A Bleating Animal: House of the Dead (2003)

“I have enough money to play golf till I’m dead.”

- Uwe Boll

I do confess, dear readers, to being irritated in the past with audience members who address the screen directly. Not every patron is a cinematic expert like myself, mind you, but I've operated under the assumption that even the lowliest of philistines stumbling by chance into this house of dreams and wonder would understand that we're being exposed to prerecorded images and that no amount of shouting, fussing or appealing to one's neighbor will alter the outcome. 

A scene from either Mr. Boll's House of the Dead or its source material

Today I am forced to admit I have fallen beneath my own standards. For during House of the Dead, I had my expectations so vexed that I cried out for satisfaction. After my initial pleading that the movie sort of buck up and be better, I resigned myself to hoping for a little rousing spot of zombie violence. And when I found that instead of violence, the movie leaned on the economic decision to cut to footage from the video game, I fear I violated my own rule quite seriously.

I can only assume that my breach of decorum and, dare I say, principle is part of the genius of director Uwe Bowl. I became aware of Mr. Bowl's genius after viewing a video he posted in which he stated, “I'm the only genius in the whole fucking business". Up to this point I had heard little of Boll’s brainy credentials, but the forcefulness of his assertion soon caved my concerns. 

Those lucky few elected to be the vessels of genius

Revisiting the work with Boll’s brilliance in mind, House of the Dead reveals itself to be an experiment in artistic antagonism akin perhaps to the Chris Ofili’s dung-covered The Holy Virgin Mary or the early days of the “punk rock” movement. I realized the emotions he had stirred in me, unpleasant though they may have been, were a sight more powerful than your average Hollywood fare, what Boll himself might uncharitably refer to as “social critic George Clooney bullshit what you get every fucking weekend.” And this is the root of Uwe Bowl’s genius -- by depriving me of my most basic expectations, I was reduced to my basest self, a bleating animal voicing my futile displeasure for all to hear. To call the experience transformative would be the most grotesque understatement. Only a man of singular intellect could evoke such an daring effect in his viewing public while simultaneously securing his place at the country club.

I hope to be similarly wowed by Mr. Boll’s genius in the future.

House of the Dead runs 90 minutes and is rated R for pervasive strong violence and gore, language and some nudity.