We’re not likely to see a major studio release as misanthropic, disturbing or challenging as Observe and Report in a long, long time. It’s a grim fusion of the mad poetry of delusion found in Taxi Driver and the calculated mass-appeal of Paul Blart: Mall Cop, with the methodology of Jody Hill ensuring that no character exists in his universe without several fatal flaws. A delightful contradiction, for sure; all the more surprising that a film this frequently disgusting and offensive was given a wide release with a super-saturation ad campaign that could only hint at the depravity within. Yet one gets the distinct impression that the studio dollars also led to the interference of business interests. I’d imagine test screenings did not go well either. Were this a do-it-yourself indie like Hill’s Foot Fist Way, its unsparing vision would have come through without compromise.

Observe and Report is hampered by a pervasive slickness, from the all-star cast to the crisp anamorphic photography to the shimmering clinical elegance of the mall interiors. Ronnie Barnhardt’s mall needs to be some filthy skid-row establishment on its last legs, with half its stores boarded up forever. His mother needs to BE a gutter whore instead of making cute jokes about it. Likewise his co-workers need to be sociopaths, ex-jocks, failed athletes who relish any opportunity for a power trip. Asian twins and a lisping Michael Pena (admittedly hilarious) are there to feed Ronnie’s ego, while he covers all the psychopathic bases. As a dual protagonist and antagonist, Seth Rogen doesn’t really do a whole lot with a juicy role. His line delivery and casual mannerisms are identical to the “hip stoner” character he plays in, well, everything. Likewise his attempt at being “bipolar” is hilariously noncommittal. Hill must express his inner anguish through violence rather than through line deliveries, blocking, or you know, acting.

The script is a mess if you try to break it down to its figurative nuts and bolts. We have a love story that doesn’t pay off in the end, a rivalry with another cop that doesn’t resolve itself, a plot twist involving a shoe store robbery that also doesn’t lead up to anything revelatory. Somehow, the sloppy construction benefits the film, giving it more of a realistic feel that, somehow, the improvised Apatow comedies are continually lacking. O&R is likely to alienate anyone unfamiliar with Hill’s stylings on “Eastbound and Down” or Foot Fist, as we’re never instructed HOW to feel about any of the uncomfortable scenes in its lean, mean 86 minutes.

Since Ronnie is supposed to be bipolar, and goes off his meds after a certain point, his descent into madness, as scripted, is supposed to be some sort of subjective reality deal. If the Scorsese music cues, dolly shots, and gutter-talk weren’t enough to convince you that Jody Hill loves Taxi Driver, the narrative structure of O&R is exactly the same. We merely exchange one meaningless job for another, one mental trauma for another. Both have blonde objects of adoration along with their requisite romantic rivals, in this case Ray Liotta adding yet another layer of Scorsese worship (along with fulfilling his wasted potential as seen in Goodfellas, surprisingly). His asshole cop is a great character who gets shunted off to the sidelines after Ronnie arrests the ubiquitous Danny McBride. This is the equivalent of Travis Bickle ruthlessly murdering the wannabe robber, only once again substituting one racial caricature for another.

Oh yeah, I should mention that the rest of the review contains spoilers, except for the last paragraph.

So Ronnie’s merely Travis with a quirky calculator wristwatch, and the tacked on happy ending is merely a tribute to the prolonged postmortem hallucination that concludes  Scorsese’s masterpiece.  His mind seemingly consumed by gun fetishism and an obsessive need to prove himself dominant to Liotta’s cop, he holes himself up in the mall and does his best imitation of the epic hallway fight scene in Oldboy. But it fizzles, and Act 2 ends with Ronnie in prison. Since he’s not passed out in a pool of blood, the “subjective reality” can only be a product of some manic mood swing; either that or illicit drugs. The concept of a prisoner inventing, and subsequently residing in his own fantasy world is hardly a fresh one. Hill shows his hand by avoiding scenes dealing with legal prosecution, or with Ronnie’s mother who is liable to pass out in a permanent alcohol coma at any second. The fantasy is so ridiculous that you’re taken out of the story.

Imagine you’re Ronnie’s boss. You’ve just had to fire him after he holed himself up in your mall and proceeded to beat the stuffing out of at least a dozen police officers. You could press charges for property damage, but you’re too nice for that. A lifetime ban from the mall would have been the bare minimum as far as consequences go. A few days later, who should show up again but Ronnie, carrying a .45 automatic? This time, he finds his serial flasher in a department store, as Ahab did his White Whale, and shoots the unarmed man in full view of customers and staff. What do you do next?

A) Subdue Ronnie, make arrest yourself.
B) Put Ronnie on Double Lifetime Mall Ban.
C) Call Ray Liotta, he’ll know what to do.
D) Reinstate Ronnie’s position as Head of Mall Security.

If Observe and Report was made without any studio interference, the answer would not have been as cut-and-dried as all that. (If you guessed anything other than D, the preceding statement does not apply to you) In fact I’d wager the flasher would have died instantly, Ronnie would have been sent to jail, or, better, he would have self-immolated before the vacuous Brandy and the slightly less vacuous Nell, as Patton Oswalt looked on through endlessly flowing tears. Alas, all we have is this neutered version of a dark tale, which still did not gross anything close to a profit.

I can appreciate O&R for its many successes, and appreciate it much more with a few stiff drinks. Take its pretensions with a grain of salt (preferably, several grains with which to line the rim of your margarita glass), and hopefully your drenched brain will interpret it as some sort of meta-parody of itself, or a wonderful demonstration of how best to waste studio money on a cheap set and, likely, many illicit substances. Or save it for the hangover; it’s surprisingly banal for something that goes out of its way to be offensive. Bad Santa mops the floor with this one. Or, rather, urinates in his Santa suit, passes out and lets  Ronnie clean up.

If there ever was a purely existential Spaghetti Western, then Sergio Corbucci’s The Hellbenders (Italian title I crudeli or “The Cruel Ones”) is it. I was pleasantly surprised by The Hellbenders. I have always thought of Corbucci as a clumsy, overrated director. Navajo Joe is dreadful, Django meanders into silliness, and the frustrating The Great Silence falls far short of being the great Western it deserves to be. But in its quiet, subtle, and gutwrenching way, The Hellbenders demonstrates that Corbucci is capable of creating a nuanced morality tale that brooks no easy answers or easily identifiable protagonists. Indeed, the rock solid, wonderfully hateful, and undeniably charismatic presence of Joseph Cotten as Colonel Jonas makes The Hellbenders a winner. He is such a complete bastard, religious hypocrite, and cruel father that you can’t help but be drawn by his irresistible pull. You have no choice but join him on his journey of madness. This anti-hero perfectly encapsulates the tyranny of family, religion, and state all in one very restrained, quiet, but unforgettable performance.

Jonas is the patriarch of three adorable sons: Ben, Nat, and the he just can’t help himself rapist Jeff. The South just lost the Civil War, but Colonel Jonas, leader of the now defunct Hellbenders regiment, ain’t recognizing Robert E. Lee’s surrender, goddamnit. He and his three sons, along with a drunken blonde named Claire (the lovely floozy Norma Bengell), are on a mission to steal a pile of decommissioned banknotes that are being escorted by soldiers. Claire poses as a Confederate widow with a forged permit to escort her husband and his coffin to its final resting place, with Jonas and his sons pretending to be her family. The booze doesn’t help her maintain her disguise.

Jonas, Nat, and Jeff sneak attack the soldiers by chucking a passel of dynamite at them, and picking off the rest of the survivors sniper-style. It’s a complete massacre, and the violence and stunt work of this scene is shocking and involves a lot of horses getting smacked to the ground. We find out that Jonas intends to use the money to fund a The South Will Rise Again movement, and they conceal the money in the coffin. Ben (Julian Matoes playing the square-jawed “good guy” in a very relative sense) is disgusted by the massacre, and begins to have doubts about his father’s obsession. But he remains loyal to his father, and eventually replaces the drunk with another fake Confederate widow, though this particular woman has no idea what she’s getting into. And given how Claire got “fired,” it’s doubtful Kitty (the hard edged and equally lovely Maria Martin) would have wanted the job. The phrase “one big happy family” does not quite do justice to this crew of desperadoes.

I was impressed by the tight narrative of the film, a welcome contrast to the implausible plot developments of Django and Navajo Joe. The music, scored by the inevitable Ennio Morricone, is wonderfully melancholy, creating a perfect backdrop to the hopeless, mad quest. Jonas is nothing if not a very religious man, insisting that his boys pray to the Almighty before they commit murder. There is a constant undercurrent of piety in the film, sincere and false, that flows from one scene to the next, which helps to pile on the ironies. One wonderfully awkward scene involves Kitty going to the funeral of her “husband,” and consoling an old war buddy of the dead man, who is fortunately blind.

The Hellbenders has a knockout ending, which I suppose is somewhat predictable given the main plot device is a coffin full of cash. But the eventual demise of The Hellbenders paints a lovely portrait of the indifferent universe, and how obsession and evil intentions and love and good intentions matter not a whit in the impartial violence of the desert.

Darren Aronfsky’s The Wrestler is a sweet, sentimental, and very musical film, once you get past the 80s hair metal, steroid popping, and bathroom sex. You have a broken down warrior, a stripper with a heart of gold, and wonderfully dysfunctional life that makes The Wrestler one of the most humane films I’ve seen in a long time. With this very self-conscious effort that contains none of the misanthropic bitterness of Pi and Requiem for a Dream, nor any of the esoteric headiness of The Fountain, Aronfsky has created his most accessible and realistic film. Aronfsky has decided to come back down to earth with The Wrestler, to undeniably entertaining results.

Mickey Rourke has created easily the most physical character since Robert DeNiro’s legendary turn in Raging Bull. Rourke’s Randy “The Ram” Robinson is so convincing in not just his physical frame, but in his swagger and obliviousness, that Rourke could easily be mistaken for any WWF star; indeed, Rourke trained with professional wrestlers, and many of the locker room scenes were improvised with real wrestlers. I found these impromptu locker room scenes to be the heart of the film. There is no belligerence or macho posturing with these off duty athletes; like exhausted soldiers or surgeons, they joke around and lend each other moral support, complimenting each other on their performances. Phony wrestling is nothing if not a concerted team effort. The men stand together in convincing solidarity.

And I found the film’s constant theme is one of the not self-delusion, but rather conscious self-delusion, the intricate dance of knowing full well we are deceiving ourselves. The WWF fans know the matches are all fake, yet they continue throw their passionate fandom towards their heroes. Randy knows he is slowly killing himself with his punishing regimen, but he cannot walk away from the adulation, proscribed and contrived as it is. Aging stripper Cassidy (Marisa Tomei, who continues to grow more gorgeous as the years go by) knows her code of “never getting involved with the customers” is a shoddy grasp at some sort of honor in her fucked up life, but she clings to it because this rule is the only self-empowering thing she’s got left.

The most depressing scenes involve the dreary existence that awaits Randy if he leaves wrestling. He must work for an asshole boss at a supermarket, the only steady “real” job he can get. I got the sense he kept returning to this job out of inertia, with the shitty work giving him the excuse to return to wrestling. Randy stoically bears the contempt of his supermarket boss, and we can all relate to the tyranny of petty authority, these little Kim Jong Ills that run our offices, factories, and warehouses, lording it over their subordinates because they are incapable of leading an extraordinary existence. I did not feel pity, but complete catharsis and that same locker room solidarity when Randy finally quits the deli counter.

Laugh outloud scenes include Randy and Cassidy’s bitter denunciation of the 90s and that jerk Kurt Cobain ruining the music scene, and the wrestler Ayatollah’s antics with the Iranian flag, reviving our age-old hate affair with Iran. I swear, why do Iran and America continue to bicker like an old married couple? Professional wrestling has always had a wonderful knack for lampooning the absurdity of our cultural preconceptions, and the Ayatollah’s locker room camaraderie with Randy only underlines the manufactured hatred of our respective countries. Take what symbolism you can from that.

The Wrestler falters a bit on the cliché of the wayward father trying to win back his bitter daughter, but you can’t deny the irony…and authenticity…of his success that relies on a stripper’s sensible fashion choice of a pea coat. It all ends in tears, of course, and I viewed these awkward scenes as the unbridgeable chasm between generations, specifically a child of the 80s dealing with a child of 00s. Perhaps only a child of the 90s can fully appreciate and fall in love with both generations. Middle children have a tendency to do that.

The ending of The Wrestler is magnificent, hearkening back to the days of yore, New Hollywood’s bold assertion that films need not be neatly wrapped up to be concluded. With Aronfsky’s sure hand and Rourke’s uncompromising performance, The Wrestler is a slaphappy, forehead razor slicing, lapdance hustling triumph. Randy the Ram is a cinematic hero I could have a beer with, for once.