May 29

May 29 Film Review: "Colour Out of Space" is a psychedelic nightmare.

I had heard tales of a silver light, and like a moth in a moonless night, I sought.  Strangers spoke to me of mad-tales, that the silver light emitted from a theatre projector, a light lit by the restless spirit of Richard Stanley; a filmmaker presumed dead twenty years ago when his cast, crew and career were moored upon the Island of Dr. Moreau.

I crept through pathless valleys, where brooklets garbled watery tales and thickets swayed when winds ceased. I brushed off the hollow screams that wailed just beyond my earshot, and admitted myself into the desolate theatre. A hulking grey box which sat lifeless and colourless upon a sea of asphalt.  Scattered popcorn and stale soda greeted me like a doorman without shelter, ticket stubs twirled at my feet in a lifeless waltz, enveloping the colourless red carpet.  Nameless faces plastered the walls, their stature a testament to their fallen grace, their historic acts.

Strange was he, Stanley, whose lost soul had waned from star-skewed sidewalks to barren midnight specials. Muttering and clutching at a reimagining of an ancient tale, the 1927 H.P Lovecraft fable Colour Out Of Space.  Alone in this barren theatre hall now, I swear I can hear Stanley's cries; after a meteorite plunges into the earth on their farm, The Gardner family must protect themselves from a technicolor terror which drives them to the brink of insanity.

The classic tale has been twisted for levity, the nightmare awoken in the modern age. The tale still too audacious and twisted for the average audience, yet not so individual or iconic as its closest comparison, Mandy (though they share the same production team). Colour Out Of Space remains an ever-evolving horror fueled by a classic tale, anchored by terrifying practical monsters (reminiscent of John Carpenter's The Thing's groundbreaking/stomach churning designs), and energized by addictive Nicolas Cage Rage.  Stanley's cries fade in a hollow shiver. I wander in that direction. The idle faces stare down from their paper cells. Their eyes tracing the knots in my spine. Darkness greets me, beckoning before an open cinema door, which I could have sworn was closed.  No sound emits from the dark, but a tiny crunch of popcorn.

My pupils dilate and a breathless gasp escapes my mouth before I can cover it. The crunching stops. I try to stare into the dark void, but the void stares back, my mind betrays me and I see fangs, red eyes, dread.  Perhaps it was Colour Out Of Space's incredible monster, a terrifying and grotesque practical creature created by the demented folks at 13fingerfx.  I shake myself from the trance. No, of course, it can't be a monster. Perhaps it's Madeleine Arthur (To All The Boys I've Loved Before) or Joely Richardson (101 Dalmations), who portray their respective parts as mother and daughter with enough commitment to unleash finer terminal horrors. Or maybe it's Julian Hillard (The Haunting of Hill House), the talented rising child-star whose off-screen life hopefully isn't as tragic as his on-screen.  Now I see it. Dead blue eyes rise in the dark like pale moons setting upon a lake. The crunching popcorn halts. My wrist is seized, my eyes are glued. The devil stands before me, he smiles that smile.  Nicolas Cage shines. Colour Out Of Space's churning tumble into madness allows his signature Cage Rage to shine in all its hysteric glory.

Fumbling, bumbling, fidgeting, throwing tantrums and fighting monstrous alpacas, Cage has received a career renaissance thanks to his enthusiastically unpredictable performances, especially those in unbarred horror movies. His manic performance is worth the admission price alone.   I break free and run. His blue gaze glued to the insides of my eyelids like a blinding train light at the end of the tunnel. I try to scream but a horrific symphony, much the likes of a Colin Stetson (Hereditary) soundtrack, blares from my throat. Wailing trumpets rain from the sky in inhumane bursts, as if all the birds in the sky had sung their symphonies backwards, filling the ears with an unholy dread.  My vision blurs and I stumble, my palm finding balance touches one of those frozen great faces, smiling down on me in my anguish. My eyes flicker through a technicolor nightmare, as if Steve Annis (I Am Mother) was behind my lens as cinematographer, capturing nightmarish colours and creatures with just enough gusto and vividness to support both the eighties throwback colours and the modern hidden-in-the-darkness monster.

I saw the colour now, the light Stanley had created. It's transient swaying. It was not silver, but purple. It bled from the walls, it shone from the lamps and at once I was coated in it. My pores clogged with the vision Stanley intended, whether commendable, I was simply waiting for the monster.

I awoke alone in a gargantuan theatre hall, each seat empty, yet some invisible force watched me silently. This much I knew. I soured that the spotlight did not fall on me, rather, it fluttered. It was no spotlight, but a vacant window to the grey morning sky, and scattered it did, for a moth twanged at the glass, obscuring the light in a thinly veiled attempt at brute or escape.  I wondered what I had seen. I had to admit that Stanley had made a product that he could be proud of, with a signature vision that needs some tweaking to be truly iconic. Cage is always a terrifying joy to watch, and though Colour Out Of Space is closer to a B-Movie than it desires, it's schlock factor is part of the charm. Effectively grotesque and profoundly puzzling, Colour Out Of Space is a welcome return for Stanley, a short detour from Mandy, and a definitive Midnight Special.

I left the theatre in haste, not looking back. A glint in the grey sky shone in a purple-ish hue. Like a moth in the bright sunlight, I hastened for darkness.