This review in honor of Francis Ford Coppola’s Megapolis. Not it’s quality – I haven’t seen it – but just the sheer existence of the damn thing.

A famously mistreated and malformed major studio picture with a post-release to rival Orson Welles’s The Magnificent Ambersons, 1984’s The Cotton Club was, for 35 years, a deeply circumscribed experience. Viewers would be forgiven for expecting that some of that had to do with director Francis Ford Coppola himself, whose passion projects (and even his workaday productions), are – even absent any studio interference – absolutely not sturdy objects. Coppola’s best films are visual arias invested as much, if not more, in texture and tone than in plot or logical coherence. Defiantly cinematic, Coppola’s Godfather pictures are baroque operettas looking back at the gristmill of 20^th century capitalism. His masterpiece The Conversation istheir grimier, tetchier, thoroughly shaken nervous wreck of a sibling. His Dracula isKabuki theater crossed with a travelling carnival.

And those are just the films that didn’t nearly bankrupt him or destroy his career. When 1979’s Apocalypse Now nearly lost its mind, it also contributed to losing New Hollywood its head. The kind of money and effort he was spending was, suddenly, only to be handed out for relatively streamlined, sure-fire projects. Personal projects were on austerity, gone the way of the Dodo. By the end of the 1970s, Coppola, like Robert Altman and others, seemed like unhinged mavericks absolutely lost in their own delirious cinematic fever dreams (and I mean that as a statement of affection). Apocalypse Now is, as he famously and self-aggrandizingly noted, an imperial project, an act of mutually assured destruction for the people behind and in front of the camera (which Coppola apparently, incorrectly, thought let him off the hook).

Distorted though his claims and films (and that narrative about the demise of the New Hollywood) could be, Coppola seemed unambiguously committed to not listening to anyone but himself when he outdid even his own ego with his fascinating one-from-the-heart picture One From the Heart drawing more from Von Sternberg than the realist textures of the New Hollywood at their grittiest. No one knew what to do with it, except put him on thin ice. It is certainly no surprise that his new film Megalopolis positions itself as a grand cinematic comeuppance, an existential statement of world-shaking import, and it will surely be no surprise when it makes no money at the box office.

God bless Walter Hill for using the commercial success of 48 Hrs. to unleash Streets of Fire upon the world. Not that it’s necessarily great, or even the best version of its central idea, but this is the sort of “one for me” we should be celebrating. Streets of Fire plays like a feature-length MTV music video, a film engaged in the sonic hysterics and labile, melted-mutant editing of a post-modern pastiche of yesteryear’s rebellions. It’s like fading in and out of sleep to catch a stray fragment of a video for The Stray Cats after watching a rerun of a classic Western. Unremittingly brazen and mostly indifferent to internal characterization, it plays like the rougher and less fully formed sibling of Francis Ford Coppola’s One From the Heart, that director’s love letter to the fantasia of history’s dreams. Hill, who would have been sixteen when, say, Rebel Without a Cause was released, imagines a fever dream version of the memories that inspired him, here brought back to furious, warped life.

Not that Hill was new to teenage carnivalesque. His 1979 film, The Warriors, a nocturnal emanation of tough youthful romanticism and dingy luminosity barely held together by leather jackets and just enough masculine charisma to smother the future with. That film, based on Xenophon’s play Anabasis, understood that minimalist aesthetics could touch the suggestive void, that in its paradoxical milieu of abstract particularity, a film could snatch a fragment of the eternal. Hill often worked in this register: grainy and low-to-the-ground like a New Hollywood greaser, but teasing out the illusive and fantastic, the penumbra of abstraction around the direct darkness, either by marking his film as an allegory, as in the turbid and tangled waters of Southern Comfort, orby turning the characters into abstractions a la The Driver or in the meta-theoretical-generational The Long Riders. A Hill film is like its title: tight, iconic, even brutally clipped, yet somehow suggestive and oneiric.

Perhaps because of his straightforwardness, Hill was largely salvaged rather than savaged by the 1980s. Rather than overinflated budgets in search of transcendent, contemplative vistas, Hill was a guerrilla filmmaker, adopting relatively tight-and-tough inclination to shoot the damn thing and go home, Samuel Fuller style. But his films also survived into the ‘80s because of their abstraction, because of the paradoxical way they extract cosmic fantasies and ambitions out of bitter realities. A film like Streets of Fire is spartan and at times not actually as stylized as it pretends to be, but it is also an expressionistic, over-feeling dream story, one in which inner states seem to take on expressive corporealization in bodies that can’t quite contain them. His films reduce complex matters to bare minimums to discover what feelings seep out of cracks.

Case in point. The logline for Streets of Fire: man returns from war and assembles a ragtag crew to go to war to recover his girlfriend. Hill favors impromptu groups, often men on missions that were not their choosing, straight-to-the-numbers cinema films that mischievously emerge as cauldrons where personalities and types and teased and tested. He debases his films to elevate them, as anyone who has The Warriors well knows. The protagonists of Streets of Fire are also on a journey. When Tom Cody (Michael Paré) learns that his old flame Ellen Aim (Diane Lane) has been kidnapped by  Raven (a deviously outré Willem Dafoe, who looks to be both 15 and 55, which is to say, a youthful imagination that can’t quite project itself into the clothing it wants to wear and a tired old dream clinging to youth), Tom hijacks Ellen’s new boyfriend and manager Billy Fish (Rick Moranis) and conscripts McCoy (Amy Madigan), a delicious amalgam of ‘30s tough-talking  dame  and Hawksian tough-women types, for the ride. The route they take is thoroughly unsurprising, nor is it intended to be anything else.

What matters, obviously, are the red-hot, hallucinatory compositions of cinematographer Andrew Laszlo and the rhythmic, off-balance editing of Freeman Davies. The ideas are simple and folkloric but vivid, and the texture is that of a film having a dream about itself. The film has an aloof, distant quality, like the characters are icon-types, or as though they’re play-acting their audition for the real deal. In switching and crossbreeding genres, Hill and co-writer Larry Gross conjure what could be called a pop-culture clusterfuck, a stray cat strut through a decade trapped in the memories of a generation before, unable to really to escape a bygone era as the end of history encroaches on them.

That’s not a unique observation of this film. Francis Ford Coppola, whose films did over-indulge their egos and their budgets and did very much play God, nonetheless excreted a truly sublime version of the same constellation of ideas just the year before in 1983’s mournful Rumble Fish. But that doesn’t stop Streets from its own strange alchemy of handed-down and exaggerated sensations. When Dafoe’s Raven walks forward in front of a fiery holocaust, he could be Christine, or The Terminator, a metal terrorist from a past’s imagined future. When he and Tom finally have their showdown, the film tries to achieve resolution via nobler means only to teasingly admit that this sort of justice doesn’t really work in the iron-clad prison of mythic-Hollywood archetypes. When they end up clashing with sledgehammers, by then fully fetishized as post-modern material extensions of a fluid sexuality, the whole world seems to stop for them, as though their mythopoetic masculine mano-a-mano conflict structures an entire world that can’t look away.

At times, one wants for more exploratory verve from Streets of Fire, which frankly remains too slim to fully commit to the bit, or to blow the bit to smithereens. Yet the film’s kineticism and channel-hopping charisma still wins. Frequently, the film indulges in a showy edit, and each feels like a toxic-waste wave we’re meant to ride into the next scene. They seem not only to move the story along or change genre but also to shudder the characters themselves, as though they’re so caught up in the molten energy of their performances that they can’t quite move between the scenes, or to stop to think how thin their characters are.

Streets of Fire feels like a ‘50s youth picture having a dream about itself, but it only clarifies its thematic priorities in the finale. Tom “gets the girl” and, like the cowboy wanderer of yesteryear, he has to leave to pave the way for the more “civilized” Billy he has allowed to exist. The film indulges in the potentially retrogressive metaphor, but then it cuts immediately to its closing music show (oh, by the way, this is a musical) for the deliriously melodramatic “Tonight is What it Means to Be So Young.” This is vintage Jim Steinman, who also wrote the opening number (“Nowhere Fast,” which could also describe the movie), a feverish, over-baked slab of clamped-down, libidinal energy. It’s really this spirit, one in which narrative corridors give way to pure-cinema explosions, that matters to the film. Tom must give way to a more liquid, more surrealistic music video medium, a (comparatively) new kid on the block, an arguably more reckless medium perhaps more receptive to the stray energies of modernity. Paré’s extremely square performance suddenly clarifies as something other than incompetence. He is an interloper on this progression doomed to move on to another story somewhere else, a wave-rider who knows when to get off, a cinematic hero propping up more interesting elements ready to have their time in the limelight. Plus, “Willem Dafoe and Lee Ving play two outcasts from a German Expressionist biker gang” is a sentence I need more of in my life.

Score: 8/10

By the of the 1980s, everyone who was anyone on the cult cinema scene would know the name Troma Entertainment, the brainchild of Lloyd Kaufmann, and the name would carry certain assumptions. Mother’s Day, released in 1980 when Troma was just one of (too)many upstart companies looking to get in on the exploitation cinema boon, to test the intersection of cinematic dissent and commercial success, both fulfills and disfigures those expectations. Expecting a broad, try-hard, somewhat over-baked work that announces itself repeatedly as a travesty of serious cinema, director Charles Kaufmann (Lloyd’s brother) and co-writer Warren Leight instead offer a cruel, tetchy, unsettling crypto-slasher that manages to probe quite viciously into various currents of its time-period’s psyche while technically retaining the surface texture of a silly comedy.

Mother’s Day wastes no time confusing us, trading one set of cultural signifiers for another within minutes. It opens on alien scene that eventually clarifies as refuse from an alien past that is still with us: Ernie’s Growth Opportunity, a frisky, cutting parody of a distinctly ‘70s brand of New Age individualism, a pitilessly brutal take-down of the degradation of collective resistance into individualized forms of personal “integration”. “Don’t stop to think what you feel, cause then you won’t know it,” the resident Ernie tells us, before he invites us to perform a mind-meld with each other called a hug.

One of the attendees is Beatrice Pons (billed as Rose Ross), an elderly, deeply enthusiastic woman who offers to drive two deeply twitchy, insinuating hippie types home after their capacity for collective resistance has been wrung out to dry. Kaufmann ratchets up the instability, offering two nerve bundles who seem to tangle the cinema itself. But the real culprits arrive more unceremoniously in Mother’s Day: Ike (credited as Holden McQuire, but actually Frederick Coffin) and Addley (credited as Billy Ray McQuade, but actually Michael McCleery) emerge like wildfire and decapitate one of the hippies and then proceed to abuse and rape the other, all while Pons looks on in amusement and something resembling pride. These two killers are her children, they all love each other, and unlike us suburban or urban types, they are positively dying to kill to show their love for one another. Yes, the name of the game for the evening will be that other ‘70s breed of horror, the flip side of the introduction. Rather than the over-lit atriums and strip malls of suburban America, we get the country-fried cruelty that so famously contoured the decade’s fear of that increasingly marginal space something called “civilization” was supposedly exhausting.

Update: I did not know at the time of posting this review that Roger Corman had passed the day before at the age of 98. Although any review of a positive object is always intended as a tribute to its creators, I hope that this piece provides, in however minuscule and unformed a way, a eulogy for Corman and a celebration of the spirit of wry, unadorned, knowing simplicity and disobedient innovativeness he represented. RIP

The first time we meet Bobby Thompson (Tim O’Kelly), the protagonist of Peter Bogdanovich’s debut directorial film, it’s from his own line of sight. The film takes his perspective, the camera through his gun-scope, aiming at aged movie actor Byron Orlok (Boris Karloff). The gun store owner selling Thompson the rifle comments on being in the vicinity of the faded star with the enthusiasm of a fan vaguely amused at realizing he actually exists in the same time as a dim memory of yesteryear. Thompson, though, has already clocked him, another old haunt down the scopes of a new generation of (extra)cinematic terror.

There’s no two ways about the cinematic subtext, and no way to miss it. It is thoroughly apparent that Bogdanovich studied Peeping Tom as well as the next guy, and he understood Rear Window in more or less the same way many of the young scholars of his generation did. Like those critics and scholars, Bogdanovich was reborn in the first film school generation, when an increasing fascination among young filmmakers with the history of cinema itself took hold. He also shared with the mid-century French film critics an intrigue about workaday American types and journeyman filmmakers like Anthony Mann and Howard Hawks, figures able to keep their perspectives dimly alive in the belly of the beast. This was the same spirit of personality within machinery, of adapting and allowing oneself to be adapted, which many of the new American directors would fascinatingly and beautifully lose by the end of the 1970s as their films got bigger, bolder, and more unrestrained. Like many of these fellow upstart filmmakers, all trying to figure out how to penetrate the Hollywood studios with their self-reflexive knowledge of film history, Bogdanovich also got his start in cheap, grimy independent pictures, worms feeding on and wriggling new life out of the decaying carcass of Old Hollywood. Targets, which emblematizes this meeting of high and low brow, of conceptual rigidity and corporeal immediacy, is suffused with cinema on many levels, and by the film’s end, cinema will have its way with Targets.

A bewildering comic crystal of a Western that doubles as a narrative void, My Name is Nobody is certainly one of the stranger desert dispatches you’re liable to see. If Sergio Leone’s 1968 Once Upon a Time in the West was a gorgeous bed-time story for the genre, and if the early ‘70s were filled with nightmares, My Name is Nobody is more like wetting the bed. And I’m not only referring to the truly grueling bathroom scene late in the film, an absurdist mockery of a debased high-noon standoff where one character uses a thousand-yard stare to intimidate a person while peeing. Little of this scans as uproarious, but it is certainly bracing. This is a stone-faced, brittle comedy, as cold-blooded and ironic as Mel Brooks’s Blazing Saddles from the same year was wily and hot-tempered. A bit like Robert Altman’s The Long Goodbye from the same year, it’s a playfully curdled travesty of its genre.

It certainly doesn’t take long for My Name is Nobody to announce what it is doing. It opens with an acerbic repetition of the famous waiting game from Once Upon a Time in the West, with Henry Fonda now in the hero position as Jack Beauregard. Yet even in showing all its cards in the first scene, My Name is Nobody still manages a poker face. There’s no way around recognizing this as Leone’s sillier variation on his earlier, more famous film’s sober, somber opening, but what, precisely, the joke is, and even if it really is a joke, remains fuzzy throughout the scene. All the more so when Beauregard immediately stumbles past Nobody (Terence Hill), posing and posturing with silent ruffian sangfroid in a river trying to bludgeon a tiny insect with a big stick, a screwball Teddy Roosevelt and a peculiar mixture of understatement and overkill that arguably summarizes the film as well. 

With From Beyond, H.P. Lovecraft firmly joined Edgar Allen Poe in the canon of horror writers whose cosmic meditations on the limits of sight proved finally unadaptable to cinema. Or, at least, not adaptable directly. Quite amazingly, From Beyond is even less connected to its Lovecraftian source material than its immediate cinematic predecessor, 1985’s Re-Animator. With Lovecraft, at least, this is thoroughly unsurprising. The moonless prophet of the incalculable and unseeable would, presumably, struggle to find any light in cinema, one of the more naturally representational of all mediums. How, of course, does one visualize the limits of visualization?

Thankfully, writer-director Stuart Gordon and writer-producer Brian Yuzna seem to have responded by running in the opposite thematic direction. While the narrative content of From Beyond superficially explores the limits of human vision and the consequences of potentially megalomaniacal attempts to overcome those limits – “five senses weren’t enough for him,” one character remarks on the ostensible antagonist– the style of the thing is saturated with cinema’s capacity to visualize. Like many great horror films, From Beyond is essentially about the ability of humans to comprehend the totality of having been forced into a film world, which plays the role of a diviner, creating a catastrophic shadow play that doubles as, and threatens to become, a genuinely dark art. Rather than asking whether cinema can see, as many Lovecraft films would likely be inclined, Gordon’s film asks what cinema shouldn’t see but will anyway, and what the consequences of its vision might be for the souls trapped in it.

After spending the better part of a decade running riot with the works of Edgar Allen Poe, H.P.  Lovecraft’s chthonic short stories seemed like the obvious next step for American International Pictures, another textual canvas to scrawl on and fascinatingly deface. Unsurprisingly for any connoisseur of low-brow, high-aspiration mid-century horror, this is a decidedly untethered adaptation of Lovecraft (which befits AIP’s extremely loose orientation toward Poe as well). Rather than a paean to celebrate or altar to worship, Daniel Haller’s The Dunwich Horror appropriately figures the author as a portal to channel or an opening to explore, a cosmic constellation of images and suggestions to tease out rather than submit to.

Haller’s film opens with a kind of precis for the texture of the whole film: a tableau of static figures locked in time, a fully ordered, barely moving presence, that is nonetheless cut up and disfigured by the editing, never fully clarifying into a clear vision or a pierceable image, something at once obvious and misleading, manifest yet ephemeral. The scene seems to give us everything and nothing: a woman seems about to give birth to a demonic entity, marking this as a Rosemary’s Baby pastiche, but the bit ends before we can fully grasp it. In this tension, The Dunwich Horror disorients itself but also finds a mode of expressing its theme, a battle between order and chaos in which the delineation between the two may not be so easy to divine, and the forces of societal control may not be what they seem.

I won’t say that Escape from L.A. wasn’t working for me from the get-go – the first diegetic image is pretty stellar shot of the Sam Fuller school, a quick-fire slug of Nazi-adjacent American soldiers lined up against the camera, as though blockading it from access to some dark secret behind them – but the moment where John Carpenter’s fifteen-years-later sequel clicked for me is the one where it seems to completely collapse. When our resident eye-patched libertarian outlaw Snake Plissken (Kurt Russell) is tasked with rescuing a black box containing US satellite codes from post-apocalyptic prison-colony Los Angeles, he takes a one-man submersible into L.A., which is now separated from the rest of the U.S. and only accessible via air and water. We, however, take a roughly 60 second slalom through some of the roughest mid-‘90s CG you can imagine, Snake’s comically sleek submarine hurtling through an abstract void that is meant to connote “water”, passing by a toxic garbage plate of pixels registering ever-so-briefly as a “shark”. Finally, in a split-second, we rush past the drowned Universal Studios sign, now a lost relic from a forgotten age. The shark suddenly clarifies as a CG travesty of Universal’s great hit Jaws, itself a famously iffy effect thoughtfully used in only privileged moments, and Escape from L.A. clarifies its own status as one of the great Hollywood piss-takes, a mockery that is also a howl of frustration aimed at what Hollywood had done to Carpenter’s medium of choice. The title is not a not a statement of fact but a genuine wish, not a declarative claim but a plea for help.

Judging from the rest of the film, its deeply caustic ambivalence and jovial nihilism, its playful absurdity and nasty cruelty, it is impossible to read this as anything other than a vicious take-down of the idea of a CG action sequence, a curdled critique of the limits of Hollywood, even the idea of making a sequel to 1981’s Escape from New York. The consequence of this ferocious, even callous brazenness is that the film’s vision of redemption is reduced to apocalypse, and that Carpenter’s vision of anything like politics essentially consists of an empty void, but the beauty of the film is that it registers the sadness of a director reduced to that position. If Escape from New York was a caustic scalpel, Escape from L.A. is a libertarian broadside aimed at society writ-large. Gone is the sense of impromptu, even thorny, community in New York, or Carpenter’s The Thing, with its paranoid ruminations on humanity’s capacity for self-destruction, or Big Trouble in Little China, with its comparatively convivial reflections on the inadequacy of Hollywood male archetypes, or Prince of Darkness’s mercurial meditations on the potential for science and religion to work together. The possibility for human salvation through collectivity has no place in Carpenter’s mature brand of nihilism. While his deeply underrated Christine implicitly assaulted Hollywood’s acts of cinematic necromancy, its inability to fashion anything new and need to feed off the corpses of earlier visions of youth and coolness, Escape from L.A. is his most full-throated bite of the hand that feeds.

In that sense, the cosmic uncertainty of Carpenter’s wonderfully underrated 1994 film In the Mouth of Madness was a pivot point. With its harrowing and sublime investigation of the limits of directorial control and the disturbing psychic and cosmic forces unleashed by the intersection of art and corporatism, Madness seems to have opened a portal from which humanity may have no return. Escape both explodes outward – into a brutal, deliberately un-subtle burst of savage playfulness – and implodes inward, into a cloacal vision of Hollywood’s intestinal tract. When Snake’s submarine lands in L.A., the ground immediately gives out from under it, as if it can’t bear physical soil or withstand real concrete, can’t exist outside the false machinations of a Hollywood CG sequence, but also as though the film is plea-ing for Snake to stay on the island, to not return to a world that has no place for him anymore, to appreciate what Hollywood has to offer. In the vortex of chaos, he has found grace, has located the possibility of home.

From there, we’re off to the races, a transparent, scabrous mockery of Hollywood that is also a celebratory account of Hollywood’s genre-hopping excess, from a simply breathtaking absurdist surf interlude where Snake hangs ten with Peter Fonda, washed ashore from another genre entirely, to a hang-glider ride that ends in Disneyland’s “Happy Kingdom,” now turned into a haven for potential leftist revolt that, the film can only suggest, is another illusion of Hollywood radicalism, a fantasy of immediate satisfaction and sudden solution. Stranded in the middle of all this, we start one sequence where Snake is about to punished passing by several scenes of gladiatorial combat, Carpenter teasing a replay of the same set-piece from Escape from New York, before we learn Snake’s fate, a hilarious undercut: a basketball sequence, five shots without missing, ten seconds for each shot. It’s the mid-‘90s, Carpenter seems to suggest, and we need a basketball film in our map to the stars.

More generally, Escape from L.A. film is a work obsessed with the fabrication of Hollywood mythology, from the obvious (Bruce Campbell as the Surgeon General of Beverley Hills, who collects bodies to recover skin to keep his scions perennially beautiful) to more subtle remarks, such as the continual refrain “I Thought You’d Be Taller” that becomes a sort of needling chorus throughout the film for characters who meet Plissken. Snake twice attempts to assault or kill his U.S. government captors early on, reminding him that they know more tricks than he can muster, and that he, and we, will have to learn that we are being manipulated and may have to play the same game to get our revenge. Snake finally learns this in his phenomenally disastrous exit from the film, a blast of cosmic nihilism rarely seen in any film, let alone a blockbuster.

In many ways, Snake has to learn what, and if, Hollywood manipulation has anything to offer him. In a stellar sequence, he sets the stage for an Old Hollywood standoff against his enemies and then devastates the very rules he sets up. Shooting before he says he will, his opponents ae too locked in their Hollywood idiom, in the L.A. vision they still, however loosely, assent to, to know what hit them. The tensions are deep here. There is remarkable ambivalence within the film: for all that the film posits L.A. as the last vestige of possible freedom, L.A. itself is also a transparent theme park, a self-conscious Hollywood vision of absurd that is both celebrated and lamented by Carpenter, who seems to suggest that no other freedom may be possible other than that afforded by Hollywood, that the only forms of freedom we’ve been reduced to are those proffered by American movie fantasies. From here, Carpenter would return to collectives in Vampires and Ghosts of Mars, but both of those films offer little possibility of escape.

It’s not a subtle film, you can probably tell, but it isn’t dumb. When Snake tells the feds that he’s lost his hologram projector, for instance, we’re meant to intuit that he’s lied to them when he achieves a devastatingly mischievous coup with it at the conclusion, even though the film never explicitly reminds us that we’ve been lied to by our protagonist an hour earlier. The film knows that we’re watching, and maybe not watching well enough. When we first meet Steve Buscemi’s “Maps to the Stars Eddie,” he sidles into the frame behind Snake as the latter is resting in placid repose, quietly frustrated to himself, yet also posing in classic Hollywood bearing. He too is a star charting his course, the film seems to say, but he is also being charted, both by others around him and by decades of Hollywood archetypes he cannot fully shake off, and that this film cannot escape from. How else to explain the final shot. Having shut down the world, Russell interrupts his own final moment of solitude, only to catch a stray suspicion and stare at the camera, striking a cheery-nasty pose for the viewers he now acknowledges. Snake, the film seems to know, simply can’t exist as a real person. The only home he can know is an assemblage of smoke and mirrors. In his quest for escape, he comes to realize that he was always-already a cinematic type. He isn’t our savior, and he doesn’t want to be, but Hollywood cinema can’t actually posit a kind of hero useful for everyday life. The best thing the film can do is conclude, to turn this film’s end into a thesis on film’s end. We, the film says, can only be left to our own devices.

Score: 9/10

Motel Hell opens with an absolute pip of a silent sequence, a seemingly offhand shard – as though the film started too early, or we’re watching things sidle into place – that ultimately becomes the lens through which the whole film might be viewed. As the camera fades in, Vincent (Rory Calhoun) slyly and somewhat laconically smokes his pipe on the porch of his mostly defunct roadside motel Motel Hello, the “o” flickering out and the red bathing him in a warm but hellish glow. It’s a remarkably casual, easy-going, even lethargic bit of filmmaking – nothing is really happening, except another moment in this random person’s day in anywhere U.S.A. – and yet the texture of the scene folds us into a milieu and a mood. The font of the credits itself mimics the Motel font in a simple but effective means to suggest that we, ourselves, are now entering the headspace of the hotel itself. I have to say, readers, I was instantly smitten. Motel Hell is like that: it accomplishes more than most films, yet it barely does anything at all.