Rob Wickings's Blog, page 60

The Best Tuna Melt In The World

I feel we know each other well enough now that I can share one of my greatest secrets with you.

And trust me, Readership, this one's a doozy. Let's talk about tuna melts.

There are an awful lot of horrible sandwiches masquerading as the sainted melt out there. Bland, pappy and in some cases actively nasty. It bothers me that a sandwich with so much potential can be so poorly executed. A little thought, care and attention can deliver a tuna melt that would please the gods. I've been working on my method for quite some time, and it really delivers.

Let's start with the bit that often gets overlooked: the bread. I've never been impressed with the ubiquitous panini, and it's completely wrong for a tuna melt. Too fragile, and there's no crumb or surface for the flavours to soak into. Same goes for supermarket squishy white. No, you need a decent white bread. Something with a bit of substance, a bit of grunt. If you make your own, great. If not, grab a nice white bloomer from the bakers. Put that wholemeal loaf back, sunshine. Not for this sandwich.

Now for the tuna mix. Let's assume that you're using a good dolphin-friendly brand as you are a decent human being. In oil, please: the brined stuff just seems a bit flabby for my tastes. Tip a tin-full into a bowl, and add a very finely chopped spring onion and a handful of capers. Mix that up, then add a good squirt of mayo. Mix. Taste. Needs salt? Add salt.

Now for the clever bit. Stir in either a teaspoon of dill mustard sauce, the green, sweet-sharp stuff that goes so well with salmon, or a teaspoon of pesto. You'll get a different result, but the end result remains the same: a pop of flavour that lifts the whole thing. Don't add both, though. You want a pop, not a smack in the chops. I prefer the dill version, but the pesto lightens and lifts in a very pleasing way. I can't choose definitively between them, so I can only urge you try them both.

A note on cheese. The clue is in the name. You need something that'll melt. I ususally team a decent strong cheddar with a mild Dutch cheese like Leerdammer, which puffs up pleasingly under the grill. Austrian smoked cheese works remarkably well with the cheddar too. I don't recommend mozzarella makes for an overly complicated eat, and halloumi is too overwhelming. That goes for Parmesan as well. Feta or crumbly English cheese? No.

To assembly. Toast your bread, on one side only. Two slices per serving (duh). Then pile the tuna filling onto the untoasted side of one slice, top with cheese, then back under the grill, keeping the second slice warm. I like to add some butter to the soft side of the top slice at this point. Keep an eye on the grill. You don't want to burn the melt after you've spent this much time on it. Once the topping is golden and bubbling, it's done. Top with the other slice of buttered toast. Squish down, just enough to ooze some of the oily, savoury flavours into the bread. Slice in twain, and fill your face. Have a salad on the side if you like. I'd rather open a packet of salt and vinegar crisps or, if I want to make a meal of it, some potato wedges.

The end result is salt-sweet, oozy and packed with flavour. The crunch of the toast mixes with the soft filling in a way that just dances on the tongue. If I'm not having a burger and I want a sarnie, this is the one I plump for time and again. Make it like this and you'll never go near a bland panini again.

 

Movies Unwrapped: The Thing

In the act of Unwrapping this movie, I am breaking one of my cardinal movie rules. I can’t remember exactly when I decided that I wasn’t going to watch any more remakes, or which film sparked off that promise. I have a recollection of storming out of the cinema, shaking clenched fists at the sky and screaming “As the gods are my witness, never again.” Or maybe I’m exaggerating.

The thing is, I’ve managed to avoid an awful lot of lousy “reimaginings” of some of my more beloved movies. Listeners to the Speakeasy will no doubt recall Clive, Simon and I going on about this at some length late last year. Our conclusion then was that, with the occasional exception, remakes simply aren’t worth the time, effort or money involved in watching them.

Which leads me neatly onto the question I asked myself when my usual blind rummage into the Unwrapped pile led to me clutching…

THE THING (2011)

dir: Matthijs van Heijningen

scr: Eric Heisserer

starring: Mary Elizabeth Winstead, Joel Edgerton

That question being “what the hell was I thinking?” If there’s one director whose name springs to mind when you’re looking for work that’s been regularly stripmined for remakes, it’s John Carpenter. I’m a huge fan. Up until Vampire$, I’d say that he could do no wrong. I would even argue that Ghosts Of Mars has some merit. Why, then, do I own a copy of one of the lesser regarded remakes of a stone cold classic of his, albeit one that up to now has languished in its wrapping with a SALE – £3 sticker on it?

Readership, I wish I had an answer for you. I think simple curiosity was to blame, and a slightly misjudged notion of watching both films back to back. That double bill has never happened. On the basis of what I’ve seen today, it never will.

Bad idea.

To business, then. The 2011 version of The Thing is a prequel, telling the story of what happened at Thule Station before the guys in the helicopter chased the dog into Outpost #31. A group led by scientist Sander Halvorson discovers something in the ice. Something alien. A craft, and a survivor. With the help of an American contingent including biologist Kate Lloyd (played with admirable toughness by Mary Elizabeth Winstead), they bring the creature they find into the station, only to have it wake up and do what it does best: murder, impersonate and infiltrate.

Funny how alien blood cells are always spiky…

If you’re expecting any surprises or radical changes in the existing mythos from van Heijningen or Heisserer, then you’ll be left waiting. What we have here is a textbook example of everything wrong with the culture of remakes in contemporary cinema. We are presented with a cynical attempt to make money from our fond memories of a favourite movie, with little attempt made to do anything interesting with the material. That’s not to say its a carcrash. Far from it. The 2011 version of The Thing is competently told and directed, and convincingly acted by a cast that treat the material with respect. The effects are fine, if heavy on the CGI. They crib Rob Bottin’s mind-bending originals while offering little with the same sense of deranged surrealism.

Lured into a dark room with no-one else around? That’s a bit silly…

And therein lies the problem. This film is the unwanted first chapter of a story, the bit that any writer worth his salt would lose in the first draft. There’s no reason for this film to exist. It tells us nothing we want to know, shows us nothing that we want to see. It’s so slavishly beholden to the original that it even recycles shots from John Carpenter’s opening chase sequence in order to tie the two together. The face of the final creature is a slavish recreation of Bottin’s two-face-melt image – a fleeting glimpse of something horrible that gets plastered all over a CG end-boss. Even the credit font is the same, Carpenter’s favourite, good old Albertus. The best bits of The Thing (2011) have been around since 1981.

and there’s a lot of this.

I’m genuinely befuddled by this film. I can’t see why anyone thought it was a good idea. The production values are fine. There’s nothing inherently wrong with it. But it has none of the febrile tension of the original, and the paranoia and un-nerving atmosphere of Carpenter’s film have been binned in favour of more monster stuff and the inevitable raft of attempted jump scares.

Ok, then. Was The Thing (2011) worth Unwrapping?

Well, no. But then again, yes. See, the problem is that I’m irrevocably tied to the original. It’s always in my top ten. Any remake is going to suffer when placed against a film I regard as one of the finest examples of horror cinema out there. Would I feel the same way if I hadn’t seen the 1981 film?

I don’t know, is the simple answer. It’s impossible for me to forget about Carpenter’s movie when I watch van Heijnigen’s because they share so much of the same DNA. I can’t be a fair judge. I’m glad I saw it, because it reinforced my belief that all remakes are lousy, unfair as that may be. In this case, history has had the last word: there was no audience for the film. It tanked at the box office, and van Heijnigen hasn’t worked in the big leagues since. I needed to see it to be sure, and in doing so I can retreat back under my turtle-shell, content and bulletproof in my beliefs.

If you’d like to judge for yourself, my copy of The Thing (2011) is up for grabs. Just answer this simple question:

Which other beloved 80s horror remake has an Eric Heisserer script?

As ever, answers in the comments.

Hands To The Pump

We were ambling past our local petrol station the other day, and I was struck with a sudden thought.

It’s just undergone a refurb, and there were flashy new pumps in place on the forecourt. But in terms of functionality, these new devices are the same as the ones they replaced. They’re strictly manual in operation.

I got to wondering. Why is it that petrol pumps don’t have the ability to dispense a precise amount of petrol? If you want to spend thirty quid, why do you have to play the game of nudging the trigger when you get to within £29.75?

You know how it goes. £29.80. £29.87. £29.93. There’s no logic or reason behind the increments. 95. 96. 98. 99. Gently now…

£30.01. And you swear long and loud, and dole out the extra penny.

Let’s put it like this. What if there was a pump that would allow you to rock up, pop in a debit card and then let you tap in the amount that you wanted to put into your car on a keypad? It would deliver what you wanted, without the need for the jiggery-pokery. Surely it can’t be that tricky to devise a simple valve that works on a calculated amount of fluid based on price per litre? Of course, the standard safety cutout that shuts off when you’ve filled up would still work if you ordered forty quid and only had room for thirty-five in the tank. It means you’ve got that bit more control and you’re only putting in what you need, to the penny. As fuel prices continue to rise, a simple fix like this is a no-brainer, right?

Or maybe there’s a more sinister agenda at play here. Think about how much those accidental pennies that we put in add up over time, and over the millions of vehicles whose drivers let that extra dribble of fuel through. How much revenue would the petrol companies lose over the course of a year if the penny or so overspend was taken out of the equation?

Let’s make a guesstimate, based on a very rough set of figures. Imagine a driver that has never been able to stop that extra penny going through the gate. He uses the pumps once a week. That’s around 50p a year. Not very much.

But bear in mind that according to figures released by the DVLA last year, there are 34.5 million vehicles licensed for use on the road. So by keeping the pumps manual, petrol companies are making around 17 million quid just by us being a little bit fumble-knuckled on the forecourt.

It’s not surprising that you’ll never see a fully automatic fuel dispenser at our garages. There’s no reason for the petrocompanies to make one, and millions of reasons to keep us playing the same frustrating game at the pumps.

Movies Unwrapped: The Arrival Of Wang

This week, I thought I’d give the Leading Man a chance to redeem himself. Normally, I trust Clive’s instincts when it comes to films, and it’s rare that our likes don’t intersect. So it was something of a surprise for me to find how much I hated The Divide–a film that he’d raved about for years.

So, was it just an aberration? Have our tastes drifted away from each other? There’s one way to find out. This week, I’m unwrapping another of Clive’s recommendations…

THE ARRIVAL OF WANG (2011)

dir/scr: The Manetti Brothers

starring:

Ennio Fantastichini, Francesca Cuttica, Li Yong

*SPOILER ALERT IN OPERATION FROM THIS POINT ON*

The Arrival Of Wang is a taut, tight SF thriller that reads like a lost episode of The Twilight Zone or The Outer Limits. Gaia, a translator specialising in subtitle work for cheap Chinese movies is picked up by security forces and hustled to a secret location, where she is tasked with a tricky job: sitting in on the questioning of a subject who only speaks Mandarin. As the reasons for the secrecy become clear, she is torn between her innate humanity and the possibility that everything that she has been told is a lie…

Trust me, just put your hand on this…

It’s difficult to talk about The Arrival Of Wang without discussing its central conceit. I hesitate to call it a twist, as Wang’s face, the big secret of the first third of the film, is plastered over the cover of the DVD. So let’s get it out of the way. Wang is an alien, who has learnt the most-spoken language on the planet. Somehow, he’s ended up in Rome, unable to communicate, trapped in a place where he’s very definitely on his own. Captured and interrogated, he insists that he comes in peace.

His CGI form is certainly designed to tweak our sympathies. Pot-bellied and doe-eyed, trussed up like a turkey in tinfoil, he doesn’t look like any kind of threat. Gaia, played with simple grace by Francesca Cuttica, certainly is on Wang’s side. As interrogator Curti, played by the fantastically-named Ennio Fantastichini, loses patience with Wang and brings in the electrical probes, we side with him too. It’s as if the Italians are torturing ET.

Translate this: how much wood would a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood?

The Arrival Of Wang is a bottle show, shot in a basement complex with perhaps one exterior shot. A tiny cast and crew do a decent job on what’s clearly a limited budget. Fantastichini and Cuttica are both excellent, squeezing every drop of tension out of the script. In the con column, I found the way Gaia sounds like she’s rolling marbles round her mouth when speaking Chinese a little distracting. The CG used for Wang isn’t the greatest, especially when he finally gets free of his chair and has to waddle around, and to be honest I found the character design a little too cartoonish.

But these are minor concerns for a movie that has a decent hit of good old fashioned Atom-age paranoia at its heart. The modern concern with the use (and usefulness) of torture as a way to gather information is played with nicely, as is Gaia’s concern with Wang’s human rights–a notion that Curti pulls apart in front of her. As for Wang’s true mission? Well, that’s one secret I’ll have to keep.

Advanced alien civilisations have maguffins too!

Let us consider the facts, then:

Is The Arrival Of Wang worth unwrapping?

A big fat yes for this one. A tightly played piece of proper SF with a pair of compelling central performances and a lot to say about the way we defend ourselves against terrorism, and how successful those defences can be. The ending, which Clive is on record as hating, is to my mind both inevitable and pleasingly logical, and locks into the black-hearted twist endings that the 90′s version of The Outer Limits (a show that The Arrival Of Wang very closely resembles in terms of look and mood) delighted in. There’s no flab, and it’s never dull.

Clive: you’re off the hook. Good choice.

To win my copy of The Arrival of Wang, just answer this question:

Which famously keen fictional interrogator said:

“You are going to tell me what I want to know, it’s just a matter of how much you want it to hurt”?

Answers in the comments, first right answer gets the disc. Good luck!

Red Rags

Cold, wet weather needs some warm, robust cooking. While my love for the one-pot stew knows no bounds, there are times when a shank, steak, chop or pile of sausages are the only thing that will do. Sure, there's nothing wrong with some steamed veg on the side. But I think we can do a little better than that.

I've been cooking red rags for a while now, and it's a dish that came out of experiment and necessity–that is, the need to use up tired veg that are lurking in the fridge and giving me guilt-trips. And while we're at it, one of those ingredients that seemed like a good idea over Christmas, but is now seriously outstaying its welcome.

It couldn't be simpler, really. The base is half a red cabbage and a whole red onion, which you cook down gently in a heavy, lidded pan with a knob of butter. They're shredded to the same sort of size, probably a bit chunkier than if you grated them. A mandolin does the job in seconds, but watch your fingers. If you have a couple of carrots, throw them in as well. If you have raw beetroot, even better.

Give your veg 15 minutes or so under a low heat, until it's softened but still has texture and bite. Now for the magic. It's two months after Christmas, and I bet you still have a half bottle of ready-mulled red wine knocking around. You know, that spiced, sugery stuff that never quite tastes as good as you think it's going to. It's not the greatest drink in the world, but when added to slow-cooked braises the sugar and spices mellow and transform into something with a lot more character. A glass or so of that over the veg, please, enough to cover. If you were sensible enough to steer clear of the ready-made, use normal red and chuck in a cinnamon stick. I haven't tried the muslin parcels of mulling spice, but I'd imagine you could use those at a pinch.

With the lid off now, bring the pot up to a fast simmer and let the liquid cook down to a sweet coating for the veg. Check the flavouring. If it's all a bit too sugary for your taste, throw in a little lemon juice or vinegar to balance things out.

The end result is a shining tangle of rich red deliciousness that's perfect sitting next to sausage and mash, a lamb shank, a pork chop, maybe even a hunk of monkfish. It's fantastic with game, of course. It'll keep in the fridge for a week or so. Cold, it makes a brilliant relish with strong cheeses and a good slice of ham. I'm thinking about making a pickled version just for that purpose. And of course, if you assemble the raw vegetables and bind them with a mix of mayo and creme fraiche, you have a fresh, crunchy ruby slaw, the uses of which are nearly endless.

In winter months I always have a red cabbage in the fridge just to make red rags. It's possibly my favourite vegetable dish for this end of the year. Easy to make, and with flavour to spare, it's going to brighten up your winter plates no end.

 

Movies Unwrapped: ZETA ONE

In this edition of Movies Unwrapped, we’re going back to the sixties, for a far-out slice of wiggy soft-core sci-fi from the home of cheapo English exploitation. How on earth did I leave this one in its wrapping for so long?

ZETA ONE (1968)

dir: Michael Cort

scr: Micheal Cort and Alistair Mckenzie

starring: James Robertson Justice, Charles Hawtrey, Robin Hawdon, Dawn Addams

 

Somewhere, separated from us by a space-time barrier, lies the land of Angvia. It is a realm where women rule, and the Angvians, ruled by the powerful and autocratic Zeta, replenish their ranks by kidnapping and brainwashing girls from our world. Their nemesis is the evil Major Bourden who, along with his reptilian assistant Swyne, is after Angvia for himself. It’s down to superspy James Word to find out and expose the truth about this planet of women. But he doesn’t realise that Zeta has her own plans for him…

Zeta: far out.

Made under the auspices of Tigon Films, the studio behind trashy Britspoitation horrors like Cauldron Of Blood and Scream And Scream Again, Zeta One is credited as being one of the inspirations behind Austin Powers. It’s stuffed with appearances by scream queens like Valerie Leon and Yutte Stensgaard, as well as James Robertson Justice and Charles Hawtrey slumming it as Bourden and Swyne. It’s heavy on the groovy and the sexy. Apart from Rita Webb’s turn as a mouthy bus conductor, every woman on screen is good-looking and spends most of their screen time out of their clothes.

JRJ: looking to have a word with his agent.

It all sounds like saucy fun, and there are some inspired moments of silliness, but for a short film (it’s only 85 minutes) it’s curiously inert. The first twenty minutes are taken up with Word and a mysterious female who claims to be working for his boss chatting and playing the slowest, dullest game of strip poker ever. Word himself is hardly an action hero: he spends most of the movie in bed. He doesn’t even crack the obvious joke about his word being his Bond, fercrissakes.

Word: sharing an interior decorator with Zeta.

It all kind of hangs together, but there are times when the script feels like a bad translation of a Jess Franco movie. The humour, such as it is, is painfully raised-eyebrow, and a bit creaky. It doesn’t finish so much as end, with no real clue as to what happens to Bourden and Swyne as the credits roll. Robertson Justice and Hawtrey both phone in performances from a Carry On far far away, and it’s all very cheap and cheerful.

Hawtrey: on hold to speak to his agent.

 

But cheerful it is. The “Action 69″ fight sequence between Bourden’s thugs and a force of Angvians dressed in costumes made out of rope and nipple covers is a treat, and it’s all so silly that I couldn’t help but feel warmly towards it. The oil-lamp special effects and heavy use of coloured lighting mean that the whole film would work perfectly as a back projection for a retro club night.

Groovy.

So, the big question:

Was ZETA ONE worth unwrapping?

I’m going to say yes. It’s no masterpiece, but if you’re a fan of cult horror and the low end of the British market in the late sixties, Zeta One is worth a look. The plot is a mess, the acting is pretty grim and the effects no better than you’d see in Doctor Who episodes of the era. But you know what you’re getting here. Zeta One is cheerful spy-fi softcore, a mish-mash of genres, whoops-vicar nudity and Donald Gill sauciness that defines a clear time and place in British cinema.

Besides, I can’t feel ill-disposed towards any movie that can provide an image like this.

Action 69: complete.

Ooh, I say.

Wilkin’s Farm

Finally we had a chance to visit docoDom and Delightful Deming in their adopted home town of Bristol, and hoo boy did we have us a time.

The West Country is fantasic for good grub: simple and delicious are the keywords. It's worth going a little out of your way to find something a little bit special, and romping around winding Somerset roads on what seems like the first sunny day of the year is an adventure to which I'm always happy to sign up. D&D had a place they wanted to show us, a place of myth, legend, and some of the greatest cider going.

 

Wilkin's Cider Farm in Mudgley, within spittin' distance of the Cheddar Gorge and with fine views over the floodlands of the Somerset Levels, is not so much tucked away as actively disguised. I'm told it was only recently that Roger, the owner and cider boss, bothered to put up a sign making sure that punters knew they were heading in the right direction and not down into a swamp-filled dead end.

Wilkins is not yer average poshed-up rural retail experience. Basically, once you wend your way up the ever-narrowing path to Roger's gaff, this is the welcome that awaits.

Roger sells a small selection of local chutneys, eggs and veg in his barn, but the draw for everyone that makes it up to the farm are his ciders and cheeses. The apple-juice has won CAMRA awards, the cheese is uncompromisingly unpasturised. The blues and extra-strong cheddars he sells are mouth-poppingly flavoursome, yet still creamy and forgiving. A big fat kiss rather than a smack in the chops. Deming uses the blue in a glorious cheese, kale and walnut sauce for pasta that is one of the most delicious things I've shoved in my feed-hole this year.

The ciders are served straight from the barrel, and here's where things get interesting. Sweet, medium and dry, they all have the song of the fruit at their heart, without a hint of vinegar or sharpness. The dry is astringent, but you never feel that the lining is being stripped from your tongue. Roger will happily sell you anything from a half litre to a five gallon tub.

It's about as un-shoplike an experience as you can imagine. We wandered around before Roger cheerily shoved half-pint pots of warm cider at us, and the samples of cheese he brought out were big enough to make up an average size board at any restaurant in the area. You're free to hang around for as long as you want. Grab a drink, enjoy the view. Roger is tucked at the back of the barn in the grandly-titled “lounge bar,” shooting the breeze with his mates and anyone that fancies a chin-wag. There is no pressure to sell at all, but he knows that once you've tasted, you'll want to buy. Compare that to the hard-sell and measly sample-giving from the tourist-traps in Cheddar itself, and it all becomes very clear. At Wilkins Farm, you get the real Somerset–no frills, no fuss, just great grub.

Yes, it's a pain to get to. Yes, it's essentially four barrels in a well-used and working barn. But the cider and cheese are utterly glorious, and you can fill your boots (and your car boot) for a fraction of what they charge at the Gorge. If you're in the area, and you want the real deal in local produce, this is the place to come.

Just fire up the satnav, or you'll never find the place.

If you can't make it up to Mudgley, Roger will cheerfully send you his cider and cheese: pop over to wilkinscider.com, or give him a ring on 01934 712385.

 

The February Speakeasy: We Love Documentaries!

We love documentaries, so it’s only appropriate that we take the most love-drenched time of the year to talk about them.

We’re joined by long-time friend of Excuses And Half Truths, Dominic Wade, and chat about the ins, outs, throughs and overs of documentary film-making.

Feel the love!

Download: february-doceasy1.m4a

This is Dominic Wade

This is docoBanksy

The Cook’s Creed

This is my spatula. There are many like it, but this one is mine.


My spatula is my best friend. It is my life. I must master it as I must master my life.


My spatula, without me, is useless. Without my spatula, I am useless. I must use my spatula true. I must scrape straighter than my dinner, which is trying to burn onto the pan. I must scrape the pan before it burns on me. I will…


My spatula and I know that what counts at dinnertime is not the heat we cook at, the sharpness of our knives, nor the smoke we make. We know that it is the meal that counts. We will cook…


My spatula is human, even as I, because it is my life. Thus, I will learn it as a brother. I will learn its weaknesses, its strength, its handle and its leading edge. I will keep my spatula clean and ready, even as I am clean and ready. We will become part of each other. We will…


Before God, I swear this creed. My spatula and I are the defenders of my kitchen. We are the masters of our ingredients. We are the saviours of dinnertime.


So be it, until the meal is ours and there is no washing-up.

(adapted, with apologies, from The Rifleman’s Creed, written by Major General William H. Rupertus and still learnt by U. S. Marines at their recruit training.)

Movies Unwrapped: THE DIVIDE

Here we go again, as I dig into the teetering pile of shrink-wrapped films over in the dustiest annex of my DVD library.

What have we here? Let me blow the dust off, and scrabble at the cling film, picking with a nail for some kind of purchase. A pointless exercise. I know I’m going to have to get the scissors out eventually. Succumb to my will, disc.

This week’s film has actually been chosen for me. Leading Man Clive spotted it in the photo I posted of my mountain of goodies, and was keen to see what I thought. It was a highlight for him of 2011′s Frightfest. I could do no more than to follow his suggestion.

From here on in, consider SPOILER ALERTS in operation.

This week’s Movie Unwrapped is:

THE DIVIDE (2011)

dir: Xavier Gens

scr: Karl Mueller and Eron Sheean

starring: Michael Biehn, Lauren German, Milo Ventimiglia

We start with the end of the world. New York falls under nuclear fire, and we join a motley crew of survivors in the basement of an apartment building: three street toughs, a husband and wife going through marriage difficulties, a mother and daughter, a black guy and the super of the building. Locked in, with limited food and water, they wait for rescue.

You’ll see a lot of this.

It seems to come when a group of soldiers in hazmat suits torch open the heavy metal door. But the soldiers have another agenda, and they grab the little girl and spirit her away. One of the toughs tries a rescue, only to find that the girl is being subjected to strange experiments, sleeping in a metal tank and hooked up to strange machinery. He runs back for reinforcements, only to be followed by more of the hazmats, who weld the door shut. Now the strangers must work together to find a way out and rescue the girl before it’s too late…

The hazmats – my favourite bit of The Divide.

Just kidding. That would be a different and potentially much more interesting film. Once the hazmats weld the door shut, we never see them again. From that point on, The Divide becomes a film about what happens when seven people are trapped in a limited space with no hope of escape. A cack-fisted allegory on power, control and the evil what men do, The Divide falls apart as the cast chew the scenery, shave their heads, smear themselves in makeup and start killing each other. There’s gore and rape aplenty, and absolutely no chance whatsoever of a happy ending.

An example of the quality of discourse on offer.

For a bottle show to work (and apart from three short scenes, the whole film takes place in Biehn’s basement) you have to give a damn about the characters. In The Divide, I simply don’t care about them. They’re so sketchily drawn that I can’t even remember any of their names. The street thugs are just bullies. The husband is a weakling. The wife is, I dunno. Pretty? They’re just pieces shunted around a game board. Courtney B. Vance, who deserves much better, is the generic token horror movie black guy to such an extent that he’s killed first.

I keep coming back in my mind to the hazmats, because they seem to have been ported in from a different movie. When they’re around, things are exciting and there’s a sense of genuine threat. There are stakes. There are questions. Who are they? Where have they come from? What do they want with the kids? Why do they seem to be symbiotically bonded to their suits? The Divide answers none of these. As far as I can tell, the only reason they’re in the film is to provide a gun and a hazmat suit for the wife/girl character to use in the end to get out of the basement. Oh yeah, there’s a way out. It’s not exactly hard to guess what it is.

Such questions. No answers.

In some ways, I feel like I’ve been sold false goods. The back cover copy makes a big deal out of the hazmats, and yet they’re in the movie for twenty minutes max. The rest is a slow slide into despair, degradation and utter hopelessness. Well, that’s the way I felt after watching it.

I struggle to find anything good to say about The Divide. I have to credit the cast for the way they totally commit to the nastiness. Special kudos goes to Michael Eklund going the full crazy in a dress and shaky eyeliner. Rosanna Arquette always slides into lunacy with conviction. And of course, there’s the 20 minutes with the hazmats, which is the only point where the film wakes up. But for the most part, lumpen dialogue, poor to non-existent characterisation and unconvincing gore make for a frankly wasted evening in.

Eklund: full crazy.

Was THE DIVIDE worth unwrapping?

Gods, no.

However, if you’d like a chance to judge for yourself, my copy is up for grabs. Just answer this simple question:

Milo Ventimiglia made his name in which TV series?

Answers in the comments. Please, someone take this crap off my hands.