Camp Hell D i r e c t e d b y G e o r g e Va n B u s k i r k Starring Will Denton, Br uce Davison, Christopher Denham Released December 2
rriving at a Christian fundamentalist summer camp, sensitive Tommy (Will Denton) experiences temptations of the flesh courtesy of teen hottie Melissa (Valentina de Angelis); receives lectures on virtue from Father Phineas (Bruce Davison); and gets lessons in non-conformity from free-thinker, Jack (Connor Paolo). He also becomes convinced he’s being persecuted by a demon. Evidence mounts to corroborate this wild theory. The chapel is desecrated. One boy poops in his trousers when Tommy lays hands on him during prayer. Strange communal dreams reduce the female campers to hysterics. What sets writer/director George VanBuskirk’s quirky, unconventional low-budget debut above and beyond its horror peers is that it’s an extremely fair-minded piece of filmmaking. Tommy's supervisor, Christian (Christopher Denham), is an absurd figure who confiscates Spawn comics and lectures the boys on the dangers of rock music, but he’s also caring and competent in a crisis. Father Phineas is kindly and compassionate, the sort of preacher who can fill pews with his warm personality. Which makes it all the more shocking when he calls Melissa a whore for stepping outside with Tommy after dark. In a sly way, VanBuskirk is vitriolic towards fundamentalist Christian values, but he portrays the holders of such views with sympathy and understanding. The young actors all give
sincere, natural performances. Denton and de Angelis are touching for their sweetness and vulnerability; Christopher Denham underplays expertly; while Bruce Davison – that ever-reliable Hollywood veteran – glows with conviction as Father Phineas. Anyone hoping for a teen gore-fest will be disappointed, but lovers of leftfield cinema should definitely have this film on their radar. Unsettling, unpredictable and often charming, Camp Hell has the makings of a minor cult classic. Julian White
(and finding sackfuls), the scandal soon morphed into a dark farce. The salacious story is retold in detail by a mixture of friends, players and unrepentant hacks. But it’s Joyce – always Joyce – who owns the show. A natural raconteur, she plays the emotional register like a gifted musician: tears, laughter, self-pity and gee-whiz charm spinning together. She’s the most bewitchingly unreliable narrator since Keyser Söze. Morris has some tricks – including a snarky habit of literally spelling out some of the wilder claims in bold type across the screen. But he’s also got a point to make. The hacks may maintain a dehumanising distance from their work – it’s what allows them to treat people as playthings and lives as fodder. But there are always consequences. From the outside, the
tabloid vortex might look like a game, but if it is, it’s a blood sport. Matt Bochenski
Anticipation.
At a glance, seems like another cookie-cutter horror in the Fr iday the 13th mould.
Enjoyment.
An unexpected and individual take on sin and the devil by a director who – shock horror – actually has something t o s a y.
In Retrospect.
Fine performances, a thoughtful script and a maturity of directorial insight raise Camp Hell head and shoulders above most films with ‘Hell’ in the title.
Tabloid Directed by Er rol Mor r is S t a r r i n g Joy c e M c K i n n e y, K e n t G a v i n , P e t e r To r y Released November 11
his extraordinary documentary from Errol Morris couldn’t be more timely, as Amanda Knox and ‘Hackgate’ dominate the year’s headlines. But it’s not the relevance of Tabloid that makes it so revelatory, it’s the star-spangled razzle-dazzle of Miss Joyce McKinney. In 1977, a Mormon missionary went missing in southern England. He surfaced several days later alleging that McKinney – a former girlfriend and one-time Miss Wyoming – had abducted and raped him. What followed was a Wild West tabloid frenzy, in which McKinney was chewed up and spat out by the British press. At the centre of the row were The Daily Mirror and The Express, occupying either side of a battle line drawn up by McKinney herself as she tried – and failed – to play the system. With photographers dispatched to LA to dig for dirt
074 T h e A n o t h e r E a r t h I s s u e
Anticipation. W i t h
memories o f N e w s o f t h e Wo r l d a n d A m a n d a K n o x s t i l l f r e s h , Ta b l o i d c o u l d hardly be better timed.
Enjoyment.
Enormously entertaining but with a serious point to make.
In Retrospect. M c K i n n e y i s no Robert McNamara, but there are lessons to be learned from this fog of sleaze.