Kontroll (Hungary, 2003)

“Kontroll”, directed by first-time Hungarian director Nimrod Antal, is one of the most exciting films made in the past ten years. Equal parts suspense film, surreal mystery story, horror movie and even comedic satire, it is a breathtaking work of exhilarating beauty. Filmed in the Budapest subway system in 2003, Kontroll is one of those films that never leaves the indoor environs of the subway station and never gets boring, a pretty amazing accomplishment.

Kontroll is the story of a burnout named Bulcsu (Sandor Csanyi), a ticket inspector for the subway system who not only works in the subterranean station but lives and sleeps there, as well. Regarding the city above him with agoraphobic horror, he's shown lumbering around the subway station like a 21st Century Caveman and always appears to be in some form of bloody dishevelment. He’s the leader of his team of ticket inspectors, pretty funny stuff in that these teams behave more like street gangs than subway authorities.

Bulcsu’s biggest rival is another inspector named Gonzo (Balazs Mihalyi), who challenges our hero to a unique game of chicken called “railing”, where they race each other down the subway tunnel with the non-stop Midnight Express racing behind them. Whoever reaches the arrival platform first wins the race. Antal films the railing scene brilliantly, suspense building with every shot.

Another matter is a mysterious hooded killer who leaps from the shadows and pushes riders off the platform to their death by subway train. After every murder the transit authorities show up, led by a cold-blooded executive (Gyorgy Cserhalmi) who looks creepier and more menacing than any of the inspectors. Could he be the killer?

Kontroll never gets boring because there’s always something weird going on: a narcoleptic inspector who passes out whenever he gets confrontational, Bulcsu’s team chasing after Bootsie the Vandal, a psych called in to examine the nutty inspectors, and a dark, creepy rave party where Bulcsu pursues the subway killer.

Subway operator Bela (Lajos Kovacs) is also a burnout, and like Bulcsu spends his many hours eating and hanging out in his train with his daughter, Szofi (Eszter Balla). Szofi is every bit as nutty as Bulcsu and her dad, riding the rails in a huge teddy bear costume, and later in the film fighting off a team of inspectors in her bulky outfit.

After facing accusations of being The Subway Killer, Bulcsu, fed up, quits his job and finds redemption by allowing Szofi, no longer dressed as a teddy bear, but as a guardian angel, to escort him back up to the Big City and face the reality he had been hiding from down below.

Bulcsu is probably the coolest scuzz in movies, looking like a cross between Mickey Rourke from “Barfly” and a Brendan Fraser from Hell. Even when he appears impassive to what’s going on around him you’re curious as to what’s really cooking around in his head.

Nimrod Antal’s excellent direction is complimented by Gyula Pados’ ingeniously framed cinematography - check out how many times he makes the tunnel look like spider webs - and bordered by a visceral soundtrack by Neo. Kontroll was the first Hungarian film to show at the Cannes Film Festival in 20 years and won the coveted Le Prix De La Jeunesse award. It also won the Best Foreign Language Film Award at the 2004 Chicago International Film Festival.

While there are a few inevitable plot holes in the movie, Kontroll is one of the most exciting and visceral films you’ll ever see, a dazzling thing of speed and beauty and I highly recommend it.

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Old sex symbols never die, they just end up making lurid erotic horror films in Europe. Sue Lyon created a scandal playing the title role in “Lolita”, later reprising the sexy nymphet role in “Night Of The Iguana”, but by the Seventies all the sexy steam ran out and she went to Spain in 1973 to film the awful “Clockwork Terror”.

Carroll Baker faced a similar dilemma by following up her scandalous debut in “Baby Doll” with movies like "Sylvia", eventually going to Europe to star in “Baba Yaga”, an adaptation of the Guido Crepax comic “Valentina”, where Baker plays some weird old witch. While it’s somewhat better and more interesting than “Clockwork Terror”, “Baba Yaga” comes off as a sort of low-budget “Blow Up” with all sorts of occult hijinx to keep you from falling asleep.

Moms, Mommy, Mother

My mother’s birthday was two weeks ago, I was going to write something about her but I ran dry and wrote something else instead. I don’t even remember what it was, maybe some essay on chimps and why little boys like to laugh at them. Something like that. Well, Mother’s Day is here so I’m going to give it another go.

My mother (Elizabeth) was a very striking brunette, tall, thin and very pretty, kind of a Sophia Loren look; my father (Ernest) was good looking, too, he reminded me of Desi Arnaz. Watching TV was fun because my parents looked like the characters on TV shows, only better looking.
My mother had very arched eyebrows and always looked at me with a look of amusement, as if her face said, “Okay, what’s this kid going to do now?” A lot of parents like to brag about how bright their kids are - my mother would just sit there and trip out on how nutty her new born son was. I made her smile and laugh a lot.

She had a great laugh and a great smile. I liked the way she listened to rock ‘n roll, not like most parents my classmates had, who wouldn’t allow them to listen to rock or read comic books. One of them didn’t even allow my friend to watch television! My parents were cool; they were pretty open-minded. Except for old people.
My mom HATED old people. It was funny to watch. Once an old lady got on the bus she moved towards the back, harrumphing and staring at me sitting in my seat. My mother held my hand tightly and muttered through gritted teeth, “Don’t you dare get up and give her your seat”. In Hungarian, of course, so the graybones couldn’t hear.

And when we moved to Hollywood from New England my mom carted us around all the Hebrew schools in the area, looking for a good one. I remember this school we visited that had the playground on the rooftop with a low fence. Upon seeing this mother’s pointy eyebrow shot up with withering disdain. I didn’t miss that for a second. Five minutes later in the principal’s office a boy raced in harried, screaming, “Rabbi, Rabbi, the toilet’s flooding in the Boy’s Room”. The pointy eyebrow raised disdainfully again. Once again, my mother hmmphed and growled, “We are NOT going to THIS SCHOOL. Come, children!”

But she wasn’t always a bitch. She babysitted kids on the side that would have tested the patience of a saint. She was always nice to them, no matter how irritating these tots were. Of course, once they left the house she would do hysterical imitations of them whining and pissing all over themselves.

My parents were the most exciting couple to me: My father would come home with blueprints of missiles and rockets he designed at Aerospace during the Kennedy/Johnson-era Space Program. My mother had sewing machines, tailor’s forms and tons of material, pattern paper and designing gear to work with. I knew more about seam rippers, bobbins, and pattern wheels than I did about baseball or dirt bikes. I developed a fetish for machinery and design at an early age.

I remember going to textile stores with her and she’d say, “Okay, Andy, if you see a shirt pattern you like, pick it out”. I’d go through all the pattern books and find a cool Nehru shirt design (psych era, don’t laugh!). Then we’d walk around and look at the different material and I’d pick the most psychedelic, colorful print, and say, “That’s it, Mommy”.
We’d go home and she’d sew the cool shirt for me, and my brothers would razz me about it. They were jealous.

We’d also go for long walks in Beverly Hills and go for miles up Olympic Boulevard until we reached the deepest excavation site with dozens of bulldozers roaring around. There was a big sign in front: “Coming soon – Century City, a new experience in city living and entertainment”. Hah!

The walks around Beverly Hills went from sunny to dark when my mother contracted cancer and I’d walk with her to the Doctor’s office on Wilshire and Roxbury. I’d sit in the waiting room with my comics until she came out from her treatments. She smoked quite a bit, so much so she sewed a cigarette case cover for her Kents.

I was thirteen when she died, it was in the peak of the summer. I remember her funeral was sunny and hot – the sun was blinding and everyone was dressed in black. The contrasts were very extreme. I was in shock and felt as if the floor was pulled out from under me. The shock was so intense I couldn’t even cry.

To this day I still visit the same grave, almost forty years later. I’m sure if she could see me now I still make her smile and laugh a lot.

Hungarian Kitchen Fight Club

Every Sunday my Uncle Alex would have cooking parties with his sixty-something Hungarian bachelor pals, just about supper time. The boys would come by with their favorite cooking ingredients and cook up a storm in his kitchen while the old Hungarian creaky vinyl albums would be turned up Metallica-level loud. They'd bust out a bitter Hungarian red wine named "Egri Bikaver" (translated: "Bull's Blood").
The cooking party would begin with the sappy records playing and all the dudes talking about the good old days in Budapest and how they miss it. Then they'd brag about all the Hunk chicks they fucked, I got a good chuckle out of that.
In between Cold War locker room tales they'd race in to the kitchen and check up on their dishes: Stuffed Bell Peppers with Rice and Pork, Paprikash Chirke (Chicken Paprika), and of course Goulash (the heavier, the better). Gotta keep that sturdy frame ever sturdier.
Of course the Bull's Blood took it's toll as Hungarian time marches on and the next thing you know some of the boys got a little sarky with each other and fists started flying. Uncle Alex had to step in and stop it-it would get stopped. Alex was a motorcycle mechanic from the old country from way back and even the bikers in New England were in awe of him. His thumbs were all smashed in from mechanical accidents and he walked with a permanent limp from hydraulic jacks mangling his body 100's of times. But he still kept stomping about, and would wind up breaking up countless fights between the guys.
Our dinners would end up with some of the guys bruised from the fights voraciously eating their heavy but tasty Hungarian dishes. These guys cooked like the fucking devils they were. I miss those guys!