Drag Me to Hell (2009)

dir. Sam Raimi
writ. Ivan Raimi and Sam Raimi
feat. Alison Lohman, Justin Long, Lorna Raver, Dileep Rao, David Paymer

Sam Raimi's return to horror naturally arouses unfair expectations. This is the man behind two astonishingly inventive and frightening Evil Dead films, and a hilariously campy one. Granted, another spook-ride, The Gift, proved dissatisfying, showing a bit too much formula, a claim repeated by some for Raimi's Spider-Man movies. However, such blockbuster successes also seemed to promise an even deeper trove of resources for Drag Me to Hell.

On one hand, it's nice to have the old boy back, still committed to mechanical effects, both elaborate and simple, eager and able to evoke maximum squirms and subsequent laughs out of a propulsive bloody nose. He attends to detail and simple human problems amidst the hellfire and damnation with equal concern. And if those humans seem a bit shallow, Christine (if not Lohman) too much the dopey blonde and Clay (Long) too broadly drawn (the character telling us he's a geek doesn't pass as character development,) we're still in standard genre territory.

But that's where Drag disappoints the most. It all feels too easy, a mishmash of horror films we've seen before without that extra edge to top them. This is Raimi on autopilot, slapping together a topical setup (home loan foreclosure), a gypsy curse, a soul damned to Hell, disbelieving loved ones, and a couple experts to help chart the challenging, perhaps impossible, course back to safety. The gross-outs are appropriately timed and stomach-curdling, the scares reasonably seat-grabbing, and the laughs genuinely satisfying, but as a whole, the film only reaches middling. And while I'd like to write off this response to a touch of hero worship, it's not just a case of those expectations rearing their ugly, if well-made-up, heads.

The Year of Living Dangerously (1982)

dir. Peter Weir
writ. C.J. Koch (novel), C.J. Koch, Peter Weir, and David Williamson (screenplay)
feat. Mel Gibson, Sigourney Weaver, Linda Hunt, Michael Murphy

Mid-60s Indonesia, amidst the political turmoil under the regime of President Sukarno proves a challenging assignment for Guy Hamilton (Gibson,) in his first role as foreign correspondent. Eager and naive, Hamilton must adapt quickly to the politics, both governmental and interpersonal, of his new home. Photographer Billy Kwan (Hunt, in her Oscar-winning role as a man) guides him along, quickly introducing the dilemma of how one interacts with disastrous poverty and human suffering without offering a helping hand.

This question informs the film, whether in another reporter's patronage of cheap prostitutes, the way Hamilton colors the facts with melodrama, or his conflicted compulsion to use information gathered in bed with likely spy, Jill Bryant (Weaver). With depth and intelligence, Weir successfully explores such shady terrain without attempting to assert impossible and therefore deceptive clear answers. But, even above the thoughtful investigation into one's responsibility in the world is the film's sense of atmosphere. Dark rooms sweat with tropical heat and torrential rain drives people into cramped cars, arousing libidos and the cloying sense of discomfort of a strange land hostile to white Westerners.