We assume Netflix shows are top shelf, but they often belong in a bargain bin
In early August, 2010, production inauspiciously began on Hellraiser: Revelations, the ninth film in the notso- beloved science- fiction horror franchise that started with Clive Barker’s Hellraiser in 1987. The Weinstein Company had long intended to properly remake the original movie, but progress was slow, and their rights to the material, the studio discovered in alarm, were just about to lapse – unless another instalment could materialize practically overnight. Which it did.
In a little under a month, the studio devised, shot and edited a miraculous 75-minute feature. Doug Bradley, who had starred in each of the previous eight films as the nefarious demon Pinhead, declined to participate, owing to “the motives for making it and the poor quality of the script.” The trailer described Revelations as coming “from the mind of Clive Barker.” Barker was less than enthused about the association. “If they claim it’s from the mind of Clive Barker, it’s a lie,” Barker corrected. “It’s not even from my butthole.”
It will not surprise you to learn that Hellraiser: Revelations is terrible. One would hardly expect any different from a low- budget direct- to- video sciencefiction horror sequel. That description contaims such little promise that no one would make the mistake of taking the film itself seriously. This particular movie was rushed into development to satisfy the conditions of a convoluted copyright claim. But this kind of movie – aspiring at best to appeal to genre lovers momentarily piqued by nostalgia for its once-popular title – is disreputable by design.
Although there are exceptions, on the vanguard of independent filmmaking dentally unleashes all manner of Lovecraftian baddies on the world and all manner of lethal space oddities on the ship. Characters direct from central casting bicker with one another interminably as, in a continuing series of flatly staged slayings, each falls victim to the murderous power of bargain-price special effects. In addition, there’s no evident connection to the two previous Cloverfield movies, and the whole cheap appearance feels distinctly like the effort of people who either don’t know what they’re doing or don’t care.
Duncan Jones’s Mute has even less to recommend. Another low-budget sciencefiction affair – this one described as a “spiritual sequel” to Jones’s debut feature Moon, though once again whatever links these seemingly unrelated films is not apparent – Mute concerns the somnambulant neo-noir exploits of a taciturn Amish bartender in 22nd century Berlin, where take-out is delivered by jet-packed drone, strip clubs are staffed by robots and urban planning is provided by a production designer so enamoured of Blade Runner that their work borders on plagiarism. Our quiet hero has been abandoned overnight by his cartoonishly obsequious bluehaired girlfriend, and much of the film’s (endlessly long) running time is dedicated to his inert, occasionally violent endeavour to track her through the future city’s decidedly retrograde underworld. A pair of irreverent mob surgeons, meanwhile, wisecrack their unfunny way through a subplot involving pedophilia. It is a mess and a slog and among the dullest thrillers I’ve ever been obliged to endure.
The Cloverfield Paradox, which began as a spec script with no affiliation to the facing certain failure the studio preferred to delay the release: the date was moved from February to October, then to the following February, and then finally to April, where it was ceremoniously rechristened on the calendar as “Upcoming Cloverfield Sequel.” At some point late last year, Netflix approached Paramount and offered to take the theatrical proposition off their hands for a cool $50 million – a deal Paramount, in doubt over the film’s ability to earn even a fraction of its $40 million budget back at the box office, accepted without hesitation. So Netflix seized control of the picture, and less than a month later, in a launch advertised during the Super Bowl, The Cloverfield Para-
Most of their films, though, haven’t been acclaimed or disparaged much one way or another. They’ve simply appeared and then vanished, added to the platform quietly and virtually never mentioned again. Remember Tramps, wellliked at TIFF 2016 before being snatched up and dumped months later? How about I Don’t Feel Home in This World Anymore, which won a prize at Sundance before disappearing into the Netflix ether? Did you see The Polka King? Wheelman? Special Correspondents?
The films mentioned above materialized without fanfare in much the same way a direct- to- video movie might be expected to – and these are, after all, dir-