THE CURSE OF DOWNERS GROVE (2015)

A high school student, clearly under the influence, climbs up a water tower.

His drunk compatriots cheer him from down below.

He begins shimmying across the very thin metal piping.

He slips. He falls. He smashes his head open on the hard ground.

Two girls step up, horrified. "It's the fucking curse!" one of them states.

Roll opening credits.

This is The Curse of Downers Grove, and it’s very, very stupid. (It's also "based on a true story," which means at one point a high school senior died through his or her own idiocy.)

Chrissie (Bella Heathcote, a 28-year-old still playing a high school senior) lives in Downers Grove, a town allegedly cursed, in that seniors on the cusp of graduating seem to die awful deaths. The curse isn't just something the kids whisper about, but the parents, too, seem well aware of it, so much that it gives Chrissie's mother (Helen Slater) pause for leaving her and her little brother alone for the week. 

She does though because the plot demands it.

At the urging of Chrissie's friend, Tracy, the two attend a party in the next town over where Chrissie meets Chuck (Kevin Zeggers, who at 31 is still playing high school seniors). Chuck is bad news, since every shot has him flashing smile-glares at the camera set to ominous music. After he sexually assaults her, Chrissie pokes him in the eye like Curly and peaces out, leaving Chuck to scream and get his ass handed to him by his father, played by a pantsless Tom Arnold. 

Conflict ensues because the plot demands it.

The film's marketing is quick to point out that The Curse of Downers Grove is co-written by American Psycho author Bret Easton Ellis, whose bland, sardonic prose ("The suburbs are the ghettos of the meaningless)" is all over this mess, along with his unsubtle methods for dissecting and exploring sub-cultures of society. It's desperate to put the suburbs under the microscope a la David Lynch's Blue Velvet and reveal it for all the hidden evils and depravity that allegedly thrive beneath the surface, only it fails by not doing a blessed thing with the concept beyond having high school kids act like total dicks while living in suburbia.

Derick Martini's direction and the Easton Ellis-co-written script seem to be battling for the most irritating and pretentious component of the film, and both are winning. A film whose concept is built on the grounds of a mysterious curse would rather spend time with boring, unscary, teen-rape drama, or teen boys getting in fights, than dedicate its running time to anything else. Including random scenes of something foreboding, only for one character to glance at another and say "It's the curse" seems to be as far as the film is willing to go to acknowledge it's based on an idea it completely abandons beyond cursory references to it. Where it lacks in the level of class and uniqueness presented in the suburban-set and far superior It Follows, it makes up for with lame and pedestrian editing techniques; i.e., inverting footage of characters and adding BUZZ noise - the ultimate effect being one cheap film-school trick away from exposing everyone's skeletons via x-ray as if this were a cartoon from the 1950s. And wait a minute, you mean to say this sequence over here shows someone in black and white, but someone's eyes are in color? Welcome to the “Neat Effects!” section of Shutterfly's website.

But that's not all! Quick cuts of barking dogs! Tombstones! Squawking birds! War-painted stabbing Indians! "It's the curse." Do you feel the fear?

Of course not. 

Martini is more interested in stealing quick-zoom, music-driven shots from Scorsese's playbook*, or trying to sell his film as "horror" while doing his best to circumvent any of its traditions and flat-out channel the aesthetic of Larry Clark, only to fail spectacularly. Or this might be because Easton Ellis is less interested in fleshing out his satirical look at horror and more interested in delicious, delicious irony: a quarterback gets his eye popped out; a drummer gets his wrist broken. Can you see all the futures being destroyed? Can you see that everyone is cursed? Do you even care? Though the script attempts to flesh out its characters beyond walking horror stereotypes, it ultimately, serves only to repeat the same tired ideas and personalities seen so many times before. If Chrissie questioning the existence of a God because bad things happen (like war!) isn't tired enough, spend some time with her smart alecky younger brother (Martin Sanjers), who has a serious crush on Chrissie's BFF and thinks the best way to express his affection for her is by leering like a pervert.

Further, the avoidance of "plot holes" are dealt with in the laziest ways possible. For instance, of course Chrissie's going to the cops to report her attempted rape. But, upon telling them the name of her would-be rapist, the two duty officers exchange a look before blatantly admitting that he's the son of a fellow officer (Tom Arnold), and they're not going to help her. (Tremendous poker faces,  fellas.) Obviously this cop/dad revelation is established early on so that it can return at a later time, and affect the conflict in a significant way haha just kidding. The writers just needed to plug that little hole. The very uncop-like Chuck Sr. may now get back to drinking on the couch with no pants and using way too much profanity.

Martini is too busy peppering every few scenes with AHHH! moments to wrangle any semblance of life from his cast, so every performance is mostly terrible, ranging from bland lifelessness to complete, over-the-top unconvincingness. Not helping is that the only person in the cast with any recognition is Tom Arnold, whose gleefully stupid appearances amount to only two scenes, both during which he's abusing his son in one way or another**. Heathcote as your lead does marginally well, unless she's providing Easton Ellis' go-to voice-over -- during these points, she sounds like she's about to roll over in bed and fall back asleep. One particular monologue that may be attempting to set up a red herring for "the curse" manages the impressive feat of offering lazy exposition as shamelessly forced as it is lifelessly recited: "I've been dreaming about Indians since I was a little girl. Maybe it's because our town was built on land that was stolen from the Indians in 1832. I can't help but wonder if this has something to do with the curse...but if that were case, then all of America would be cursed. Maybe we all are." Mm, maybe. As for Kevin Zeggers as Chuck, he's way evil and way unlikable! Watch as he drinks a beer and throws the bottle aside! Watch as he injects steroids into his muscles and throws the needle aside! Watch as he screams in fury as he lifts weights! Do not trust him! He's evil!

The Curse of Downers Grove really wants to posit the one and only question it thinks matters: what is the cause of the curse? Is it supernatural, or is it caused, of all things, by teenagers' freakishly uncontrollable angst-driven sexual urges? Can fate be escaped, or is it written in the stars and destined to occur?

Say, I have a question of my own: why is this being sold as a horror film instead of the tepid Lifetime Network nonsense that it actually is?

In the film's first act, Chrissie states, "Don't try to understand everything, because some things don't make sense."

If only I'd listened.

---

* FYI: Zooming in on Ray Liotta snorting cocaine to hard-hitting Muddy Waters > zooming in on Kevin Zeggers snorting cocaine to a song whose lyrics are "party ova here! party ova here! party ova here!"

** If there's one sole reason to ever sit through The Curse of Downers Grove, it's to see Tom Arnold's character beating the shit out of Chuck while asking him multitudes of questions as he does so, to which his son offers the most incorrect answer possible. ("What the fuck happened to your eye?"  "Nothing!" "Can you see?" No!" "Do you know what that does to your fucking football career?"  "No, I don't know!" "They don't even hire a fucking one-eyed mascot!" "I know!" "Dammit!") Then Zeggers gets thrown into a tub. It's glorious, and the anger of Tom Arnold during this sequence nearly matches my own experienced while suffering through the entire film.

ROAD GAMES (1981)

Director Richard Franklin was known in his native homeland of Australia as “Australia’s Hitchcock,” and that’s not because he was a filmmaker who made notable genre fare, but because, like another noted genre filmmaker, Brian De Palma, Franklin was fascinated by Hitchcock’s techniques and sensibilities and adopted them into his own work. His most direct tie to Hitchcock was his helming of Psycho 2, a belated sequel following 18 years after Hitchcock’s landmark horror shocker. A few years later, Franklin would take a script by well-known Australian screenwriter Everett de Roche (Razorback) and bring it to life as a Rear Window-meets-road-movie hybrid, imbuing it with Hitchcock’s famous themes of paranoia and isolation, along with his use of dark humor and quirky supporting characters.

Road Games gets mentioned a lot when notable 1980s horror titles are being rattled off, especially when that conversation is based around all the horror flicks Jamie Lee Curtis did in her youth to earn the moniker “Scream Queen,” but not only is she not present in a majority of the film, the horror is actually toned down quite a bit in favor of thrills, mystery, and black humor. And despite Road Games being an Australian production which happens to feature some American actors, along with being an obvious homage to Hitchcock, the film also fits right in with ’70s American cinema, unofficially known as the paranoid thriller era. Films like The Conversation, The French Connection, Marathon Man, and more were direct results of the Nixon/Watergate scandal, and the cinematic response was one that would also soon be revitalized by The X-Files, whittled down into one core lesson: trust no one. 

The reason Road Games fits in well with this movement is that for a good portion of the film, Stacy Keach’s Quid is doing nothing more than following his paranoid instincts on what he may have witnessed. It’s not a slam dunk for him from the beginning; he’s not convinced that he’s witnessed anything nefarious, or if he is convinced, he doesn’t have enough evidence to back it up. What he does figure out pretty quickly is that law officials are no help, and all the blokes and sheilas who overhear his frantic demands for help on the bar payphone are not only not overly concerned, but they look upon him with suspicion. There’s an indirect subplot involving a worker’s strike going on in Australia which has resulted in meat becoming scarce, but also leaving natives incredibly wary of people they don’t know. Obviously this doesn’t help matters — not only is Quid American, but he’s a long-haul truck who happens to have a trailer full of meat. Simply put, no one is eager to help him.

Where Road Games falters is with its pace. The first act unloads at a purposeful but ever-intriguing pace. Through Quid’s observations, we “meet” all the other characters on the road around him, and this isn’t for throwaway comedy, but because we will cross paths with these characters again later. It’s through this observational behavior (because what else is there to do on the road besides stare straight ahead and talk to a dingo?) that Quid thinks he may have witnessed a murder — or, at least, a potential murder. Quid fixates on the maybe-killer (Grant Page), who will be personified by his dirty black hippie van for most of the film. It’s when we’re approaching the middle of the second act, after Jamie Lee has hitched Quid for a ride (her nickname is “Hitch” throughout — which serves two purposes: character nickname and Hitchcock homage), where the pace starts to slow. Keach and Curtis have reasonably good on-screen chemistry, and watching them get to know each other is charming, but once Hitch mysteriously vanishes, and Quid begins to question what’s really going on is when Road Games slows to a near halt. After having built such good will with the audience, and provided them with reasons to be as intrigued with the plot as Quid is with that dirty green van, the air is let out of all the goings-on; even as Road Games struggles to get back on track, and it eventually does, too much time is spent waiting for that to happen.

Still, what allows Road Games to speed across the finish line as an overall entertaining contribution to the genre is its identity, helped by the quirky sensibilities of Richard Franklin. Had Road Games been just another slasher flick, but plagued with the same second-act slowdown, it would be just a footnote in the genre timeline. Even though Franklin’s intent was to homage one of the horror greats using an open-road concept, it’s his likeness — far less known to American audiences — that make Road Games a film that’s not willing to be outright dismissed. It’s a flawed film for sure, and some viewers might not have the patience to spend most of their time watching a man riding around in the cab of a truck, but there’s a reason why Road Games has stuck around for so long. Equal measures of mystery, thrills, intrigue, and black humor make Road Games stand out from the rest of its ’80s colleagues, even if it doesn’t play as well as some of them.

Road Games is an offbeat title and definitely not for everyone. The Hitchcock flair is certainly present, both in construction and realization, but also in its usage of black comedy. Though its considered one of the many titles that made Jamie Lee Curtis a “Scream Queen,” her appearance lasts no more than 25 minutes, leaving Keach to carry most of the screen time. (Okay, him and his dingo.) Its pace might be too glacial for some, and its odd tone may turn off those more used to traditional genre fare, but there’s something undeniably quirky about Road Games that makes it easily watchable. 

THE BLOB (1988)

Ah, The Blob. A film that harkens back to that magical time in horror history when films were remade because someone had a good idea and a good approach, instead of saying, "Well, it's been five years. Let's remake it again."

Long a childhood favorite of mine, for not only terrifying me to death and keeping me away from all kinds of drains for days, but also for introducing me to my first ever horror crush, Shawnee Smith, The Blob works as well now as it did then. Normally the things that would hold back a lesser picture, including the dated (but still perfectly acceptable) special effects and the hilarious fashions, The Blob has always been good enough to surpass those shortcomings caused by the passing of time and still present a fun, nasty, gooey, and ultimately harmless good time.

You all know this one: a meteor carrying a strange jell-o substance from space (or was it?) crash lands on Planet Earth and begins gooing up its inhabitants. Only one man it seems can stop them, even though dozens try. That man is the hilariously-haired Kevin Dillon and the still-adorable Shawnee Smith (call me!).

Because of the time in which it was made, The Blob relies solely on practical and in-camera effects, only resorting to opticals for a couple scenes. (They've been trying to get a new version of The Blob off the ground for years, and once it arrives, I can only imagine the absurd amount of CGI that will be sliming across silver screens everywhere.) To tell someone who's never seen it that a space-foreign (or is it???) slime begins to suck people into itself, where it strips flesh from their bones and causes the blob to increase in size and oh by the way it's actually scary at times—the end of that conversation doesn't bode well. Because of its concept, and because it’s an ‘80s flick, it’s easy to think that The Blob is a light, silly, and inconsequential good time, but it actually has a lot in common with John Carpenter’s The Thing, in that it goes for the throat in unexpected ways and highlights some pretty grisly practical effects. The Blob not only manages to work just with its concept, but in spite of it; it also has no qualms in breaking some serious horror-film taboos. It eats a kid! A kid! Take that, kid!

A wonderful cast of character actors fill the background, including a regular of Frank Darabont (co-writer on The Blob) named Jeffrey DeMunn, who appeared in both The Shawshank Redemption as the lawyer who sends Andy Dufresne to his fate, and one of the guards in The Green Mile. Oh, he also played Dale in The Walking Dead. Perhaps you've heard of it. And perhaps you knew he'd been acting for thirty years before he played a filthy man in a bucket hat for which he'll now always be known (on Twitter). (Bitter hipster fan-boy rant over.)

The Blob is a classic. It's rare to say that a remake of something is a classic, and also bests the original. But this edition of The Blob is, and has. 

[Reprinted from Daily Grindhouse.]

TALES FROM THE HOOD 2 (2018)

Of all the horror films in the world seemingly the least likely to receive a sequel, 1995’s Tales from the Hood tops that list. That it’s coming 23 years later adds to the already unexpected decision to revisit the concept of a racially- and socially-infused horror anthology for modern audiences. The creative team behind the original film, director/co-writers Rusty Cundieff and Darin Scott, and executive producer Spike Lee, all return for a second dose of anthological horror, this time hosted by genre legend Keith David (taking over for Clarence Williams III, who I assume opted not to return, but who did agree to appear in the creative duo's other anthological horror effort, American Nightmares, which according to general reputation is apparently even worse than what was to come).

From the get-go, Tales from the Hood 2 is established on a very shaky and corny premise: the mysterious Portifoy Simms (Keith David), who credits himself as the world’s foremost storyteller, is summoned by the U.S. government to tell stories to a robot (I’m not kidding) in order to enhance its decision-making capabilities. And also from the get-go, Tales from the Hood 2 isn’t willing to ease into its subtext: the man in charge of this secret robot, a stern, Mike Pence-looking Caucasian, is immediately racist directly to Simms’ face, even falling back on the clichéd use of “your kind.” Simms lets this go by mostly uncontested, because he knows his super scary stories are going to somehow ruin all the lives of evil racist white people everywhere, so with each dismissive and hateful comment, Simms has a story to go along with it. Said Evil White Racist Man is also a sexual harasser, which allows Tales from the Hood 2 to include a #MeToo reference with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer:

“He treats all the women who work here like that.”

“You too?”

“Me too.”

Clever, fellas. Real clever.

What makes Tales from the Hood 2 so disappointing is that, strictly from the standpoint of sheer entertainment, it looks cheap, not helped by its cast of total unknowns (and Keith David), but it also pales in comparison to its predecessor in every way. David is great as the storyteller, but never reaches the maddening heights of Clarence Williams III, who so attacked his role head-on that he would conjure heavy sheens of sweat during his most fiery moments. 

Despite the tongue-in-cheek title and marketing campaign (a sunglasses-wearing skull with a gold tooth, which returns for this entry as well), the first Tales from the Hood was not at all going for humor, unless of course you count the gallows kind. Corbin Bernsen’s segment from the original was funny because of the outlandish situation, not because the film at any point was elbowing you in the side and saying, “Eh? Eh??” Meanwhile, in Tales from the Hood 2, a racist white girl not meaning to be racist ends up having sex with a vintage racist doll called a Golly Gee meant to offensively represent an African American, which gropes at her ass in super close-up, only to have its devil spawn, which is many many more Golly Gee dolls. And then there’s the story about a Tinder-esque double-date spearheaded by two practiced rapists who plan on drugging their dates and recording the sex crimes they’re way too excited to commit before an obvious plot twist reveals their female dates to be vampires. Vampires who were ALSO PREYING ON VICTIMS. Can you stand the subtext? And are we really still doing vampire twist endings after previous anthology 20-year-old series like Tales from the Crypt and even Are You Afraid of the Dark? already did the same?

From the onset, the mere idea of a Tales from the Hood 2 didn’t seem like a good idea, but having seen the original somewhat recently really made me realize two things: one, it was far better than I remembered, and two, it handled prescient issues with a more sure footing and an appreciated sincerity. Sadly, even though it’s coming up on 23 years old, the stories from the original, which focused on black-on-black violence, racist police officers, and outwardly racist politicians still feels more applicable to our modern societal and political landscape than its brand new sequel, which feels dated right out of the box and in way too much of a hurry to tackle every social issue currently plaguing us.

I’m hopeful that the release of this title will attract an audience to its far superior predecessor, and I’m also hopeful that they won’t assume it looks like its sequel: a cheap looking production peppered with unsubtle storytelling and broad humor.

Tales of the Hood 2 has one thing going for it and it’s named Keith David; by film’s end, when he reveals himself to be the devil (or something — assumedly the same whatever something that Williams III was), you can’t help but smile at how silly it all is, but then that moment is ruined when you realize the previous 90 minutes, which was supposed to be horrifically fun but also socially responsible, was just as silly.

NIGHT DANGER

I love this.

TALES FROM THE HOOD (1995)

The granddaddy of all horror anthologies will always be the George A. Romero/Stephen King collaboration Creepshow, released in 1982, which was a loving homage to the EC Comics line of the 1950s. Borrowing its format from the previous Amicus anthological films, released under the branded titles of those same EC Comics (Tales from the Crypt and The Vault of Horror, specifically), Creepshow presented a handful of stories tied together by what’s become known as the “wraparound” story – at first an introduction to the anthological format, which is slowly revealed to be yet another story with a typically unfortunate resolution for its characters. Anthology films are a tough nut to crack, because their nature leaves them vulnerable to an inconsistent experience. The construction of mini stories will have them pitted against each other for best and worst, scariest and ickiest, etc. No one anthology can claim flawlessness. (Not even the aforementioned Creepshow, because the “meteor shit!” story starring not-at-all-an-actor Stephen King is still one of the worst things of all time.) Creepshow 2 would continue the legacy of its predecessor, dialing back on Romero’s purposeful comic book direction and focusing on a more straightforward horror experience while falling victim to a hampering amount of Capra-esque schmaltz.

Years later, and produced by Spike Lee, Tales from the Hood would come down the pike and result in — quite honestly — the best horror anthology since then...if not ever. Written by X-Files/Millennium writer favorite Darin Scott and director Rusty Cundieff, Tales from the Hood would borrow the same basic construction from the Amicus films of the early ‘70s, along with minor elements from a host of other anthologies, and infuse a detectably angry tone that examines an array of African-American issues. The segments touch on urban crime, drug use, and – depressingly relevant even today – racism within police and political culture. Tales from the Hood, unlike many other urban horror films, wasn’t intent on pandering. It didn’t play up to stereotypes or fall back on cliché. Every story contains both a darkness and a hard truth about being a black man, woman, or child in America. This approach can, at times, make it hard to watch. But, having said that, make no mistake: Tales from the Hood also wants to entertain – in the same way the anthological horrors before it endeavored to do.

“Welcome to My Mortuary” sees a trio of teens dropping by a rundown mortuary where its owner, the mysterious and eccentric Simms (with an incredible performance by Clarence Williams III), apparently has come across a load of drugs and is looking to sell. (Every time he refers to it as “the shit,” it’s undeniably hilarious.) Williams III serves as the de facto Crypt Keeper, in that as they descend deeper into the bowels of the house where “the shit” is stored, he pulls back the lid of a random coffin to reveal the corpse inside – and the insidious tale of horror that put them there. For anthologies that try to beef up their wraparound stories, they generally come off as perfunctory, but the concept of a mortician telling stories about the corpses in his funeral home is a stroke of genius and is the best use of the device I can think of in the genre.

“Rogue Cop Revelation” sees a “routine” pullover of a prominent black politician (played by Creepshow 2’s Tom Wright) by racist white cops (among them Wings Hauser) go very wrong. Similar to the very story from Creepshow 2 which starred Wright, his character is killed and his perpetrators flee, assuming they’ve gotten away from it, but he returns from the dead to set that record straight. And his undead politician manages to be more unnerving than his undead hitchhiker. (Maybe because said undead politician lacks a gigantic flailing puppet tongue.)

“Boys Do Get Bruised” (featuring a role for director Rusty Cundieff) is the only story that doesn’t lend itself specifically to the black experience, instead presenting a young boy named Walter who tells his teacher that “the monster” at his house hurts him at night, which is soon revealed to be an abusive stepfather (played by comedian David Alan Grier). Where it lacks in one regard, that being a uniquely African-American experience, it makes up for with an intense and unflinching look at in-home domestic abuse, with Grier playing an unbelievable and legitimately intimidating bastard. Though the intensity of the story is a little undone by its end, falling back on a sudden and inappropriate silliness, it still results in being the most realistic of the bunch, leaving it very difficult to watch.

“KKK Comeuppance” feels the most traditionally EC Comics – a take on the Zuni doll story from another horror anthology, Trilogy of Terror – which sees an openly racist politician wonderfully played by Corbin Bernsen being stalked through his newly acquired plantation home by a handful of “pickaninny” dolls allegedly possessed by the spirits of all the slaves who died there. As suggested by its name, this story is the most daring, with the audience seeing an obviously racist politician pander to his similarly racist would-be voters in public, producing campaign videos lambasting affirmative action and nearly using the word “spook” in front of reporters. This story’s moral/warning is the most direct, but if you still need convincing, then just wait for the (multiple) scenes where Bernsen’s politician beats paintings and dolls reflecting African Americans with an American flag. It ain’t exactly subtle, though not to the detriment of the film. Much of this story’s power comes from the audience constantly asking, “Should I be enjoying this?” — especially when Bernsen is chasing slave dolls around the house while shouting “you little nigglins!” In 1995, seeing a character portrayed as a former KKK member operating from a plantation house and referring to the black protestors on his lawn as a “damned minstrel show” running for political office might have seemed a bit too over the top – as how could anyone in his or her right mind ever vote for such a sleaze? – but then the 2016 election happened and a tidal wave of self-avowed white supremacists oozed from the cracks, so…let’s move on.

The final story, “Hardcore Convert,” is by far the angriest and carries with it the most significant message of them all...and not one you'd expect. A young black youth nicknamed “Crazy K” is wounded in a street shootout, and after recuperating in prison, agrees to take part in a highly experimental rehabilitation program in exchange for early release. Heavily influenced by the horrors of Jacob’s Ladder, Hellraiser, and A Clockwork Orange, “Hardcore Convert” is little concerned with entertainment value and more focused on nauseating and angering its audience with very real historical images of the massacres committed against black men and women since their earliest days as natives in America, the message being – after all the horrors they have faced – black-on-black crime needs to stop before everyone wipes each other out. Because of the streets-based hook for this story, it also contains the most vibrant use of the film's soundtrack, including the track "Born 2 Die" by hip-hop group Spice 1, which plays during the aforementioned compilation of African-American lynchings and genocide.

Tales from the Hood concludes with a return to the wraparound story, which unfolds in a not-so-surprising way, but also unfolds with a degree of cartoonish insanity that, as the credits roll, will leave a smile on your face. In spite of the anger, frustration, and depravity you’ve already witnessed and experienced, overall, that was the point of Tales from the Hood in the first place – to entertain. And it certainly does.

I have no qualms with saying that Tales from the Hood – easily dismissible thanks to the influx of cheap and trashy urban horror films saturating the DTV market, including its own sequels – ranks as one of the best horror anthologies ever made. Funny when it wants to be, dark when it’s willing to go there, and depressingly more relevant than ever before, Tales from the Hood packs a punch to an almost punishing degree, as each story reveals not just a horror in the streets or of the unknown, but within the mortals who brought those stories to life and who, mostly, succumbed to their own morality. A pseudo-blaxploitation meets horror anthology, Tales from the Hood takes an old approach, injects it with some ingenuity, and creates from it an excellent addition to the genre that has the balls as well as the brains to speak some hard truths. If ever I'm in the mood for anthology horror, I reach for Tales from the Hood almost every time, because it's, quite frankly:

SPIRAL