Hackers (Iain Softley, 1995)

I've heard that the net is vast and infinite. I've also heard that the sky over the port is the colour of television tuned to a dead channel. And while I'm not on the topic: "You're no good for me, I don't need nobody / Don't need no one that's no good for me." Hey, everybody. I'd like to officially start off my review of Hackers by apologizing to 1995. I don't know what I was thinking when I  dismissed you recently as bland and uninteresting. You're actually pretty rad. Now, granted, my memory of you is a tad on the foggy side. But thanks to Hackers, your innate awesomeness came flooding back to me like a 28.8 Kbps modem dipped in battery acid (in other words, ultra-fast). The fact that the previous films I watched from 1995 were not set in New York City didn't give me accurate overview of the year in question. And, as everyone knows, New York City makes everything better (even 1995). Take, for example, the amazing Party Girl. It takes place in NYC and came out in 1995. You could also include the New York set Vibrations from 1996 in this category. But that film was shot during the summer of 1993. Either way, I was wrong about 1995. And I'm more than willing to make it up to it by lavishing copious amounts of misguided praise on the only film to make computers seem cool. Yeah, that's right, I said cool. Think about all the movies that have featured computers over the past twenty years. Okay, did any of them make you feel any less lame for having watched them? Of course they didn't. If anything, they made you feel more lame. And given that I'm an expert when it comes to things that make you feel cool, I can safely say that Iain Softley's Hackers is the only movie to boast excessive computer usage that will make you feel cool afterward.

Well, Ghost in the Shell, also from 1995, has, if I recall correctly, plenty of computer usage throughout it. So, it's not exactly the only movie. And, yes, while that is true. Does Ghost in the Shell have a short-haired Angelina Jolie scowling up a storm in a leather racing jacket? No, it doesn't. Does Ghost in the Shell have a more pillowy lipped than usual Angelina Jolie wearing black stockings at night? No, it doesn't. Does Ghost in the... (Stop! We get it.) Good. 'Cause I could have kept going.

And I'm not even that big a fan of Angelina Jolie. In fact, I don't think I have seen more than three of her movies (Gia and Girl, Interrupted are the only ones I can think of at the moment). That being said, her performance as Kate, a.k.a. "Acid Burn," is so freakin' sexy.

Getting back to Ghost in the Shell for a second. The line that unofficially opened this movie review, "The net is vast and infinite," is from Ghost in the Shell. And the one that follows it is the opening line from William Gibson's Neuromancer. And the one that follows that is from The Prodigy track, "No Good (Start the Dance)." The reason I opened my review by quoting a classic piece of anime science fiction, the world's most famous cyberpunk novel and a the oft-repeated vocal hook from a mid-90s techno floor filler is because without them, Hackers wouldn't exist.

Oh, before you snarkily chime in by saying, "Maybe Hackers not existing is a good thing." try to remember the sight of Angelina Jolie's giant eyelids slathered in red eye make-up. Yeah, that's what I thought.

Man, I don't know 'bout you. But it feels weird saying nice things about Angelina Jolie. It's weird because, to me, she's the epitome of humour-challenged Hollywood. Plus, she cares about stuff. I got give it up to her, though. She's on fire in this movie. So much so, that I can't remember the name of the film's lead actor.  Oh, yeah, it's Jonny Lee Miller.

Nevertheless, you know the movie you're about to watch is going to be awesome when it opens with Orbital's "Halcyon + On + On." Playing over the scene where former child hacker, Dade Murphy (Jonny Lee Miller), is flying to New York City with his mother (Alberta Watson), the use of the Orbital track signaled to me early on that Hackers was serious about its techno.

Though, you have to wonder, why are the walls of Dade's bedroom covered with posters for grunge bands? I mean, the soundtrack is chock-full of techno. And grunge is basically heavy metal.  Think of it as Ratt in knitwear.

Other than screwing up the posters in Dade's room (someone clearly didn't inform the production designer that this is a pro-techno movie), Hackers manages to get everything else right. And fans of 1990s nostalgia will eat this shit up. However, angelheaded hipsters who feed off irony will have a difficult time making fun of this movie, as it eerily predicts the internet explosion years before it... well, exploded.

Of course, some might say that Lorraine Bracco's character's lack of tech savvy was an exaggeration. But her attitude was the norm in 1995. In all honesty, I'd say her viewpoint represented at least 99% of the North American population. Hell, even the secret service agent (Wendell Pierce) in charge of cyber-crime seemed to have no clue when it came to 'puters and the interweb.

Believe it or not, the characters played by Jonny Lee Miller (Dade, a.k.a. Zero Cool/Crash Override), Angelina Jolie (Kate, a.k.a. Acid Burn), Matthew Lillard (Emmanuel Goldstein, Jr., a.k.a. Cereal Killer), Swimfan's Jesse Bradford (Joey, a.k.a. Boy Meets World*), Laurence Mason (Nikon, a.k.a. Lord Nikon), Renoly Santiago (Phreak, a.k.a. The Fantom Phreak) and even Fisher Stevens (Eugene, a.k.a. The Plague), are pretty much life-size facsimiles of everyone currently living on the planet. And it's probably going to stay this way for quite some time, as I can't really see the genie being put back in the bottle. Unless, of course, the sun decides to hit the earth with an electromagnetic pulse, and it's bye-bye smartphone, hello pencil and notepad.

If the name "Fisher Stevens" seems out of place among the other names I mentioned, that's because he's not a roller-blading high school student who spends most his or her free time hanging out at Cyberdelia (the city's hippest hacker hang out). He's actually a skate-boarding hacker (with great taste in clothes) who works for a multinational corporation. I know, Lorraine Bracco mocks The Plague's fashion sense at one point in the film, but what can I say? I dug his style. Anyway, when Joey/Boy Meets World tries to impress his fellow hackers by hacking into the company The Plague provides cyber-security for, he finds himself labeled a terrorist by the authorities.

Meanwhile, Dade and Kate begin their exhaustive courtship of one another. Competitive about almost everything, Dade and Kate spend the bulk of the movie not fucking like rabid monkeys, but annoying each other. While these phony I hate you, I love you movie relationships are typically off-putting, I actually liked theirs. And besides, I loved how their initially meeting in cyberspace is set to The Prodigy's "Voodoo People."

From a technical point-of-view, I don't know how director Iain Softley managed to make the hacking scenes seem exciting. And the shots that take us inside "the matrix" were not as cornball as I thought they would be. Granted, none of it very realistic, but Hackers isn't a documentary. It's a slick techno-thriller that does the impossible, it redeems 1995. Oh, and, Happy [belated] Twentieth Anniversary, Hackers. May you continue to "Hack the Planet" for another twenty.

* Joey doesn't have a hacker handle (at least not officially), but I heard Phreak call him "Boy Meets World" at one point in the film. Which, and I think most people will agree, should totally be his hacker handle.

The Keep (Michael Mann, 1983)

This is definitely not your grandfather's World War II movie. What am I talking about it? This is probably not your father's World War II movie, either, and he wasn't even alive during the war; the only action he ever saw involved a somewhat heated argument pertaining to a pastrami sandwich and its perceived lack of mustard. Yes, it's true. I'm usually the first one to get their cotton panties in a bunch over World War II movies that deviate from the history books. But with The Keep (a.k.a. La Forteresse Noire), Michael Mann's metaphysical, Faustian, Naziploitation-esque follow up to Thief, I think I'm gonna keep my panties where they belong. You know this version of the war that defined a century is going to different straight out the gate. How so, you ask? Well, we get a close-up shot of the rain-soaked tank treads on an armoured troop carrier grinding away on a muddled road paired with the music of Tangerine Dream, that's how. Think of all the war movies you have seen over the years. Okay, now try to recall one that featured tank treads and lush synthesizer music. You know why you're not coming up with anything? That's because there's never been a film like this. Transporting the action from the location of his previous film (the neon-adorned streets of early 1980s Chicago) to the mist-laden forests of Romania circa 1943 was actually a lot smoother than you would think. In Thief, Michael Mann uses the safes and vaults the protagonist repeatedly breaks into as a metaphor for his spiritual confinement. However, in The Keep, based on the novel by F. Paul Wilson, the antagonist, a mysterious entity that lives inside an ancient citadel, wants to leave its prison-like walls. In other words, one man needs to enter a box to attain freedom, while another needs to vacate one. And this ain't no ordinary box, it's a large fortress in a small village in the Carpathian Mountains. The connection between the two films hits its zenith when we watch two Wehermacht soldiers attempting to steal one of the many what they perceive to be silver crosses (they're actually made out of nickle) that cover the walls of the keep, as it reminded me of James Caan's antics from Thief. Only difference being, James Caan didn't get his soul sucked out of his mouth, eyes, and ears by a thousand year-old demon. Or, at least I don't think he did.
 

 

Rumbling through the forest, a modest convey of military vehicles enter a village. And while that might sound like a routine way to start a movie, the step up is filled with enough unique flourishes to satisfy even the most jaded of film fans. A close up of a cigar being lit, steely pair of piercing blues eyes, trees, mud, an ominous sky, trucks filled with Germans, and, of course, Tangerine Dream's thundering music on the soundtrack, The Keep immediately establishes itself as a Michael Mann film. Welcome to the Dinu Pass in Romania, it's 1943, and a group of German soldiers, lead by Captain Klaus Woermann (Jürgen Prochnow) have been told to occupy a keep.
 

 

Entering it in dramatic fashion, Klaus meets Alexandru (William Morgan Sheppard), the caretaker, who gives him a vague history lesson about its origins. Meaning, he doesn't really tell him anything. Oh, sure, he tells him there are 108 crosses made out of nickle on the walls, and that no-one ever stays here. Curious about the latter, Klaus asks if the reason no-one ever spends the night has anything to do with ghosts or demons, to which the caretaker replies: no, not ghosts. You'll notice that he didn't include "demons" in his answer to Klaus's query. Interesting. Anyway, the rest of his men enter the keep and begin to set up shop.
 

 

Thinking the crosses are made out of silver, two Klaus's men start tamper with them. Still giving Klaus the tour, Alexandru catches wind of this tampering, and tells them: "Never touch the crosses! Never!" I loved the way Sheppard delivered this line. In fact, if I was in an industrial band, I would have suggested that we sample it on one of our songs. Yeah, that's right. It's that powerful of a delivery. We get a shot of the creepy, forbidding sky above the keep shortly after he makes this cross-based proclamation, which can't be a good sign.
 

 

Do you have a thing for German soldiers who walk in slow motion while wearing camouflage rain gear? What kind question is that? Of course I do. The better question would be: Who doesn't? Well then, have I got a treat for you. The two soldiers who were messing with the crosses are assigned to night watch as punishment. Obviously unfazed by the caretaker's dire warning, the two soldiers decide to take another crack at the crosses. Still convinced that they're made out of silver, they successfully remove one of them from the wall. Unveiling a narrow passageway, one of the soldiers, determined to find more silver, enters the passageway. And I don't have to tell you what happens next. That's right, Scott Glenn wakes up in a flophouse in Greece and his eyes begin to glow. What the fuck?!? You heard me. Your greed has awoken a slumbering Scott Glenn.
 

 

If you thought watching two Germans in camouflage rain gear poking around inside a cavernous corridor set to the music of Tangerine Dream was super-cool, than you clearly haven't experienced the sight of a glowy-eyed Scott Glenn packing his bags and hoping aboard a boat to Romania set to the music of Tangerine Dream, as there's nothing cooler than Scott Glenn when he's on the move. The synths! The water! The sky! The Scott Glenn! Who would have thought that a simple shot of a boat floating on the water could be so freaking compelling? Not me, that's for sure. And I'm the de facto president of the Tangerine Dream Nautical Appreciation Society.
 

 

Who or what killed those greedy, cross-tampering Germans in the keep? It's a mystery. Well, it's not a mystery to Klaus's superiors, who decide to send in re-enforcements to help Klaus battle partisans. Wait a minute. Partisans? Yeah, they think the two soldiers were killed by partisans, so they send an  SS officer named Major Kaempffer (Gabriel Byrne) and merry band of Einsatzgruppen. The contrast between Klaus's relatively uneventful arrival and Kaimpffer's was immediate, as the SS execute three local men without delay. This contrast in styles plays out throughout the film, as Prochnow and Byrne constantly clash with one another over the future of Germany. You could see their relationship as the battle between the sane, rational Germany and the Germany that is insane and irrational. I don't have tell you which Germany one won out in the end. Neither, as the cemeteries (and roadside shallow graves) were filled with both by war's end.
 

 

A message written in an unknown language has suddenly appeared on the wall of the keep, and it has the Germans flummoxed. The town's priest Father Mihail Ionescu (Robert Prosky) has no idea what it says, as it's written in a combination of Cyrillic and Latin. There is, however, a man, a Jewish man, who can translate it, but he's currently "living" in a concentration camp with his smoking hot daughter. Convinced that it would be in their best interest to seek out this man's linguistic talents, the Germans "welcome" Dr. Theodore Cuza (Ian McKellen) and his daughter Eva (Alberta Watson) to the keep with open yet suspicious arms.
 

 

Meanwhile, Scott Glenn, whose character is actually called "Glaeken Trismegestus," but I like to call him, "Scott Glenn," is whizzing through the verdant Romanian countryside on his motorcycle. I was pleased to see that the producers made an effort to get authentic-looking Romanian military uniforms for the guards who man the check point Scott Glenn comes across on his journey, as little details like that are usually ignored. At any rate, Scott Glenn makes his eyes glow and junk when one of the guards tries to sass him, which, of course, causes the sassy guard to freak out.
 

 

In case you haven't figured it out yet, nothing, not even poorly applied sass, is gonna stop Scott Glenn from reaching his destination. On top confronting evil forces, Scott Glenn has the throbbing confines of Alberta Watson's exceedingly moist pussy waiting for him on a crotch-based platter. Wait. You didn't think Alberta Watson was gonna let a bunch of Wehrmacht soldiers and Nazi thugs grope her tan, Tin Drum-esque stockings, did you? Oh, sure, a couple of the latter try to grope their delicate softness using force, but their heads are quickly blown up by Radu Molasar, the actual name of the keep's mysterious creature, before they can start. With each head he blows up (some of which are blown up real good), Radu Molasar becomes stronger, more powerful. However, he needs a human to assist his transformation from a skinless smoke monster to a fully-formed golem, and chooses Dr. Kuza, because he's weak and feeble, and has it in for the Germans, particularly the one's wearing black.
 

 

Curing Dr. Kuza of his many ailments (his skin was sickly) simply by touching him (the makers of Altered States called, they want their special effects back), Molasar enlists the newly spry linguistics professor to help procure a talisman, one that will enable him to leave the keep. Of course, he doesn't realize yet, but Scott Glenn and his bony ass are on a collision course.   
 

 

As with the majority of Michael Mann's films, The Keep is completely devoid of humour and mirth. Yet, that doesn't mean you won't find yourself giggling like a school girl who giggles at the sight of Scott Glenn wielding a giant pink glow stick. You heard right. A supreme evil is about to be unwittingly unleashed onto the world by Sir Ian McKellen, and the only way to stop it is for Scott Glenn to blast it with a pink ray of pure fabulousness while the music of Tangerine Dream blasts on the soundtrack. It's moments like this that caused to me to become inexplicably enamoured with this film. Serious as a heart attack, yet, at same time, extremely weird (Scott Glenn and Alberta Watson have Tantric sex at one point), the sometimes hokey gothic-style chiller will leave you perplexed and mildly entertained.

 
uploaded by ShockCinemaify

Special thanks to Shaun [The Celluloid Highway] for recommending this strange little movie.

White of the Eye (Donald Cammell, 1987)

You're an upwardly mobile blonde woman in the mid-1970s on her way to Malibu, California, when, all of sudden, it's the mid-1980s and you're  married to a man who installs high-end stereo systems for a living in Globe, Arizona. How did this happen? I have no idea. But don't expect White of the Eye, a serial killer film that's unlike any serial killer film I've ever seen, to spell things out for you in a simplistic, easily to digest manner. In fact, I'm rather uncomfortable calling this film, which is co-written and directed by Donald Cammell (Performance), a so-called "serial killer film," as I feel it demeans the genuine artistry that is on display throughout this thoroughly strange slice of off-kilter cinema. If anything, it seems to be mocking the genre. Take the opening murder sequence, for instance, it's filled with so many subtle flourishes, you'd think they were shooting a perfume ad, not a grisly homicide. Devoid of blood, stabbing, or any of the usual things that transpire during your average movie death, this film instead gives us a goldfish struggling to swim inside the rib-cage of a domestic pig. Since the chances of that occurring naturally are quite remote, it's obvious that this heinous act was premeditated. But still, you gotta wonder what compelled the killer to place a goldfish in the pan containing the victim's meaty dinner. Anyway, the target of this bizarre attack is Joyce Patell (Kate Waring), a fashion forward woman who just got back from doing some shopping at the mall (one of the store's employees can't help but visually devour the back of purple nylon-encased calves as he helps carry her purchases to her car). Unaware of the threat that lies on the other side of the door that leads to the inside of her lavish estate located in the desert, Joyce goes about her chic business with an effortless aplomb. As she's talking on the phone to a female acquaintance in her kitchen (and judging by the words peppered throughout the sentences she utters, she's dissatisfied with the results of her latest trip the salon), Joyce is suddenly confronted by an unknown assailant wearing gloves.
  

Other than the sight of Joyce getting the back of her head smashed into the glass door of her microwave oven (which, you got to admit, is still pretty uncommon), everything about this particular sequence oozed style and sophistication. The fluid camera work (the camera darts around the kitchen like a bandit) and the chaotic editing dominate proceedings for the next ten to fifteen seconds as the struggle between the victim and the perpetrator cause their surroundings to become severely unhinged. In other words, a suffocating goldfish, large amounts of red wine, fresh cut flowers, the owner of a shapely pair of legs kicking in protest over the ill-treatment being leveled on the torso they're attached to, multiple close-up shots of eyeballs, and snakeskin print pumps crashing into glass cookware are what we experience during this turbulent encounter.
  

After starting off like a Yes video ("Owner of a Lonely Heart") crossed with a parody of a Calvin Klein commercial, White of the Eye settles down a bit by introducing us to its signature players. The first we meet are the New York City born Joan White (Cathy Moriarty) and her ten year-old daughter Danielle (Danielle Smith) as they're making cookies in their modest home in Globe, Arizona. What struck me immediately was the luster of Cathy Moriarty's blonde hair (it was so fucking manageable, I nearly cried). But then it dawned on me, Joan, on top of having great hair, is an amazing mother. Not only does she make cookies with her tomboyish daughter, she teaches her the difference between "social" and "anti-social."
  

The sound of opera on the soundtrack mixed with aerial shots of the arid landscape are how we're introduced to Paul White (David Keith), the Grand Canyon State's premiere home stereo expert, as he's driving home in his green van, which equipped with Baja tires. In order to showcase the love that exists between Paul and Joan as a married couple, we're shown them sitting on the couch together. We learn, as they're talking, that Paul has the unique ability to know exactly where speakers should be placed in any given room; they don't call him "the human tuning fork" for nothing. As they're making out, a news report comes on the television detailing the murder of yet another wealthy housewife.
  

Magically sucked into the television, we're transported from White's living room to the scene of the crime where we find Detective Mendoza (Art Evans) poking around Joyce's messy kitchen, which is covered with more than just red wine (her blood is everywhere). Of course, I thought to myself, as Mendoza did the whole "look at me, I'm veteran detective investigating a homicide" bit: Yawn, not another cop on the edge trying to catch a serial killer. But most of those pesky thoughts quickly melted away the moment Mendoza decides to wash his hands in the murder victim's toilet. What can I say? I'm a sucker for a man who's not afraid to...wash his hands in a toilet. Wait a minute. That doesn't sound right. Whatever, let's just say I liked his idiosyncratic approach to detective work and move on.
  

According a flashback sequence that goes back ten years to 1976, the reason Paul and Joan are couple has a lot to do with Hot Chocolate's "You Sexy Thing." Driving through the desert in a van on her way to Malibu, Joan mistakes the 8-track tape deck, which is currently pumping out the disco classic, for an ashtray. Without thinking, her boyfriend Mike (Alan Rosenberg) pours soda on it in order to quell the smouldering. And, as most people know, your average 8-track tape player isn't equipped to handle cigarette ash and sticky liquid, so they stop at the nearest garage with the hope of getting it fixed. Well, actually, truth be told, Mike is the one who hopes to get the state of the art audio component looked at, as the mid-1970s version of Joan (whose hair is crimped to the point of casual gothiness) couldn't careless; Mike, on the other hand, can't live without his Hot Chocolate. Of course, it just so happens that the mechanics grandson is a whiz when it comes to repairing broken stereo equipment.
  

We flash-forward back to 1986 to find Paul doing what he does best, singing country and western song while installing high end stereo equipment. Since the house he's installing with sub-woofers and tweeters just happens to be next-door to the home where a woman was brutally murdered, this gives Detective Mendoza the opportunity to have a friendly chat with Paul about Mahler, stereos, and tires. I'm curious, did you wonder why I pointed out that Paul's van had Baja tires? You didn't? Well, the reason I went out of my way to mention the type of tires was because Mendoza couldn't help but notice that the tires on Paul's van were the same kind that left tracks in the sand outside the home's of the murder victims.
  

Scrambling to find his wife's daybook in order to nail down his alibi in 1986, and taking Mike mule deer hunting in 1976, Paul is a busy man no matter what decade it is.
  

Whether it was the sight of a distinguished detective putting on a red beret or a cop powdering his armpits, there was something decidedly off about this film. Similar in tone to that of Ken Russell's Crimes of Passion, White of the Eye is a classic example of Americana as filtered through the mind of an Englishman. Just look at the casting. I mean, would an American director cast an Asian-American actor to play a sheriff's deputy? Maybe. But I like to think that Donald Cammell thought by casting David Chow as Fred Hoy, a flossing deputy with an Arizona accent who's friends with Paul, that he was giving his film a unique flavour. Not that it needs anymore, unique flavour, this is, as the film is chock-full of unexpected weirdness. And I say, "unexpected," because I don't usually expect much in terms of creativity when it comes to serial killer flicks.
  

On top of being the preeminent expert when it comes to high fidelity, Paul's pronounced trouser bulge, it would seem, is just one of the many feathers he has in his cap. Wanting to explore its torque-transmitting thrusts in a non-flaccid state, the wealthy housewives of Gila County are literally gnawing on each other's ankle bracelets to get the chance to ride its fleshy cargo all the way to pleasure-town. Okay, they're not, what did I say they were doing? Oh yeah, "gnawing on each other's ankle bracelets," (great mental image, by the way. thanks, I'm awesome), but some of them are pretending to have satellite problems in order get his first-class crotch indentation into their spacious homes. And by "spacious homes," I mean their not-so spacious vaginas.
  

As she stood on the balcony overlooking her swimming pool, I thought about the Suicide song "Diamonds, Fur Coat, Champagne" as it perfectly encapsulates the aura that surrounds Ann Mason (Alberta Watson), a perm enthusiast who sets the trends in Globe. Wearing a fur coat and holding a martini glass, Ann beckons Paul to come up to her bedroom to take a look at her wonky television. Attempting to seduce, what she calls "a stupid hillbilly," the moment he enters the room, Ann tries everything she can think of to get the well-hung man to notice her. Since her waterbed and fuzzy bedroom slippers are failing to yield any open air cock, Ann resorts to plan B, which entails showing Paul her unobscured bikini area from an elevated angle. Quirky observation: Judging by the generous breadth of her stance and the confident air she emitted as she presented it to Paul, Ann's pussy is an immaculately manicured stretch of highway that only a select few have travelled.
  

While Ann is moping at home, no doubt, nursing her unloved crevices with expensive sex toys, Paul having sexual intercourse with Joan as a television tuned to a dead channel flickers in the background. However, don't feel too badly for Ann. You'll see what I mean when Joan and her friend Caryanne (Pamela Guest) are walking the streets of downtown Globe. As they're walking and talking, as girlfriends are want to do, they spot Liza (Mimi Lieber), a woman who could easily win an Ann Mason look-alike contest if such an entity existed, and begin to ridicule her "Brillo pad" hairstyle. Although, Caryanne is one to talk, since her hair is looking  a tad Brillo-y as well. Anyway, this scene proves once and for all that Ann Mason is an influential figure in Globe.
  

If you recognized Mimi Lieber as Rula (the psychic who Elaine repeatedly scolds for smoking while pregnant) from the Seinfeld episode titled "The Suicide," congratulations, you, like me, watched way too much Seinfeld back in the day. At any rate, I'm not gonna mention anything else as far the plot goes, but I will say the scene with Mimi in her bathroom (I dug the way her floral nightie matched the wallpaper) was definitely the most disturbing bathtub scene since Charles Napier got his stomp on in Russ Meyer's Supervixens.
  

Besides, "You Sex Thing" by Hot Chocolate ("I believe in miracles!"), a song that haunts the proceedings like a fever dream, the music in White of the Eye is mostly provided by Nick Mason (Pink Floyd) and Rick Fenn (10cc), who mix electronic sounds with guitar riffs and Indian-style drumming.
  

Sold as a run-of-the-mill psychological thriller (if you watch the trailer, you'll see what I mean), White of the Eye is–to be blunt–deeply weird. Of course, I realize that it's easy to call something "weird," and putting "deeply" in front of it doesn't make it sound any weirder. But you have to believe me when I tell you that this film is weird. It's up there with Motorama and Rubin and Ed in terms of weirdness. You'll notice I didn't say, Eraserhead or some other, more well-known slice of cinematic weirdness. Well, that's because Donald Kammell earns his weirdness. What I mean is, he doesn't shove it down our throats. Slowly pealing away the layers of normalcy, the film gets more and more bizarre the further we delve into the minds of the characters. It gets to a point where all we're left with is a man dressed as a misogynist samurai with hot dog-shaped explosives tied to his mid-section chasing a woman wearing a coat adorned with peacock feathers.