan fictions

making smoking craters out of the arcade where Frank and his gang hold court,

the police station where Captain Strong and his Pigs rut,

and don't even get me started on how I knocked down the Monotoli Tower . . .

but that was fine 

I had no interest in downgrading my adolescent male (spectator's) bloodlust into the kid friendly whimsies-as I (mis)perceived them-of Shigesato Itoi and co. 

I know, I know, I was doing it all wrong. 

Believe me.

Now . . . I get it.

Growing up sucks.

Adulthood consists of realizing friendship is an illusion, that faith is just a political tool, and money and social conformity are all that gets you over under capitalism.

EarthBound is a game where the power of prayer actually saves the day. 

Yes, baseball bats, psionic attacks, bottle rockets, frying pans, and DIY rayguns have their parts to play. Faith is what slays Giygas in the end, but to get to that final battle, ye must be willing to grind away for hour after hour, busting open countless Enemy skulls, blasting apart no end of robo-foes, putting down a staggering number of animals gone feral under the corrupting brain waves of Giygas-

-yes, it is a grindyass JRPG where ye must be empowered by the blood of your Enemy, who has numerous manifestations, yet One Fate:

to fall before your Louisville Slugger,

your cast iron pan,

your death ray,

your martial arts prowess-once you recruit that cool, slightly older kid in the karate uniform-

Now,

sure,

I see the hard-boiled whimsy of EarthBound, 

and I can even understand why people want to burrow away from the Now

into some kind of bullshitological Invented Past,

an Alternative Childhood,

more colorful and heroic 

than any Actual Childhood could’ve been. 

So . . . 7 out of 10.

-October 1996-February 2022. 

MANGA REVIEW: SAZAN AND COMET GIRL (2020)

 

Story and Art by Yuriko Akase 

Originally published in Japan by LEED Publishing 2015-2018.

English language publication by Seven Seas Entertainment August 2020.

English translation by Adrienne Beck

Adaptation by Ysabet McFarlane

Layout and Lettering by Karis Page and Gwen Silver

. . .

"I know it's a terrible idea, but somehow . . . I just can't hate you guys. I'm hopeless."

. . .

Review by William D. Tucker. 

Mina, a magical young woman on a flying space bike falls for a boring-but-nice young man, Sazan, who is a construction worker, and together they team-up with space pirates to save the Earth with True Love, the Power of Friendship, etc.

You see, Mina is an extraterrestrial superhero, and she was created long ago to be a living source of power. Mina could go toe-to-toe with the Avengers and the Justice League and she would probably do okay.

Sazan is a standard issue human, but he’s a very nice person. He's sincere. He's honest. Believes in true love. Blandly handsome. 

The space pirates are led by a belligerent pig-man who can alter his size at will. He becomes the frenemy of Sazan and Mina.

There are dangerous swarms of robots. 

There's a villain packing schemes that he's perfectly willing to monologue about. 

Most impressive of all are the whimsical visualizations of a science fantasy future-a watercolor future, no less. Just looking at it gives a lift to my spirits. 

This one has lots of wild action, but no brutality. There are consequences to the mayhem, characters do suffer, but this is not a bloodbath. It's exciting without running on nightmare fuel. 

The story is assembled from an identikit of manga plots and themes and characters and sentiments. If you-like me-are a longtime reader of manga and watcher of anime there’s not a single surprise in the narrative. Sazan and Comet Girl would be an interesting first manga, maybe for a younger reader. If you got a brat, and you're looking to hip them to manga this is a fun, wholesome introduction, I suppose.

What's noteworthy is that Sazan and Comet Girl is five hundred pages of fully watercolored manga-not the usual black and white-and it feels startlingly effortless for all of the detail of its visuals. Of course, it's anything but effortless. Comics is hard work, and I can only stare in admiration at the hundreds of pages that must’ve taken years to draft and craft and color into their final form. Remember, this is the work of a single author, not the Marvel Bullpen. The visual flow is nonstop, even if the story, themes, plot, and characters are kitbashed from earlier works.

Look, I'm too cynical, too old, and far too steeped in more sophisticated works of comics and animation to buy in to this True Love At First Sight In Spaaaaace bullshit. 

But even a heartless cyborg like me got caught up in the fun and elaborate watercolor futurism of the visuals. 

So, I say give it a look.

And keep an eye on the future works of Yuriko Akase. I think she's in the manga game to stay. And with the best yet to come . . .

MOVIE REVIEW: EXTREME PREJUDICE (1987)

 

Directed by Walter Hill

Screenplay by Deric Washburn and Harry Kleiner

Story by John Milius and Fred Rexer

Music by Jerry Goldsmith

Cinematography by Matthew F. Leonetti

Edited by Freeman A. Davies, David Holden, and Billy Weber

Produced by Buzz Feitshans and Mario Kassar

Starring

Nick Nolte as Ranger Jack Benteen

Rip Torn as Sheriff Hank

Maria Conchita Alonso as Sarita Cisneros

Powers Boothe as Cash Bailey

Michael Ironside as Hackett

Clancy Brown as McRose

William Forsythe as Atwater

Dan Tullis, Jr. as Luther

Larry B. Scott as Biddle

Matt Mulhern as Coker

Andy Robinson as the Missing Liasion 

. . .

"Here we are Space Age high tech, and we get caught by some Stone Age cowboy."

. . .

Review by William D. Tucker. 

Extreme Prejudice is a mash-up of a Western, a crime thriller, a police procedural, a romantic melodrama, a paranoia/conspiracy thriller, and all of this served up with homages to the slow motion gun carnage scenes of Sam Peckinpah's film The Wild Bunch. It distinguishes itself from the earlier Peckinpah flick by way of casting its action in terms of macho neurosis as opposed to macho psychosis. In Peckinpah films at their bloodiest, the antiheroes get swept up and away by the intoxicating aspects of bloodshed. In Extreme Prejudice, the characters are more uncertain and divided within themselves, and seek to clarify their courses in life by taking decisive, lethal actions. Yes, it climaxes in a grandiose shoot-out, but this is because the protagonists and antagonists can't resolve their divided allegiances, as opposed to the floridly death-seeking outlaws of Peckinpah. 

In El Paso, we have Texas Ranger Jack Benteen going up against his childhood buddy-turned-drug-trafficker-nemesis Cash Bailey. Jack and Cash seem to be able to step outside of their roles as cop and crook-in the early going, anyways-and reminisce about old times full of adolescent sexual conquests. Jack expresses skepticism about the value of the Forever Wars on Drugs, since they basically require him to go after people he grew up with who are all subsistence farmers and blue collar laborers looking to elevate their economic status. 

Jack and Cash are both in love with the same woman, the beautiful singer Sarita Cisneros. Sarita, for reasons known only to director Walter Hill and his cadre of screenwriters, believes she can love both men-the Ranger and the Trafficker-I guess because she likes her men tall, angry, and two-at-a-time? Maybe it's supposed to be that Jack and Cash represent Sarita's ideal love but split into two. Jack's morally upright, but Cash is an adventurer. One's reliable but boring; the other's fun but dangerous. Don't worry, the relationship stuff doesn't distract from the shootouts, not too much, anyways. 

Cash operates out of an estate in Mexico, and flies back and forth across the border in a helicopter. Jack has seemingly tolerated this blatant criminal activity for awhile, but then there are some shootings and a bombing, and Old Times' Sakes ain't gonna be enough to prevent a showdown.

Oh, and there's also a gang of Special Forces soldiers called Zombie Unit who have faked their deaths, and are able to run secret operations against Cash's criminal empire. At least that's what seems to be going on in the beginning. They're led by a shifty dude named Hackett and they use their military combat training along with (landline) phone hacking, disguises, and explosives to run circles around the cops as they pursue an obscure agenda . . . an agenda sanctioned by the U.S. government? That’s a mystery, isn't it . . .

Remember, this one is about macho neurosis, not macho psychosis. The characters all have big-ass dreams, and yet these don't exactly pan-out. They're just a bit too calculating, too dispassionate. The various plot lines converge on a stylized gun massacre, yet it doesn't quite blossom into the madness of the climax of The Wild Bunch. We're in the late 1980s. The action is big, but the characters want the money and a stable future. In 1969, Peckinpah's outlaws know they're doomed and therefore needed only sensational lawlessness and thrilling obliteration as ends unto themselves. Our crimelord Cash is basically a next-level coke-snorting yuppie fuck-he owns a helicopter, for Christ's sakes! Jack is good with a gun, but he has no confidence in his role as Righteous Avenger. Jack's playing out his fate dutifully, and that's about it.

The Zombie Unit guys are more amusing to watch as they operate.  They're kinda like a crooked version of Mission Impossible. They, too, come to question their ultimate purpose. 

Dear Reader, I actually like this movie quite a bit moment-to-moment, and yet the more I think about it retrospectively, the less certain I am that I understand what it's all about, if anything. And that bugs me. Maybe the macho neurosis is catching. 

Advertisement For Myself . . .

 . . . I'm on Patreon.

Here's the link:

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I know times are tough. If you don't have money to spare, that's totally fine.

You can go on supporting me with your views, your readership. That's all I need.

But support on Patreon will allow me to realize other projects that are just not doable for me at present. The main one being an audio fiction podcast. If you like my Every Day Is Halloween posts . . . it's sort of like that. 

But the blog will carry on no matter what. 

Writing is my first love, and love is all you need!

And money.

You gotta have money.

So . . . Love . . . and Money . . . are all that is required . . .

Yeah . . . it kinda sounds terrible,  now . . .

Ah, well . . .

Two words . . .

 . . . CONSPIRITOSIS CONCLAVE . . .

. . . this has to do with where secret masters-actual or aspiring-meet to hash out schemes. 

Did you ever see that Peter Hyams flick The Star Chamber? That one was about a group of judges who met to issue hits on criminals they deemed too vile for due process. The murderous judges met in appropriately sinister settings, as befitting their social status and need for secrecy. The whole movie has that Peter Hyams shadowy thing going on, which he didn't always achieve, but this one works quite well.

Of course, you may be thinking of Dr. Evil and his buds in the lavish secret hideout from one of the Austin Powers movies. Those were fun.

I always think of the creepy old guys who met in a well-appointed office-like they were lobbyists or something-in The X-Files, always in dim lighting, with shafts of light just so-I guess they don't want to look at each other too closely. Bunch of tired old men barely carrying the weight of whatever it was they were getting up to-alien-human hybrids? That black oil stuff? Killer bees infected with an extraterrestrial virus? Placing bets on whether The Simpsons would get canceled first? It was a big damn mystery. 

My favorite example of this would be a group of forty-something tabletop role-playing gamers gathered in a Wendy's in Tallahassee circa 2006. They were hashing out the details of a future roadwar encounter-maybe they were running GURPS Autoduel or the Hard-Wired module of that cyberpunk RPG-and I was the only non-gamer in the joint. I sat with my burger, fries, paper cups of ketchup, and soda and half-listened in on the details of some sort of a missile attack between cyborg frenemies. Wendy's is hardly private-so one might question the conclave-i-ness of the situation . . . but the extreme dorko energy repelled all but the hardiest voyeurs of human escapist projects . . . I may as well have been a spy or a ghost or something . . . and, truly, these were elevated masters of the game, for they played not with pencils or paper or dice-just words and brains and invisible holographic hex grids charting the course of some post-governmental regional conflagration as pizza party minus pizza plus burgers . . . 

I was lucky I left with my life, I suppose.

MOVIE REVIEW: BOILING POINT (2021)

 

Directed by Philip Barantini 

Written by Philip Barantini and James Cummings

Cinematography by Matthew Lewis

Edited by Alex Fountain

Music by Aaron May and David Ridley 

Production Design by Aimee Meek

Art Direction by Deb Milner

Set Decoration by Bill Milner 

Costumes by Karen Smyth 

Produced by Hester Ruoff and Bart Ruspoli

Starring

Thomas Coombes as Health Inspector 

Stephen Graham as The Chef, Andy

Vinette Robinson as Lieutenant Chef Carly

Ray Panthaki as Lieutenant Chef Freeman

Alice Feetham as Front of House Manager Beth

Jason Flemying as Washed-Up Celebrity Chef Stakeholder Guy

Lourdes Faberes as Food Critic 

Izuka Hoyle as Camille

Malachi Kirby as Tony

Hannah Walters as Emily

Stephen McMillan as Jamie

Aine Rose Daly as Robyn

Lauryn Arjufo as Andrea

Gary Lamont as Dean 

. . .

". . . I don't really want to be here . . . I don't really know what I'm doing . . . and nobody likes me here . . ."

. . .

Review by William D. Tucker. 

Third movie with the title Boiling Point. 

Is it the charm?

Well . . .

This Boiling Point is about how work stress fucks with you.

It's about how human beings make the best decisions they possibly, realistically can within hypercompetitive capitalism, how they can have hustle for miles and days and years . . . and still end up fucking miserable. 

This one is about the delusion of 'leaving it at the door' when you come to work, which is another way of saying, "This one is about how grief, shame, untreated-or undiagnosed, or even unarticulated-mental illness, class inequality, white supremacist racism-both subtle and overt, sexism-both subtle and overt, and lack of access to health-care-mental/physical fucks with you."

This is a film that expresses intense skepticism about the whole 'work/life' balance thing. Where does work end, exactly? How do we measure the 'weight' of work versus the 'weight' of life? What if you are someone suffering from intense grief in your 'life' which you have no way of magically switching off when you show up for 'work?' What about when your work stress invades your non-work life? Isn't this distinction between 'work' and 'life' a notional evasion similar to the romantic idea of 'Natural' versus 'Unnatural?'

These notions are explored convincingly, if pessimistically, in Boiling Point, a movie that isn't afraid to say, "Yes. We have many conflicts. Pretending otherwise gets us nowhere."

It's all set inside a trendy London restaurant on a busy Friday night. Workers are out sick. The operation is shortstaffed. The Chef is late. There’s a state health inspector knocking 'em down from five to three stars right before they're supposed to open. The inspector seems to take a harsher tone with workers of color than he does with the white employees. Yes, the inspector has legitimate reasons for writing up health violations, but there's a tone and attitude which could be improved-why not lay out the issues more dispassionately, with more respect for all working people? 

Eventually, the restaurant opens, and the camera takes us from the kitchen to the dining area to the bins out back and on into the freezer-it isn't that it's a large space. It's compact. It's tense. Tempers flare. Supplies are inadequate. People are showing up late or not at all. And the customers keep on coming.

You've got social media influencers hustling for freebies-"we'll boost your visibility online!"

You've got a table full of obnoxious Americans who end up groping their server even after he tells them he's happily married to his husband. 

One sequence is telling: a young blonde white woman server takes an order from a middle-aged white man who clearly relishes playing king of his family. And, oh, how he takes to this server. But then a young Black woman takes over as regular server for this table and the man treats her with nastiness and contempt. It's possible that it isn't racism . . . but it sure looks like it. Sure feels like it.

You've got a hoity-toity food critic showing up-wasn't that a plot point in Dinner Rush-and she just happens to be dating a man who is also the main financial stakeholder in the restaurant-a washed-up former celebrity chef type. This stakeholder is also the former boss of the Chef-bit of an Obi-Wan/Vader situation. 

You also have communications breaking down under stress and overload of throughput. Speed kills, to put it simply. 

The Chef has his two Lieutenant Chefs who work nonstop even whilst he ducks out to re-up whatever his adult beverage of choice happens to be in his health inspector approved water bottle. This is a source of resentment since the two Lieutenant Chefs seldom have time to relax, nor do they receive the same level of respect as The Chef even if he’s the one fucking off at inopportune moments. Fuses lit all around . . .

You've got conflict between the Kitchen Staff and the Front of House Manager. Front of House is perceived as not wanting to get its hands dirty, while Kitchen gets chewed out for being too slow. 

You've got a dishwasher who's trying to stay on top of her job while pregnant and underpaid.

You've got about a third of the staff who work there while dreaming of making it as actors, nightclub DJs, musicians, etc. "This isn't my real job-I'm actually XYZ!" type of deal. This creates a more subtle form of friction between these Daydream Believers and the Lifers: Chef, Lieutenant Chefs, Front of House Manager . . .

Blow-ups ensue. 

Ugly truths are expressed. 

But the momentum of the business seems to steamroll any hope of change.

Money must be made.

Boiling Point is another one of those movies that presents itself as being done in a single unbroken take . . . and it's convincingly done. But, you know, if it turned out there were some cleverly concealed edits it wouldn't diminish the movie in my eyes. I forgot it was all being done in one go after about ten minutes.  I was totally absorbed into the story. Where's it going? How's it going to play out?

My criticisms are minor. 

Firstly, the Chef functions as a protagonist, but this is really more of an ensemble piece. This movie works best in the tangle of its chaotic middle, wherein we cannot escape from the interconnecting dilemmas playing out in the Kitchen and Front of House arenas. When we return to the Chef as a designated protagonist figure-I dunno. It loses something. It's not badly done. I just personally resisted the process of 'collapsing into the protagonist' from the more collective outlook.

Secondly, I found myself resisting the final scene. Not badly done at all, but . . . I dunno. It's not making any compromises, that's for sure, but it's seeming finality was just a touch moralistic for what is otherwise a realistic and sociological piece.

Thirdly, the Obi-Wan/Vader stuff-the conflict between the Chef and the stakeholder guy . . . once again, not badly done at all, but I didn't care about it as much as I cared about the Front of House and Kitchen arenas. 

But Boiling Point worked for me, overall. I've watched it twice, now, and I'll probably watch it a few more times. Its drive and grittiness are absorbing, nor does it pretend that everything is going to magically be all right. I appreciate those qualities very much above all else.

So . . . I watched three different movies titled Boiling Point, and they were all pretty great. That's the world I live in, and it definitely isn't boring.