Only now does it occur to me... THE PROPHECY (1995)

Only now does it occur to me... how in the hell did they succeed in making THE PROPHECY so boring?

Let's begin at the beginning: this is an apocalyptic, supernatural horror movie (from the writer of HIGHLANDER, no less), apparently popular enough to spawn four sequels, starring Christopher Walken as the Archangel Gabriel,

a character with bizarrely 'wig-like' slicked-back hair, who is defined mostly by his propensity for perching on things



and his profound, nearly Trumpian sniffing:


who is probably based on the "Angel of Death" character from a Madonna music video.


In "Bad Girl" (1993), Walken's just sniffin'

and perchin' all over the place.


Did I mention we also also have Eric Stolz (as the Archangel "Simon") looking all Jesus-y and

also perching on lots of things, like the best of them.

We have Elias Koteas lending serious pathos as a priest-turned-detective:


SEINFELD's "Kenny Bania" (Steve Hytner) in an oddly serious role:


Adam Goldberg dealing with some serious limbo/substance abuse:


Virginia Madsen looking seriously sad all the time:

and Amanda Plummer doing some serious gurgling in a hospital bed:

Wait a minute, why is this all so serious?!  This is a movie about creepy-wacky Archangels that sniff and perch on things, it should be kind of fun, right?

When we're given visions of a battle in heaven, I was reminded of ARMY OF DARKNESS

and immediately wished that I was watching ARMY OF DARKNESS instead.  Or at least TALES FROM THE CRYPT: DEMON KNIGHT.

By the time Viggo Mortensen shows up as Satan

Two of Cronenberg's faves sharing a tender, sniffin' moment––Viggo (A HISTORY OF VIOLENCE, EASTERN PROMISES) and Elias (CRASH).

(also perching on things, come to think of it)

we should be having peak fun––it's so patently ridiculous, that no amount of overwrought, inspirational voiceover; no amount of clumsily-delivered Biblical exposition should be able to ruin our fun. And yet. And yet.

Allow me to quote a line from THE PROPHECY:

"And in the end, I think it must be about faith, and if faith is a choice, then it can be lost––for a man, an angel, or the devil himself. And if faith means never completely understanding God's plan, then maybe understanding just a part of it ––our part––is what it is to have a soul. And maybe in the end, that's what being human is, after all." 

Dear lord, I believe I've stumbled upon the problem. I wanted this to feel like PRINCE OF DARKNESS or HELLRAISER or DEMON KNIGHT––hell, I would have even taken END OF DAYS... but instead, watching this movie feels like going to church. THE PROPHECY is not a horror movie. It's a sanctimonious Hallmark Channel drama masquerading as a horror movie. THE PROPHECY tricks you into thinking you're buying tickets to a Black Sabbath concert, but really it's a 'hip' Christian rock festival called Whack Sabbath. THE PROPHECY approaches you at the mall, and you think, wow, you're getting a coupon for a free Orange Julius, but really you're being handed a pamphlet that asks, "Are you saved?" THE PROPHECY is a breaking news alert about "War!" and after you scramble to click the link, you see they mean the War on Christmas. PROPHECY is a better movie, and PROPHECY is a movie about mutant bears directed by a blacked-out drunk John Frankenheimer. I could go on. But I won't. Um, Amen.


[Also worth mentioning: there are a number of elements (including the Weinsteins) that this movie shares in common with Kevin Smith's DOGMA, and while the flavors couldn't be more different, I feel pretty confident that THE PROPHECY served as at least a partial inspiration.]

Film Review: CRASH (1996, David Cronenberg)

Stars: 5 of 5.
Running Time: 100 minutes.
Notable Cast or Crew: James Spader (TUFF TURF, WOLF), Elias Koteas (EXOTICA, SHUTTER ISLAND), Holly Hunter (RAISING ARIZONA, THE PIANO), Deborah Cara Unger (THE GAME, THIRTEEN), Rosanna Arquette (AFTER HOURS, DESPERATELY SEEKING SUSAN), Peter MacNeill (BODY PARTS, SIMON BIRCH). Based on the novel by J.G. Ballard (EMPIRE OF THE SUN). Music by Howard Shore (AFTER HOURS, VIDEODROME, THE LORD OF THE RINGS). Cinematography by Peter Suschitzky (DEAD RINGERS, NAKED LUNCH, MARS ATTACKS!).
Tag-lines: " Love in the dying moments of the twentieth century."
Best one-liner: " They bury the dead so quickly. They should leave them lying around for months."

The next chapter in David Cronenberg's continuing treatise on the cruel metamorphosis of human flesh, CRASH is a bold, virile film that's as hilarious as it is existentially terrifying.





The car itself is a conceptual hotbed of primordial fears and visceral desires: the stifling, claustrophobic space; constrictive belts and cold metal clasps; exhilarating accelerations and jolting stops– it's even the site of many a Baby Boomers' first sexual fumblings... and, oh yeah– the ever-present threat of death and shattered glass and crumpled metal and blood and fluid and bodies penetrated, torn, and ripped by the thundering collision of jagged steel and spongy tissue. We are surrounded by machines: they are part of us, and there is no escape. So we adapt, we integrate, we re-form ourselves like the maladjusted flesh sculptors we are. Howard Shore's dark, entrancing score sends metallic echoes and screeching guitar reverberations up from the pit of our deepest fears– it's as relentless and hypnotic as a highway cloverleaf. It taps into some primal fascination we don't quite have the vocabulary for– from watching bacteria mingle under a slide to pornography to, say, KOYAANISQATSI. Cronenberg’s actors are BEYOND committed. And therein lies the humor– we laugh, not because it’s 'funny,' but because these people are FOR REAL: the way Holly Hunter awkwardly scrabbles around for the remote after the crash test VHS they're watching unexpectedly pauses, the sincerely ecstatic way that Spader and Hunter heartlily applaud a high-impact 'performance,'

or this shot of a young, fanny-packin', ripped-jeans-wearin' crew member wheeling a camera away to reveal...




...smarmy, disaffected Spader.

Rosanna Arquette becomes a work of modern, sexualized art worthy of Giger, framed by chrome braces, gaping scars, and fishnets,

and her bizarre, mortifying interaction with an awkward, high-end car salesman is 100% worth the price of admission:



Deborah Kara Unger is deeply damaged and possesses a fascinating, serpentine detachment:

but, like in EXOTICA, it's Elias Koteas' natural, volatile charisma that becomes the film's centerpiece- his narration and reenactment of the James Dean crash is the kind of triumph that most actors spend an entire lifetime in search of.

I mean, look at him!


Nobody sucks face quite like Elias Koteas.

A great date movie, and best seen at the theater so you can really savor that car ride home. Five stars.

-Sean Gill

Film Review: EXOTICA (1994, Atom Egoyan)

Stars: 5 of 5.
Running Time: 103 minutes.
Notable Cast or Crew: Elias Koteas (TEENAGE MUTANT NINJA TURTLES, THE THIN RED LINE, ZODIAC, Cronenberg's CRASH), Victor Garber (ALIAS, MILK), Bruce Greenwood (I'M NOT THERE, THE SWEET HEREAFTER, Abrams' STAR TREK), Mia Kirshner (THE L WORD, THE CROW II), Sarah Polley (GO, THE SWEET HEREAFTER), Arsinée Khanjian (FAT GIRL, CALENDAR), Don McKellar (EXISTENZ, BLINDNESS), music by Mychael Danna (THE SWEET HEREAFTER, CAPOTE), shot by Paul Sarossy (SOLDIER'S GIRL, WICKER MAN remake).
Tag-lines: "In a world of temptation, obsession is the deadliest desire." WHAT

Without any context, a babysitter could be easily confused for a hooker (or vice versa) when she's taking money from an older man in a darkened car. And, in a way, this is the premise of EXOTICA. Context, context, context. A great many of us traverse this life quite presumptuously, making ill-informed judgments (be it by thought, speech, or act) based on observations made in an instant; judging the world based on a grain of sand or a drop of water. In Atom Egoyan's world, the basis of human communication should be a mutual admission: "I don't know what you've been through, nor you, I." The record of a human life cannot be told in an hour, or two, or even a thousand. It's a sum of experiences, traumas, realizations, and fleeting moments that only its bearer can truly appreciate. Yet this truth is ignored again and again until the observer is satisfied enough to 'pin down' his subject, catalogue it, and store it away.

The film is full of these observers; police watching potential criminals at an airport, a man inspecting a rare bird in a cage, spectators at a ballet, patrons at a strip club, management of said club keeping tabs on the patrons. Everyone's getting something out of these exchanges, but what? We're drawn to the uncertainty of mystery almost as much as we're drawn to the finality of judgment. The unknown, the inexplicable, the exotic. An 'exotic' baby grand piano, an 'exotic' bird, a session with an 'exotic' dancer. What are we getting out of this? Something different becomes something familiar. All of these ideas congeal quite beautifully into a character-driven drama that culminates in a finale that is truly cathartic. A lesser artist would allow what follows to spiral into violence, but Egoyan finds a way to reconcile his characters, plot threads, and themes into a denouement that is absolutely staggering, completely appropriate, and one of the best filmic payoffs in years.

Now, after all of that, get a load of the DVD cover Miramax has furnished for this film.

They'd have you believe it's a trite, schoolgirl strippin', darkly voyeuristic, knock-off Eszterhas thrill ride. Given the film's lack of faith in deluded prejudgments, I suppose the cover is the perfect prelude to what comes next. Five stars.

-Sean Gill