House (1977) -- A semi-critical analysis

It seems to be a common belief within a community of opening weekend movie-goers that art films -- or films with the flashings of avant garde -- are slow-moving, laborious and boastful knick-knacks. Like the abstractions of Jackson Pollock, arthouse productions carry with them the stigma that only a segregated group of critics and artists are going to watch and care about them, to say nothing about writing essays about the emotional nucleus and visual narratives within the film. An art film often relies less on the sediments of acknowledged storytelling, electing to deconstruct those traditional elements and in the process, alienating those who are not predisposed to the filmmaker's aesthetic intentions. Without the focusing lens of artistic understanding, viewing an art film can be the most labyrinthine filmic processes a person can endure.

Although I'm a little more predisposed to watching these films, the business of entering into that attitude is often just as difficult. Although I enjoy recognizing and comprehending art in cinema (especially when it isn't pointed out to me by the filmmaker), often I need to empty my mind afterwards with some kind of thoughtless diversion, if only to feel my feet firmly on the ground again. Art can be beautiful, ugly, and all points in between...but perceiving it correctly in its most complete form can drain your senses, well, senseless.

And so it goes that a few hours ago, I entered into watching House, Nobuhiko Obayashi's utterly demented 1977 haunted house film, which was recently distributed on DVD and Blu-ray by the Criterion Collection. I loved the way the Criterion writers described House: "An episode of Scooby-Doo as directed by Mario Bava." As open-ended a statement as that is, it's about as close of a coherent explanation as you're likely read about a film which, to my mind, is nearly indescribable. It is complete, unvarnished "arthouse" cinema that manages to avoid those previously mentioned failings.

To briefly describe House: Seven high school-aged girls (with names like Precious, Kung Fu,  Fantasy, Melody, Sweetie, etc.) take off for summer vacation to a home in the country, where Precious' love-sick Aunt lives. Throughout the movie each of them slowly turn up missing, and the surviving girls uncover the macabre secret that the actual house is (spoiler alert) literally eating them. I cannot disclose any more plot points about the film because, and I write this in all sincerity, that simply IS the plot. And with a feeble 88 minute run time, you may anticipate a film so uncomplicated getting tedious and monotonous very quickly. But House is not JUST a movie about school girls surviving inside a haunted house. No sir, no ma'am. House is a near extra sensory experience that left me whirling like a dervish. Love it or hate it, House is a film that is not to simply be watched, but absorbed and experienced with nearly every sense rattled to the bone. 

Obayashi, known throughout Japan as an expert and proficient television commercial director, had desired to make a film, and after seeing Steven Speilberg's Jaws, aspired to make something even more compelling. From his adolescent daughter he repurposed stories about what made her scared or frightened: Mirrors that do not reflect what is intended; A piano whose keys stuck together and could pinch the skin off of fingers; Towering grandfather clocks whose rusty, metallic gears slowly gyrate into infinity. They were simple fragments of horror to a child, but Obayashi gambled that a horror movie-going audience who had previously seen just about every other act of terror on screen, would react strongly to the nightmarish fables of a child's imagination. Indeed, he gambled not only his own reputation, but the credibility of one of Japan's largest and most respected film studios.

Essentially the film takes an exhausted genre staple, the haunted house, and quite literally turns it inside out. House contains images, camera movements, music cues, and special effects that I have never seen in a movie before. As members of the audience, we watch as a piano EATS young Melody, her body flailing within its wires. We watch, captivated as one of the girls grasps in her hands the giggling head of Mac, just before she vomits blood all over her. During one decidedly harrowing scene, Gorgeous preens in front of a vanity mirror. The image that is reflected however shows Gorgeous with vampire fangs. Eventually Gorgeous' face and body melt away, leaving only an outline of her body enveloped in flames.

House's special effects were realized not necessarily by trick photography or outrageous make up effects; rather, Obayashi decided to garner his film with animated effects, frenetic editing, and eccentric music cues. It all rushes up to the screen so furiously that I don't think we're intended to digest it all at once, but simply bask in the malevolent insanity of it all. Several scenes can be viewed as either funny or horrible to the audience, depending on their reactions, and nobody would be incorrect in their analysis. House is just that kind of film, otherworldly and set completely off to itself, even though its final message of a love that never dies is totally universal. With a conundrum this bewildering, it's amazing that I've summoned the words to write anything coherent at all. But that is also the legacy of House and why I believe it to be a genuine art film that's easily assimilated by the masses: It's a haunted house story, told in a way that even a child could understand.

With the recent home video release of House, there are probably scores of reviews posted on the Net, but I doubt if any of them will sufficiently characterize its raw intensity and unconventional effects. I really hate to adopt the old "you gotta see it to believe it" chestnut, but that's what it all boils down to. House is a film that I can see myself returning to, hopefully very soon. 

Never mind the bollocks...

...the last post below was obviously nothing more or less than an onslaught of meandering, misinformed thoughts that have little basis in fact. I should have known better than to write out something and post it before organizing my thoughts into some kind of coherent shape. I'd delete the post altogether, but I'd sooner allow it to remind me to think before I act.


Sorry!

A rambling post that is only my opinion that I probably should have kept to myself

Outside the prosaic dimension of Top 40 radio (aka: the ineffectual scraps that unfortunately approximate what's being listened to by an All-American Idol consuming audience), breathes a near-infinite multiverse of independent musicians and record labels, grinding out what's assumed to be refined and unpolluted harmonies with clever, precise lyrics... unmarked by the those greedy metallic corporate fingers. The indie patch is often worn frayed, its stitching sewn by undelicate hands. Rough but true and pure. Indie is regarded by many as the final bastion of uninterrupted musicianship... where the bands own their sound and cleave fast and hard to their DIY ideals. 

In the broadest sense, I love indie. I love indie films and I love indie music. I host a weekly independent music show. Just a few months ago, I was given the "music director" moniker for the non-comm radio station I work for, allowing me access to even more independent artists. There's nothing more true or noble than a garage guitar hero whose blood circulates raw passion for real music. Hearing a new song or uncovering an unknown band can make your day, month, or possibly even your whole year.

Now having broken in my title at the station for a few months, I have amassed a rather lanky stack of CD's, most of which are lingering in a cobwebby corner of the office. Rarely a day passes that I do not receive at least one or two albums in the mail, all addressed to me, from humble record labels anticipating me to add their artists to our music rotation. For a job that forks over real money, I confess that I could be doing a lot worse right now. I've known people who'd blithely allocate a few quarts of their blood and perhaps even a vestigial organ or two for a racket like mine. There's no denying that listening to music in exchange for a paycheck accordingly elevates one to the "lucky bastard" stratosphere.

But there's a lesson to be learned when programming new, discovery music for a radio station and it is this: Indie music IS a genre standing by itself... it is NOT a wide-spread collective of music-makers with a heart for stardom. The two should not be confused, but unfortunately it is more than a little difficult to tell them apart. A band such as the Arcade Fire are still looked upon as "indie," probably because they are distributed by Merge Records (which is a fine record label, based in Durham, NC). Merge could never contend with the likes of Sony or Capitol Records, but many of their artists are bubbling just under the surface of mainstream success, standing with toes over the ledge of national acclaim. Earlier this year, the Arcade Fire released their third LP, The Suburbs, which debuted at number ONE on the iTunes Music Store. All of the Miley Cirus and Green Day fanatics around the electronic world had downloaded or in some measure listened to part of the album. This is not my endeavor to attack Arcade Fire's newest... I really like it. However their success on the charts should torpedo to smithereens their indie status. Perhaps your local Wal-Mart may not carry many copies, but if Best Buy is featuring it on their new music rack, your independence has been redeemed for a full-on franchise.

Why are bands such as Arcade Fire still labeled indie? Because indie is a genre of music, just like rock, hip-hop, electronic, and jazz. It's doubtful that Pop-Pop and Gram-Gram know them, but their grandkids are wearing these bands' t-shirts. Indie is a genre, a style that fortunately does not discriminate against style of music. Indie embodies all of rock, hip-hop, electronic, jazz, country, etc... and neatly places them within itself. It provides a soundtrack to the culture of counter-culture. It gives abiding cred to the pork-pie wearing hipsters who dance alone by the juke. Indie music is GOOD music that has real value.

I really mean that.

But it is not the music I'm paid to listen to. The fore mentioned stack of CD's left to stagnate in my office are MOSTLY a collective of entirely worthless albums distributed by tenderfoot record imprints. Just for a second, remember your record-collecting neighbor who practiced their guitar until three in the morning attempting to forge their own moment in music history. They wanted to be like Clapton. Maybe they have a band and play over at Stumpy's on the weekends, covering Stevie Ray Vaughn and Deep Purple. Maybe they scare up enough shekels to go into a recording studio and hammer out a few tracks and make an album. By and large, these are the artists that I made to listen to.

It's really, really bad. These artists are reaching to be heard by a lot of people, but rarely can summon the creative flow to sound even vaguely similar to the TRUE artists that have inspired them. Maybe I'm the wrong person for the job, but in these cases all I manage to hear is well-pronounced noise in the form of insipid, forgettable music that should remain in the bars, where it may at least be appreciated by a captive audience of the inebriated. I cannot fathom ever seeking out a copy of an album by The XXX XXXX Band, forget paying real money for it.

I've spanned the entire world to make a point, here. Perhaps I'd better just get back to work...