San Diego Reader February 23, 2017 55
Killer quartet ‘F
our deadly tales directed by four killer women.” That’s the tagline for XX, the new
horror anthology opening Friday at the Digital Gym. This type of press agent math never adds up. Has there ever been an omnibus film in which each individual component contributes its fair share of the heavy lifting? By definition, an omnibus film
generally houses three or more short films under one amor- phous heading. It’s dif- ficult enough for a film to impart one story, let alone three or four. One or more of the narrative legs invariably winds up short, and even a stack of script pages stuck underneath can’t keep it from wobbling. What is it about this pesky, fre-
quently multi-authorial sub-genre (often associated with horror films) that never works? The lure of numer- ous directors united under one ban- ner is always cause for disappointment. Martin Scorsese, Francis Coppola, and Woody Allen didn’t so much as col- laborate on New York Stories as they provided three large pieces to a loosely fitting jigsaw puzzle. The general con-
sensus: Scorsese dazzled, Allen amused, and Coppola fizzled. Gender and genre are what bring
MOVIES
and hold XX together. It’s certainly not a case of combined star power being used to lure patrons in. Of the four directors credited, only one, Karyn Kusama (Girlfight, The Invitation) rang a bell. This was Roxanne Benjamin’s (Southbound) second feature and the first for both Jovanka Vuckovic and Annie Clark. Animator and title designer Sofia Carrillo followed up on
her Quay Brothers–inspired opening credits with a series of wraparound sequences that left one wondering why she didn’t merit a co-director credit. XX opens strong with Jovanka
Vuckovic’s The Box, by far the creepi- est of the four shorts. Mom and her two children return from Christmas shopping. The young boy admires an attractive red package on the lap of the man seated next to him. The stranger obliges the lad’s request for a peek inside. “Nothing” is his response when his parents ask what he saw. Whatever was in the package was enough to turn him off food. The over-
XX: credit sequence and enticing interstices courtesy of animator Sofia Carrillo.
head shots of mom’s nightly meals that act as chapter stops could have been taken from the pages of Bon Appétit. Still the boy won’t eat. After a few days, his older sister and father learn the secret, sending mom on a lifelong journey to ascertain the contents of the box. Your parents were right when they told you not to talk to strangers. It’s also not hard to spot the weakest
link in films of this kind, particularly those that include four subdivisions or
fewer. Location is everything, and the segment that’s second in line never fails to disappoint. Such is the case of Annie Clark’s The Birthday Party, a one-joke premise that follows a frantic Melanie Lynskey, clad only in a diaphanous pei- gnoir, as she tries and fails to prevent her estranged hubby’s corpse from put- ting in an appearance at her daughter’s 18th birthday party. Be careful who you pick on in these PC times. When spoken in context, the
cautionary title of Roxanne Benjamin’s Don’t Fall comes across with the force of a bullying jolt that has the power to turn Gretchen (Breeda Wool) into a mon- ster. The shortest of the four, it acts as a suitable introduction to what follows. In its own sly manner, Karyn
Kusama’s Her Only Living Son is a brief continuation of sorts of Roman Polan- ski’s Rosemary’s Baby. Image Rosemary having ditched Guy early on. Renamed Cora (Christina Kirk), she ran off with
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