Horror

Wheatley’s debut feature, “Down Terrace,” was a bizarre, bleak and hilarious blend of genres, starting out as a Mike Leigh-style working-class family drama and ending up as an especially gruesome “Sopranos” episode, transported to the south coast of England. Let me introduce “Kill List,” Wheatley’s highly touted second film, by admitting that I’m infinitesimally disappointed that it’s not as funny as “Down Terrace” (though it definitely has its moments) and also that he’s gone so deep into the tradition of creepazoid British genre movies. (Rather than, you know, making the kind of depressing, no-audience films I like better.) But there’s no disputing the ingenuity and even the brilliance of this mind-bending mashup, which begins as a gritty recession-era marriage drama — the opening scene features a couple arguing about whether they have the money to get the Jacuzzi fixed — and then descends into ominous violence and finally total insanity.

I suppose you could say that the way Wheatley splices incompatible kinds of movies together into one story, like some demented mad scientist, has an Internet-age flavor to it. But that’s not something entirely new, and he actually comes off more as a hardcore fan of British independent and low-budget cinema, who loves the kitchen-sink realism of the ’60s and also loves a bunch of well-known horror movies and thrillers that I’d better not mention right now. Love it or hate it, “Kill List” is a definite widescreen cinematic experience loaded with delicious details, from the hotel clerk who holds a conversation without really listening to the sound of someone getting his brains beaten out against a concrete wall. He’s like a faux-Cockney Quentin Tarantino, passionate about the things he loves and also dedicated to the Anglo-Saxon tradition of “taking the piss” — and believe it or not, I mean that as a compliment.

The woman shrieking about the Jacuzzi money in the opening scene is named Shel (MyAnna Buring), the blond-bombshell Swedish wife of Jay (Neil Maskell), an unemployed ex-soldier who’s kicking around their suburban house outside Sheffield, in north central England. Jay at first seems like a hundred other unappealing husbands in British movies of this ilk — he’s a bit of a whiner and a bit of a drinker, he’s put on some weight around the middle, he’s much too hot-tempered and has a laddish London accent that seems halfway affected for a guy who has a Jacuzzi and a garage full of garden chemicals. It takes us a while to figure out that he doesn’t have some vague freelance I.T. gig, as he tells a friend’s visiting girlfriend. He was a private-security Mafioso during the Iraq war and is now a hit man, evidently suffering from the after-effects of a job that went wrong in Kiev a year ago.

Maskell is a well-known presence on British TV, and gives a fearless performance here, in the sense that Jay is the protagonist of “Kill List” and neither the actor, the director nor the screenplay (credited to Wheatley and his partner, Amy Jump, “with contributions by the cast”) ever tries to make him seem even remotely likable. As with “Down Terrace,” how you feel about this is likely to determine whether you can stand this movie or not. As you go deeper into the swirling maelstrom of “Kill List,” you’ll identify more and more with Jay’s struggle to remain afloat amid the bloodshed, madness and general atmosphere of malice. But you’re never going to admire the guy, and you’re always likely to conclude that whatever horrible fate befalls him is one he’s brought upon himself.

After eight months away from the game, Jay and his shaggy Irish partner in crime, Gal (the delicious Michael Smiley, who was also in “Down Terrace”), have received a mysterious commission from a sinister, leathery little man (only identified as The Client, and played by Struan Rodger) who seems to know way too much about what happened in Kiev. From the very beginning, this assignment seems loaded with mysterious significance, and wrapped in a feeling of unspeakable dread. Gal and Jay are sent to assassinate a Catholic priest in his church, and then a “librarian” who curates an especially repellent collection of pornography. What connects these two people — and why do they seem so eager to thank Jay, just before he kills them? And then there’s Gal’s ex-girlfriend, a wide-eyed brunette named Fiona (Emma Fryer), who keeps turning up in unexpected places — and who may not be the clueless corporate drone she appears to be.

Oh crap — I’ve almost told you way too much! But not quite. Here’s the key thing to understand: Every craft element of “Kill List,” from the acting to the cinematography (by Laurie Rose) to the cracked but seemingly inevitable downward progress of the narrative, is absolutely terrific. This movie is yet another testament to the thriving creativity of the British indie-film scene. It’s also the kind of movie designed to mess up your mind, like some unseen Nicolas Roeg or Ken Russell picture out of 1981, and it will. As Gal and Jay descend further into mayhem and madness, uncertain whether they’re going crazy or being lured into a dreadful trap, you may want to consider the surprise ending of “Cunning Stunt,” and to get ready for something even worse here.

Whether the shocker final scene of “Kill List” has been earned — and whether it can survive a logical interrogation — is a conversation we’ll have to have after you’ve seen the film. I have my own questions about that matter, but to think in fatalistic terms, Jay’s odyssey can only end badly, and without question there’s a terrible karmic justice to what happens. This is the kind of movie you’ll want to work over with friends after you see it, unless you want to go straight to bed and vow never to take my recommendations ever again. I halfway want to get Ben Wheatley on the horn and have him explain the ending, and halfway suspect that it’s supposed to stem from an evil logic so deeply rooted in human society that it defies all explanation.

“Kill List” opens this week at the IFC Center in New York and the Cinefamily in Los Angeles, with more cities to follow. It’s also available on-demand from many cable and satellite providers.

Mind you, “it’s not what you’re thinking” is kind of the situation in general with “The Twilight Saga: Breaking Dawn Part 1,” a movie that masks its genuine perversity under layers of artifice and saccharine melodrama. I truly do not mean that as a criticism. To my taste, savvy Hollywood veteran Bill Condon (“Dreamgirls” and “Gods and Monsters”) debuts as director of the two-part “Twilight” conclusion in satisfying fashion, delivering a voluptuous if often inert spectacle that splits the difference between high camp and decadent romance. (This opinion may not be widely shared.) We will in fact see Bella bleeding copiously later in the movie — there’s a startling amount of gore, as well as an overripe, nearly pornographic sensuality, to this PG-13 film — as the direct, if delayed result of her deflowering by Edward. See, he has impregnated her with some kind of succubus-like demon child, which is impervious to the science of humans and vampires alike and poses an intriguing challenge to the pro-life, family-values fantasy universe of “Twilight” author Stephenie Meyer. Does life begin at conception even if it isn’t entirely human?

I have other logistical and/or theological questions that “Breaking Dawn Part 1″ cannot quite answer. I suppose it makes sense that vampires possess the power to block or distort caller ID, since in one scene Bella calls her pining dad — the young, single and handsome one played by Billy Burke, whose relationship with Stewart’s Bella has always had a Freudian undertow — from across town, pretending she’s in Brazil or Switzerland or something. But Bella and Edward are apparently married by some kind of priest or minister, and I can’t get my head around that one at all. Holy matrimony plus undead monstrosity — does not compute! Either they’re not telling the dude any version of the truth (and in that case are also lying to God), or the officiant’s got nothing to do with any Christian denomination I’ve ever heard of, and in either case the whole wedding, rendered in such sugary detail you can almost taste the cake icing, is a hypocritical sham. I could insert a Mormon gag here — but I’m no bigot! Not gonna go there!

I recognize that as a member of the educated upper middle class, and a man to boot, I’m supposed to feel outraged and horrified by “Twilight” on various levels. I’ve never seen the point of that. I haven’t read Meyer’s books and don’t intend to, but the Twi-movies so far range from mediocre teen horror to outrageous pulp melodrama, a combo I’m perfectly happy to absorb. This beginning-of-the-end chapter is without doubt the most momentous episode in the saga, and not just because Edward and Bella consummate their relationship (a risky narrative maneuver in any love story). In rapid succession, Bella gives up literally everything: her girlhood, her virginity, her childlessness, her life itself and even her humanity. Rarely have the metaphorical transformations of horror fiction been carried to such rococo extremes. Is this a story about a young woman coming of age or a deviant, heretical Christ legend with a female hero? If you’re going to wring your hands and insist plaintively that Meyer intended no such thing and that director Condon and screenwriter Melissa Rosenberg (who has handled an impossible task gracefully) have remained faithful to her vision, I shall nod sagely and say, of course, of course, but no artist or author can ever fully control meaning and interpretation. And that’s really going to piss you off.

“Breaking Dawn Part 1″ definitely involves less action than the last couple of “Twilight” chapters, and a lot more shots of Bella lying on the couch looking like crap. Taylor Lautner’s American Indian-slash-wolf-slash-shape-shifter character, Jacob, spends most of the movie brooding in the shadows, now that he’s definitively lost Bella and been thrust in the role of chaste, vulpine protector. (There is a major Jacob-related plot twist late in this movie, as many fans will already know.) But a lot of it is absolutely ravishing to watch, in the manner of eating hot buttered corn with marshmallows and Champagne; a woman sitting next to me at the New York media screening was literally moaning out loud during the wedding sequence. There are some bizarre, Goth-flavored fantasy sequences that are better than anything in the first three films, notably Bella’s nightmare version of the wedding, in which everyone she loves is killed. Of course it’s Bella herself who will learn not to fear the Reaper, and prepare for her new undead life in “Breaking Dawn Part 2.” But not until after Edward sits her down, at long last, and tells her about all the guys he’s been with. Some of you think I’m kidding, don’t you?

And here’s the thing: Dutch filmmaker Matthijs van Heijningen’s new movie is a lovingly constructed tribute and companion to Carpenter’s “Thing,” not a knockoff or a replica. It’s full of chills and thrills and isolated Antarctic atmosphere and terrific Hieronymus Bosch creature effects, and if it winks genially at the plot twists of Carpenter’s film, it never feels even a little like some kind of inside joke. Comparing the two films can only be invidious, and I won’t do it; let’s just say that fans of the Carpenter flick should rush out and see this one immediately. (Furthermore, if you haven’t seen the Carpenter film, after I get done lecturing you about what’s really important in life, I will add that this one works perfectly well as an exciting stand-alone.) Considering what an enormous botch-job this project could easily have become, I’m delighted to tell you that the new “Thing” was made by people who understand what the horror audience wants and don’t treat it like a bunch of brain-dead children. Mirabile freakin’ dictu.

Officially, Eric Heisserer’s screenplay for this movie is based on John W. Campbell Jr.’s original short story, “Who Goes There?” — also the source material for the 1951 film “The Thing From Another World.” But that’s a legalistic dodge not intended to fool anybody; van Heijningen’s “Thing” is a prequel that ends exactly where Carpenter’s begins, with a couple of Norwegians in a helicopter trying to shoot a dog. (Enter dumb Yanks: Aww! Save da poochie!) Can that possibly qualify as a spoiler? I’m not sure, so here’s another one: What those crazed Norsemen dug out of the Antarctic ice a few days earlier wasn’t dead, not even after 100,000 years, and what happened to their research station after that was extremely bad news.

This is van Heijningen’s first feature as a director, but I would venture to guess that he has wasted much of his adolescence and young manhood absorbing the mechanics of horror movies, because he definitely knows his way around. This one has a classic tough female protagonist, in the person of Mary Elizabeth Winstead as a Columbia paleontologist named Kate Lloyd, who is hired by a glory-hunting Norwegian scientist named Halvorson (Ulrich Thomsen) to supervise a mysterious icebound dig site near a Norwegian Antarctic research station. If you’re guessing that Kate is brilliant, but more than that compassionate and sympathetic, while Halvorson is brilliant and totally unconcerned with the welfare of others when it comes to his history-making discovery, you’re ready to move on to the intermediate class.

Heisserer’s screenplay walks a very fine line between almost-campy references to the period – the action is of course set in 1982, when the back page of a magazine announces, “Carlton is lowest!” – and the subtle injection of a more modern scientific context. As in Carpenter’s film, the thawed-out extraterrestrial beastie is a protean shape-shifter that can absorb and re-create other living things, but Kate observes that it behaves much like an infectious virus, and appears to be infinitely divisible and hence virtually impossible to kill. Van Heijningen’s design team of course relies extensively (although not entirely) on digital effects to create the nightmarish monster, which looks like seven kinds of crustacean, a sub-Freudian vagina dentata and a drugged-out medieval monk’s vision of hell, all at the same time. But in many ways their work pays homage to Rob Bottin and Stan Winston’s legendary creature effects from three decades ago; while a level of detail and flexibility is possible now that wasn’t then, the grotesque imagination remains the same.

While this “Thing” features a low-impact cast full of unknown Norwegians, Winstead makes an appealing star, ably supported by Joel Edgerton in the pseudo-Kurt Russell role of a tough-guy helicopter pilot. (His ass-kicking sidekick is played by Adewale Akinnuoye-Agbaje, otherwise known as “the black guy who doesn’t get killed first.”) Thomsen is in fine form as the unctuous and untrustworthy scientist who may doom the entire world to being chewed up and eaten, and Jørgen Langhelle is terrific as a gruff Norse workman who sides with Kate although he speaks no English.

Sure, the second half of “The Thing” devolves (as does Carpenter’s film) into an especially scary but essentially predictable game of hide-and-seek involving flame throwers, disturbingly homoerotic beast-fu and philosophical cum scientific debates about who is and isn’t human. But Heisserer and van Heijningen’s puckish take on the famous blood-test scene in Carpenter’s “Thing” is both tense and hilarious, and even at its most repetitious, this “Thing” is never less than a competent, confident claustrophobic thriller. We even get to see inside the Thing’s 100,000-year-old spaceship, which raises wacky questions the movie doesn’t try to answer: Is it intelligent? Is its civilization still out there somewhere? Could it communicate in some way that doesn’t involve digesting and copying us, if it wanted to? Seriously, though, Universal Pictures, let’s not go there. We all dodged a bullet with this film, which against all odds announces the arrival of a promising young genre director. Let’s not push our luck.