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Ever get tired of the same old film arcs? All that filler, all the requisite small stuff that some studio honcho of long ago decreed would make the audience feel -- heaped onto us like mortar into gaping fissures. So often, this cookie cut filling lacks in calories equal to what it ultimately robs from the film. No film seems to want to cleanly state, "She fell in love with him." Oh, no. They want us to feel it. The reality, though, is that we don't always need to be cognizant of the why-it-exists to simply respect that something does exist.
 | How many films of recent days have fallen victim to this? Nary a pair of hairy ones seem to tread anywhere near so many Hollywood movie machines. The first half hour is, all too often, spent drilling home the basics, ad nauseum. While the clock is running, I find myself rattling my cage: "GET ON WITH IT, ALREADY!" ... only to have those wasted minutes glare even more, as we witness genuinely humorous bits shoe-horned in because they wasted too much time circling the drain, rather than just plainly stating. Sometimes... oh... sometimes, I just wish a film would cut to the chase. That a film would be what it is, and thumb whatever rules get in its way. ... which is precisely what the minds behind Mark Macready and the Archangel Murders do. |
I'm not saying I have pictures, I am merely suggesting that Sean Candon and Co.'s sack-like parts are low-hanging. There is no sprawling back story presented. No opening of Macready wielding flashlight and firearm, as he lurks through an abandoned meat factory, hot on the trail of an evil-doing hobgoblin. None of that -- no time for that! Two hours of plot were triple distilled down to a thirty-two minute long, molten sludge, ready to be mainlined through the viewer's eye sockets. There's no discerning Macready whiles away his day in ghoul-thwarting activities -- one minute, and twenty-six seconds in, he just says so: "Well, being in love with me is dangerous -- especially in my line of work: fighting crime AND the supernatural." I know what you're thinking. You're thinking, "But, Angela Mac, that dialogue sounds suspiciously like expository dialogue -- and expository dialogue... well... that's not *good* dialogue..." You're right. And you know what else? The whole film is that way. Thirty two minutes of some guy in a non-descript black suit walking through a parking garage, speaking on his cell phone just long enough to mention, "-- I'm a foreign diplomat!" Thing about expository dialogue is, it's only bad when the studio seriously believes the micro-brained consumers they're selling to won't notice. Macready knows what it's doing. It is not a film made with a wink. This film rolls in with a veritable slap on the back from your Santa-bellied Uncle Mort, that knocks you off kilter, and leaves you stumbling. The first thirty seconds or so were a bit dicey for me, though, unsure whether the comedy was strategically aimed, or a stratospheric misfire. Then came the tell -- Mark Macready's Eyebrow of DOOM. A thick, black line pronouncing a furrowed brow suddenly hiked, and my heart rejoiced. It's all Peter Seller and Mel Brooks up in here! Ryan McDermott as Macready is the living end. I'd like to be flowery, and witty and say more than that... but alas, I cannot. He just is. I can add, however, that he is the poor, edgy woman's Gerard Butler. The cheeky face and gravelly voice are an incongruous implant from 40's film noir. Not real film noir, mind you; rather, the film noir which other films fictionalize -- the tough-talking PI other characters in other films pretend to be in their daydreams. | 
Behold: The Eyebrow of DOOOOM!
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Humor in Macready goes beyond a humorous script. It's sort of... hmm... a humorous script of very serious people in a very seriously derelict stab at a paranormal cop film. But without being a play-within-a-play. Mark Macready, the character, is a royal arse - and yet, endearingly so. Within a scant few minutes of film, I was fully engrossed. Between outright howling at the dialogue, the eyebrow, and the seeming "dedication" of its lead actor, is a heightened sense of investment. The flick might be beyond camp, yet, there was not a second existing between beginning and end when I was not desperate to know what would happen next. Amid a brisk pace, fair dose of gore and an entire catalogue of what would be a bigger budget's b-roll, love festers. The love I felt for Count Scary's Halloween TV show for Detroit, that glee when first holding a slapped-together, third-use VHS copy of Sam Raimi's Early Works, that giddy anticipation fluttering in my belly every Friday and Saturday night at the prospect of seeing Gilbert Gottfried, Rhonda Shear and a horde of unpalatable film.... it was all here. Another talented group working with what they had... and they really don't have much more than a camera, their raw wit and some handsome fellow who can do a hilarious Spockbrow. 
| Peripherals in Macready are every bit as rollicking as McDermott. A Brit's version of a go guns Texan, and another's take on... I'm not really sure what, exactly, but I'm guessing a black, jazzy, small-change crook turned snitch from the dark alleyways of New York (you know the type), a police crime file that unfolds like a lovelorn tween's scrapbook... and so on. There are even evil snake women (who Zombie Boy believes are actually a group, named The Glitter Kittens. Double-check that, but sufficed to say, if they're not, they really should be)! Special mention to the music. That background bravado pounding away in accompaniment to Mark Macready dosing the world with a little TCB was a marvel in itself. There should be about twenty installments of Macready floating around on the Shelves of the Esteemed of geeks everywhere. I should be able to meet a cool new friend, and impress him with my ubercool collection of Macready tapes and memoriabillia. My Macready shirt -- of McDermott in police sunglasses with the quote, "I Know" -- should be my favorite shirt. All of which begs the question: What on God's green Earth is the BBC so busy swilling it hasn't greenlighted a Macready series already?? GET ON WITH IT. |
You should go. And be sure to listen closely to the explanation of what the Archangel is actually doing. I cannot remember the last time a film (let alone, a short film) inspired me to both laugh and love it so -- for that, Candon, McDermott, Paul Feeney and whoever else is to thank for MMatAAM, have my eternal gratitude. But that will quickly sour into a kick in the ass if they don't make more. Contact Angela Mac:
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