The Magnificent Fraud (1939, Robert Florey)

The Magnificent Fraud tells the unlikely tale of an actor on the run who just happens to be in the right place at the right time for the role of a lifetime. Akim Tamiroff’s stage actor’s enjoying a residency of sorts in San Cristobal’s hottest nightclub, one maybe owned by the president’s troubleshooter, Lloyd Nolan. We get to see Tamiroff do Cyrano, then Napoleon. The latter performance is a particular plot point because it’s where Nolan convinces his co-conspirators, Robert Warwick and Frank Reicher, they should hire Tamiroff to impersonate the president.

See, the president—also Tamiroff—is on his deathbed, only there’s an American lawyer on the way with ten million bucks for the local economy, and the deal would die with him. President Tamiroff’s a benevolent, progressive leader who just happens to employ Chicago fixer Nolan. Tamiroff’s sure Nolan’s secretly got a heart of gold, and he plays good interference against Warwick and Reicher.

No wonder he’s nimble at throwing in with them to ensure the money comes through. President Tamiroff’s actual chosen successor, George Zucco, is too honest.

Complicating matters is the banker, played by Ralph Forbes. Forbes just happens to be engaged to Patricia Morison, who just happens to be Mary Boland’s niece, and Boland just happens to be an old flame of president Tamiroff’s. Surely actor Tamiroff’s not going to be able to get away with an impersonation, not when French policeman Ernest Cossart arrives—after tracking Tamiroff across the globe for seven years—ready to take him back to stand trial for murder in Paris.

It sure would complicate things if Cossart knew both the president and the actor.

And it sure would complicate things if ladies man Nolan set his sights on Morison, only to discover she’s probably the only girl he’d ever be happy with and, even worse, he’s the only guy she’ll ever be happy with.

After a somewhat bumpy first act—establishing Nolan as a lousy fella to regular gal Steffi Dina (a dancer at the club) and some lazy costume choices. San Cristobal’s citizenry seems to wear whatever was left in the Paramount costume department after the Westerns got their pick. All of the credited parts are European or North Americans (ahem, very white North Americans and Europeans), and all but four are playing indigenous peoples. Surely, the film wouldn’t make it more awkward with some brown makeup on people’s bodies.

Well, it sure would, actually. And then there’s the detail of Nolan only cheating on local girl Duna with the white girl tourists. He sure seems like a heel, especially when he sets his sights on Morison. Their romance subplot—played straight but with comedic timing—ends up unexpectedly anchoring Fraud. Tamiroff’s mesmerizing, whether he’s playing it straight, monologuing in character (in character), or doing a bit. He and Boland are delightful together. So there’s never anything to worry about when he’s around.

So scoring with the entirely superfluous romance subplot is a plus for Fraud, as is Cossart’s subplot trying to investigate the palace and the supposedly infirm Tamiroff. See, Boland tagging along was an intentional surprise on her part; entertaining an old romantic friend wasn’t in Nolan’s scheme.

Fraud’s a speedy eighty-ish minutes, with director Florey keeping Gilbert Gabriel and Walter Ferris’s screenplay moving at a good pace. Florey doesn’t take much time with anything (except when he and cinematographer William C. Mellor give Morison some extra attention during a moonlight mooning with Nolan), but he gives time to the entire cast. If Fraud’s got a pacing problem, it’s in Florey letting Tamiroff, Nolan, Boland, and Cossart (in particular) more time than they need to get through their deliveries. And James Smith’s cuts then lag. They probably could’ve cut out four minutes just by snipping the dead air.

But the cast’s charming (or doing great work, in Tamiroff’s case); it evens out.

Magnificent Fraud’s a good time with a show-stopping performance from Tamiroff.

This post is part of the Party Like It’s 1899 Blogathon hosted by Erica of Poppity Talks Classic Film.

The Terror (1963, Roger Corman)

The Terror is not camp, which is bewildering, not just because it’d be better if it were camp, but because, based on its vitals, it seems like it can’t not be camp.

The film stars Jack Nicholson as a Napoleonic officer—he does not attempt an accent, thank goodness—who gets involved with some supernatural goings-on involving a European noble (Boris Karloff), the single servant in his giant castle (Dick Miller), a witch (Dorothy Neumann), her sidekick (Jonathan Haze), and a beautiful ghost girl (Sandra Knight). None of the people who presumably grew up in the same area speak with the same accent; Haze whispers all the time (Neumann thinks he’s unable to speak, but really he just doesn’t want her knowing his business), which is more effort than anyone else puts in. Miller plays the whole thing so delightfully straight-faced it’s like he’s doing Shakespeare. Karloff plays it like he’s doing someone a favor.

Karloff’s pretty game throughout, of course. Despite his top-billing, he’s never the protagonist, never even—it’ll turn out by the end—gets an honest scene. The animated opening titles of Terror give away most of the set pieces, just without any context. Also, with less disintegrating flesh slime. And the bird is white. It’s very detailed—visually—so it doesn’t not look like a dove. So, for most of the credits, there’s the white dove of peace flying around disintegrating zombies and whatnot. It’s strange. And ought to be camp. But still isn’t.

The actual bird is a falcon of some kind (maybe?). Shockingly little details out there, even now. The bird is Neumann’s familiar. Maybe? The only thing the script gets specific about, in terms of supernatural rules, is Neumann’s devil-powered, and the best revenge you can get on someone is having them commit suicide because it’ll damn their immortal soul. Also, there’s some heavenly intervention at points, and the interventionist God is a weird flex, considering the villains are trying to trick their prey into committing suicide, but when things go wrong, they get very active in it.

I guess they figured God wasn’t going to pay close attention.

Speaking of not paying close attention… I just realized the movie left a major subplot door open. The script—Leo Gordon and Jack Hill—does not give a hoot about making sense. Terror infamously took ages to complete; despite filming on set for all of Karloff’s material, there was second unit shooting going on for almost a year to pad it out. The film runs just under eighty minutes. They’ve got enough story for thirty, maybe forty. The rest is misdirection, exposition, and Nicholson roaming the countryside looking for Knight.

Knight’s terrible. Like, other people are not good, but they’re amusing. It’s fun to watch Nicholson muscle his way through the part, and Miller’s incredibly compelling. And Karloff, Neumann, and Haze all have a certain amount of charm. But Knight’s terrible. It’s a bad part—she’s either a falcon woman, a vengeful ghost, a possessed innocent, or a reincarnation. She’s either Karloff or Nicholson’s property, though Neumann points out if Knight is a vengeful ghost, she belongs to Neumann, so back off, boys. Knight and Nicholson were real-life newlyweds during filming, and she’s just a couple years younger than him, but she’s also playing like Karloff is the hottest dude she’s ever seen. Knight’s sexy killer ghost is just hot for old British dude bod.

Again, ought to be camp.

The troubled production leads to wanting photography from John M. Nickolaus Jr. (the day for night is ambitious; unsuccessful, but ambitious), as well as Stuart O'Brien’s cutting adding an uncanny mood. O’Brien doesn’t have coverage, and they just weren’t able to get that Nicholson vs. bird effects sequence down, so Terror often comes off as vaguely existential at times. Existential or camp-ready. Nothing in between.

Well, except the occasional gore. There are a couple very gory sequences.

The Terror is a tedious seventy-nine minutes, with some aggravating logic jumps (Knight acts without purpose for most of the film, like they only remembered to give the killer ghost a mission in the third act). It’s never rewarding (it gets closest, thanks to Miller), but it is a singularly weird experience. And the plot twists are goofy enough they’re usually a surprise.

Doom Patrol (2019) s04e12 – Done Patrol

As usual with “Doom Patrol,” I wasn’t expecting that turn of events. I knew “Patrol” had planned something conclusive for this season, but Done Patrol is a last episode, not a season finale before a refresh. They knew and didn’t play chicken with renewal, which is exemplary these days.

The team—Diane Guerrero, Joivan Wade, Michelle Gomez, Matt Bomer (and Matthew Zuk), and Brendan Fraser (Riley Shanahan)—returns from the time stream, ready to battle Charity Cervantes and the Butts, but then a deus ex machine arrives at the same time. This season has had some weird straggler plot threads—split into two halves, with the second half delayed thanks to bad corporate decisions; given how long subplots disappear, it’s the most binge-inclined season of the show.

Also, as usual, the team has to decompress after the big action. They’re aging, some more gracefully than others, and everyone’s got a severe sense of resignation. While April Bowlby’s committed to peacing out on her terms and Gomez is terrified to live without her, everyone else is ready for some significant character changes. Some, of course, have seen the future, while others are getting over their fears of the present.

The show’s got six characters to resolve to be Done, and some get a little more, some a little less. “Doom Patrol”’s always been about hard realities, and the conclusion’s no different. Does it reach into the chest and pummel the heart before playing the most delicate aria on the heartstrings? Yes, yes, it does. It fulfills so much, even as it remains—to the end—all about unfulfilled lives.

The best performance in the episode, adjusted for screen time (sort of, I guess), is Fraser. Then Gomez, then Guerrero, then Bowlby, then Bomer, then Wade. And Wade’s excellent. So there’s a lot of exquisite acting going on. Oh, and then Cervantes. Can’t forget Cervantes. She’s been another boon this season. Half-season. Speaking of boons, Madeline Zima. She’s so good, so good.

I just discovered there’s a cameo in the episode I didn’t know about when watching, but it’s just making everything even sadder, so no spoilers. I’m too verklempt.

Shoshana Sachi and Ezra Claytan Daniels get the writing credit for the finish; it’s a fine script covering all the show’s bases, and director Chris Manley knows how to direct these actors in these scenes. It’s the ones they’ve been working towards for four seasons. “Patrol”’s done wonders with character development on a “comic book” TV show.

Some gorgeous music from Kevin Kiner and Clint Mansell.

Despite the fungible aspect of comic books and comic book adaptations, it’s safe to say there will never be another “Doom Patrol,” not with this cast, not with this crew. They made something special here, and it’ll be a divine binge someday.

The Plague of the Zombies (1966, John Gilling)

The Plague of the Zombies opens at its lowest point—the film involves Haitian-style voodoo (not really, the movie’s version of Haitian-style voodoo) being practiced in a Cornish village, and the high priest has a trio of Black men drumming. Throughout the film, we’ll learn about the voodoo setup (though not a lot, including what they wanted women for after a year of killing dudes), and various participants in the voodoo rituals will have day jobs. Not the drummers, though. They apparently just stay in the ritual cave, slicked up in oil, waiting for the high priest to need accompaniment.

Otherwise, with some exceptions, usually for budget, sometimes for colonialism, and then poor Brook Williams’s acting, Plague’s a great time. After the opening voodoo sequence, the action heads to André Morell’s house, where he’s getting ready for his holiday. We’ll find out he’s a professor at a medical school in London. It’s 1860 (the film’s got a solid drinking game in “spot the anachronisms”). Williams is Morrell’s former star pupil who has set up a practice in our unnamed Cornish village. His wife, Jacqueline Pearce, happens to be Morell’s daughter’s best friend. Diane Clare plays the daughter. She’s a trooper.

Morell gets a weird letter from Williams about all the people who have died. Now, we’ll later learn it’s twelve over twelve months, minus the film’s present action fatalities, so it never makes sense why Williams waited so long to ask someone for help. Especially when we learn he’s not so much having a medical knowledge crisis as a political one—village squire John Carson won’t back Williams in investigating any of the deaths. No autopsies.

Clare convinces Morell they should go visit—and Morell can fish while they’re there. The lack of a fishing subplot is one of the film’s only real disappointments. I desperately wanted to watch Morell fish. He acts the heck out of Plague, always active, always evaluating, always calculating. The character’s a smart cookie, and Morell wants everyone to know how hard he works at it.

When they get to the village, Morell and Clare immediately discover multiple red flags. Carson’s houseguests—led by Alexander Davion—intentionally disrupt a funeral procession and get away with it. Carson de facto directs the local constabulary (run by delightful Michael Ripper), so there are no consequences. Then Pearce is so out of it she barely recognizes them (the audience has the benefit of knowing the voodoo cult is after her). And Williams is….

So, Williams’s character is drowning in the stress and liquoring his way through it. Williams’s performance is drowning in inability, and director Gilling is just making him do it all anyway. Clare’s always a strong character, but when she eventually has to play damsel, and Williams gets to play prince; definitely should’ve been reversed. Williams is so incapable he very quickly becomes sympathetic just for sticking with it. He’s a trooper in a different way than Clare, however. She has to navigate spoken and unspoken societal horrors for the lady folk; Williams just has to keep attempting and failing, over and over.

Besides Williams, all Plague’s acting is (well, okay, low) fine or better. But the better ranges up to Morell, who’s awesome—it’s a shame he and Clare didn’t do a Victorian supernatural sleuthing franchise—and Carson, who’s almost as awesome. Clare’s pretty good. The damsel stuff doesn’t do her any favors, dramatically speaking, but she’s ahead of the curve. Pearce is fine. And then Ripper’s such low-key fun when he shows up. He and Morell play great off one another.

Despite whatever mistakes he makes with Williams, director Gilling does a decent job. Especially considering how much of it’s bad day for night–cinematographer Arthur Grant doesn’t even try compensating, though there’s usually at least one bit of nice photography in every scene. Grant does much better indoors. The special effects have a wide quality range, but they’re always effective. Peter Bryan’s script emphasizes the characters, not the zombies; it might be a budgetary decision, but it’s also a successful one.

Plague of the Zombies is far better than it ought to be, all things considered, with that outstanding Morell performance anchoring it and then its handful of other significant pluses.

I wish there’d been a sequel.

This post is part of the Hammer-Amicus Blogathon IV hosted by Barry of Cinematic Catharsis and Gill of Realweegiemidget Reviews.

Grantchester (2014) s08e04

“Grantchester” toes an interesting line with religion and religiosity. It avoids it. Yes, the show’s full of religious imagery, complete with beautifully lighted sequences where Tom Brittney gives a lovely sermon and it’s never about being shitty; it’s always about how God’s actually all for the gays and so forth. Because, besides Brittney and Al Weaver, all of the characters on the show are functionally atheists. Even the extremely religious Tessa Peake-Jones. She doesn’t believe the way Brittney and Weaver believe.

It comes out this episode big time with Brittney. Turns out he lied to Charlotte Ritchie last episode, and he’s not okay; he’s not getting better—even worse, we find out God doesn’t talk to him anymore. Now, no spoilers, but we will find out some things about how God speaks to Brittney. Good tortured expression acting from Brittney; if writer Helen Black wasn’t trying to make a certain point, however… well, it’s concerning. Or is it just going to be about the de-faithing of England. Or it’s just a story arc and not a big deal.

God abandoning Brittney is a story arc because they need to get Brittney moping. “Grantchester” was infamously about a mopey vicar who got drunk, listened to jazz, and bedded many, many women while mooning over some shallow girl. Brittney isn’t that mopey vicar. He doesn’t have the mope down, not as an actor, not as a character. When Brittney mopes, it feels like he’s overstepping—“Grantchester”’s supposed to be an ensemble now, and his moping is getting in the way. Also, he’s not being self-destructive; he’s just moping.

He’s not even listening to jazz.

Good mystery this episode. One of Weaver’s halfway house residents turns up dead. Santo Tripodi plays the victim. Halfway house troublemaker Narinder Samra is a too-obvious suspect. “Grantchester” has been letting Samra simmer nicely in the background for a couple episodes, and it really pays off here–Samra’s phenomenal. See, even though the town wants the halfway house gone, when Brittney and Robson Green start investigating, they learn these men mostly just lost their way after a war. So it’s a very personal case.

And let’s not forget Peake-Jones’s husband, Nick Brimble, is paying for the halfway house, which Weaver started after deciding he didn’t want to run his cafe (which Brimble also paid for), leaving boyfriend Oliver Dimsdale to run the cafe and be a photographer. Weaver’s got a tough arc this episode. They leave it open, too, so hopefully, we’ll get some more material for Weaver and Dimsdale before the season’s done.

There are only two more episodes, so if it’s not a subplot by now, it won’t be a subplot.

It also seems like Ritchie won’t figure in prominently, which is too bad. Especially since Brittney’s just moping instead.

Anyway.

Good supporting performances from all the suspects—David Rubin as the guy with a locked room alibi, George Brockbanks as an old collar of Green’s, Jessie Bedrossian as the one female resident in the house, who might be causing love triangles. It’s a really good mystery–definitely the best of the season, with a great finale.

And Simone Lahbib’s still around. She joined last episode as Weaver’s maid, who now gets into competitions with Peake-Jones, which is hilarious. It gives Brimble a little more to do than usual. He’s still mostly an accessory, but he gets to keep pace with an amped-up Peake-Jones.

Outside the ending, which just foretells more sad Brittney… it’s a stellar episode. Director Rob Evans and writer Anita Vettesse cook up a model “Grantchester.”

Doom Patrol (2019) s04e11 – Portal Patrol

As penultimate episodes go, Portal Patrol is a doozy. The team has found themselves stranded in the time stream, so it’s good Joivan Wade got his Cyborg upgrades because he has to make them a little pod to survive. The current stakes are saving the world and April Bowlby (who doesn’t appear this episode), so when they discover holes in time where they might be able to regain their missing immortality, everyone heads out on assignment.

Now, the opening titles spoil a big guest star—Timothy Dalton. Former series regular slash ostensible lead, who’s been dead for seasons at this point, and everyone’s still trying to work through the traumas he’s inflicted. Brendan Fraser (and Riley Shanahan) meet Dalton in the past when he’s on an outing with recurring guest star Mark Sheppard. Except they’re in 1948, so neither Dalton nor Sheppard knows Fraser. And Fraser’s left trying to reason with a fascinated Dalton and a drunk Sheppard. Outstanding acting from Fraser, Dalton, and Shanahan. The body work this episode’s terrific.

Diane Guerrero and Matt Bomer (and Matthew Zuk) find themselves in the more recent past, in the Doom Patrol mansion. Guerrero’s on a combination “dying of old age” and just getting some of her PTSD resolved arc, so she’s drawn to all the old VHS tapes of her (now missing) personas. Meanwhile, Bomer and Zuk confront… Bomer and Zuk. Bomer’s current alien symbiote star child goes to find the former alien symbiote star child, and Bomer gets into an argument with it. Of course, he does.

But Guerrero runs into Dalton, and they sit down for one last session; she’s out of time, he’s fascinated but also worried about the future knowledge.

Speaking of future knowledge, Wade—who sends out an SOS to the time stream, which seems like how you’d bring back a now deceased special guest star, but isn’t—Wade has a heck of a little arc.

Michelle Gomez journeys into her own past, where she briefly encounters Dalton (despite them being renowned nemeses, I’m not sure the show ever gave them a sustained scene) before running afoul of other people she doesn’t like–really good Gomez performance.

Everyone’s really good, of course. Dalton’s so good.

It ends up being Guerrero’s episode, with Fraser, Bomer, and Gomez sharing the B slots, then Wade getting the C. Watching Guerrero in this episode, I had the odd sensation of remembering when she wasn’t good on the show and wondering how that period plays in the greater context of the show. For the someday rewatch.

But for now, there’s one more Patrol to go, and they’re in excellent shape for it.

Big shoutouts to the script (credited to Chris Dingess) and then Chris Manley’s direction. Portal knows what it’s doing.

Grantchester (2014) s08e03

Al Weaver directed this episode, which I think is the first time one of the show’s stars has directed an episode. Weaver’s got a little to do on screen—he’s worried about Tom Brittney, who’s moping after hitting the guy with his motorcycle, but it’s all okay. I mean, okay in the sense Brittney’s not getting charged. The guy’s dead. The season’s A plot is vicar Brittney killed some guy by total accident, but also a complicated total accident.

Brittney feels terrible about it. And he doesn’t want to talk to Weaver or anyone else about it. He wants to talk to God about it. But he’s too busy with the case—and his friends interfering. In addition to Weaver worrying about him, there’s Kacey Ainsworth, whose concern brings Brittney and Robson Green into the mystery plot. Ainsworth takes Brittney out for a nice day at a college museum, with Green tagging along. First, there are some coeds—not at that college, because it’s the men’s college, no girls even on campus if they can help it—who are protesting in various states of undress about double standards regarding the female form in art and actuality.

Their demonstration coincides with the famous painting everyone’s there to see going missing. Then, later on, when Bradley Hall is on the scene investigating, he discovers a body. So now it’s a murder.

The episode then toggles between this far-reaching investigation—it’s all about how men, regardless of class, are shitty to women, but men of higher class can also be shitty to men of lower class. It’s the British way, after all.

Meanwhile, Brittney’s getting sick of the interfering—Tessa Peake-Jones also gets some of his ire, leading to a fun moment between Peake-Jones and Weaver. It’ll all come to a head—multiple times—as he gets angrier and angrier.

Ainsworth and Green have some detached family crisis—he’s probably losing his job, and she just got called in to see her boss, who doesn’t like her. Then Oliver Dimsdale convinces Weaver to hire a maid—Simone Lahbib—to improve conditions around the halfway house.

It’s a balanced episode, though little kid Isaac Highams is missing when he shouldn’t be.

And Melissa Johns gets quite a bit to do with the female protestors. The show tries to acknowledge she’s aware the cops are problematic, but then she still plays the game. “Grantchester”’s really not afraid to make their characters unlikable at times—see Brittney’s loud, angry power mope in this episode.

Thanks to the intricate plotting and Weaver’s solid direction, the episode goes off without a hitch.

In the Line of Fire (1993, Wolfgang Petersen)

In the Line of Fire is about bad use of taxpayer funds. President Jim Curley is on the campaign trail, trying to shore up support in ten states in nine days or something, and his chief of staff, Fred Thompson, doesn’t want to listen to any nonsense from the Secret Service about a viable threat. Now, Fire’s a lot of things. It’s a gentle reckoning with history as lead Clint Eastwood deconstructs the naive heroism of pre-1963 United States (very gentle, don’t dwell too much); Eastwood was one of the agents with JFK that day, and now he’s got to stop another assassin—a scenery inhaling John Malkovich—from doing a repeat.

Malkovich is a very dangerous man (with a very particular set of skills, if you know what I mean), and there’s a relatively high collateral damage body count in Fire. Because no one listens to Eastwood. Or when they do listen to Eastwood, like lady agent Rene Russo, who has to admit even though he’s a Greatest Generation edge lord, Eastwood knows his stuff, they get in trouble for siding with him.

The movie makes a big deal out of how Eastwood’s a burnout, one of the oldest field agents, doing counterfeit investigations to stay out of anyone important’s hair. A random tip brings him into Malkovich’s master plan, which involves lots of disguises, modeling composite, and a shocking amount of petty cash. Malkovich’s finances and how he uses them to further his goals are the most interesting part of his scheme, and they get very little attention. Though there are a handful of guest stars involved.

See, despite “who’s that” Jim Curley as the President of the United States, Fire features a litany of familiar faces, ranging from Tobin Bell to Patrika Darbo, John Mahoney to John Heard. There are so many people in it. But not the big guy because Eastwood doesn’t want to get to know Curley. He got to know JFK, which obviously didn’t work out, but—as Eastwood tells Russo at one point—sometimes you get to know the people and decide you’re not willing to take a bullet for them. Oh, the naivety of the nineties. Miss it.

The film’s split between Eastwood’s “I’m too old for this shit” protecting the President plot, which gives him the opportunity to bump heads with young whippersnapper boss Gary Cole and flirt with colleague Russo, Eastwood and likable but too bland sidekick Dylan McDermott (whose agent should’ve reminded him it wasn’t actually a Dirty Harry movie) trying to figure out Malkovich’s plan, and then Malkovich either executing the scheme or calling up Eastwood to chit-chat about the old days. Eastwood gets to do some good acting listening to Malkovich monologue, lips quivering, and so on, as Malkovich dregs up all Eastwood’s trauma for Russo to empathize with and literally all the other guys to mock. Not McDermott, but only because McDermott doesn’t get to play with the regular fancy supporting cast.

McDermott’s absence is indicative of the problem with Jeff Maguire’s screenplay—there’s no balance in the second half. Eastwood starts with McDermott and then graduates to the big leagues with Russo and Cole, only to go back with McDermott and forget the rest exists. Or happened. It can play into Eastwood’s stoicism for a bit, but not forever, not with some of the plot developments. And there’s no real reintegration later on, either. Eastwood should just be joining the plot already in progress, but Maguire then needs to jumpstart that plot. They’d been idling it too long.

Okay direction from Petersen. The film’s technical star is Anne V. Coates’s cutting. Fire’s an expertly edited action picture. Everything else goes off the rails a bit—Petersen’s direction, John Bailey’s photography, even Ennio Morricone’s score is a little much at times—but Coates does a phenomenal job every time. Even during the final when they either don’t have the budget—or the stunt people—for the showdown. Coates makes it work as much as anyone can. However, she can’t do anything to make the composites look better. And Petersen and Bailey really seem to like their composites. They have a bunch of needless composites to make it look like they had the first unit on all the locations.

It’s a good time—even if it is all about Curley wasting taxpayer money (not just on the Secret Service expenses, but really, why do we pay politicians to campaign for re-election)—with good star performances from Eastwood, Malkovich, and Russo. It’s fairly lean goings by the finish, with Russo left with very little, but it’s a good time.

And that Morricone score’s usually beautiful.

This post is part of the Two Jacks Blogathon hosted by Rebecca of Taking Up Room.

The Book of Life (2014, Jorge R. Gutiérrez)

The Book of Life has a very nice style once the story starts. Everything looks like it’s a miniature, like Life is a CG Rankin/Bass “Animagic.” Not quite as good, but there’s a charm to it. To the style. Not to the movie. Life’s oddly and relentlessly charmless.

It begins with the first bookend device: a group of behavior disorder kids arrive late for the school trip to the museum. They bully the first tour guide, but then a smoking hot lady tour guide winks at them the right way, and they’re all entranced. Life’s not going to get better about objectification of women. It’s the plot, actually.

Christina Applegate voices the tour guide. Why? No reason. She’s not good. She doesn’t have any personality. There’s not a deep “Married With Children” cut involving her character. There is a deep Labyrinth cut, so maybe someone else dropped out or turned them down. Doesn’t matter. The bookending device is just so the behavior disorder kids can mouth off. They range in age from toddler to tween, and their character design ranges from seventies theatrical Charlie Brown doofus villains to Baby Huey in drag. Also, they’re a drag.

Then Applegate starts reading to them from the Book of Life, mentioning far more interesting stories than the one we’ll watch. I foolishly thought it would be an anthology of Mexican folk tales. Instead, it’s all about how Zoe Saldana needs to marry Diego Luna or Channing Tatum so Ron Perlman can get a job transfer.

Perlman’s Xibalba, lord of the Land of the Forgotten. His lady love is La Muerte, the lord of the Land of the Remembered. Kate del Castillo voices her. Del Castillo de facto gives the second-best performance in the film. Luna’s a great lead. When he’s talking, you forget what you’re watching and think it might actually be all right. Then Saldana shows up, and that all right gets qualified. Then Tatum shows up, and that all right becomes impossible. Tatum isn’t even particularly bad—Saldana’s worse—but he’s charmless. His character is the town hero; he’s only the town hero because he has a magic tchotchke. It makes him invincible. When it looks like Saldana is going to marry Luna because of true love and all that jazz, Tatum says he’ll abandon the town and stop protecting it unless she marries him.

Luna’s the hero of the movie, but Tatum’s a good guy. Everyone trading Saldana is a good guy. She may spout off about her independence, but she’ll always immediately relinquish it. Director Gutiérrez and co-writer Doug Langdale don’t write a character capable of withstanding a gentle breeze. They’re all so thin.

Life’s got some original songs. Luna’s okay at them, but not any good. Then again, the songs aren’t good; some are better than others. All of them, much like the film itself, are tedious.

Gutiérrez’s direction peaks at middling. There are some rather poorly directed sequences; Gutiérrez’s always in a hurry like he’s convinced there’s nothing worth seeing anywhere in the film, which is funny because the production design is far more compelling than the story. Ahren Shaw’s editing doesn’t help things.

Book of Life seems like Luna’s charm will somehow carry it, but then it doesn’t. By the third act, Luna can’t hold it up anymore, not with everyone else pounding down on it.

Life’s a long ninety-five minutes.

The Scarlet Letter (1934, Robert G. Vignola)

The Scarlet Letter’s opening title card explains while the Puritan customs might be atrocious to modern eyes, “they were a necessity of the times and helped shape the destiny of a nation.” Not on board with the former, but it’s definitely accurate for the latter. Especially since this version of Letter is about a white man avoiding taking any responsibility for himself until the last possible moment and being a martyr. However, given the third act positions Hardie Albright’s reverend as the protagonist—how could it be about anyone but him, after all, certainly not the woman he canoodled with (Colleen Moore) or their child, born out of wedlock (Cora Sue Collins).

But then the first couple acts were basically all about Henry B. Walthall coming back after two years of being presumed dead to find his wife, Moore, a recent mother. Walthall shows up with a Native American guide (Iron Eyes Cody, but don’t think it’s woke; he was Italian and changed his name) and quickly discovers Moore’s story. It’s the first or second thing everyone’s talking about. They’re going to watch Moore get her scarlet letter while holding her newborn as everyone—including Albright—begs her to reveal the father’s identity. Walthall watches, now significantly invested himself, but Moore refuses. She’s going to carry the burden for both of them.

Moore has subsequent scenes with Albright—confirming he’s the daddy—and Walthall, who reveals his return to life to Moore and pledges vengeance against this unknown baby daddy. He makes her promise not to tell anyone he’s really her husband (he’s taken on a silly name new identity).

Jump ahead five years, and now the baby is Collins, who’s just the age she’s starting to notice the other kids are shitty to her. Meanwhile, the other adults are shitty to Moore. Much of the second act consists of the village ladies shit-talking her, which may pass Bechdel at times (though their God is definitely a dude, so maybe not). That material’s no good. What’s good is Walthall.

Despite Cody—nope, sorry, despite Espera DeCorti—apparently sticking with Walthall the entire time, we don’t get to see him again until the end of the movie for the big finale. He’s just a face in the crowd. Now, Letter’s very low budget—the production design is an incredible mishmash of styles and time periods—so they likely just filmed their crowd scenes together. But still. I spent most of the movie just waiting for the awful way DeCorti would return.

Anyway.

Walthall.

Walthall has become the beloved town doctor and Albright’s best friend. He’s in Moore’s orbit because Moore is a saint who cares for the sick women who’d previously been cursing her. Moore’s got no character arc. She exists to serve Walthall or Albright, but most of her scenes are with Collins for a while, and very little comes from them. Even when Moore’s fighting the town bullies—intellectually—the movie’s careful never to lionize her. Scarlet Letter is a bewildering story to try to tell under the new-at-the-time Hayes Code, and the result is about what one would expect.

Though not Walthall’s Machiavellian plan to ferret out his cuckolder and ruin the man’s life. If he’s got to kill some kids along the way….

Walthall gives a malevolent, deeply disturbing, cruel performance. He’s awesome.

Albright’s not good. He’s also not sympathetic. He needed to be one of them.

Moore’s pretty good, considering, but rarely unqualified. It’s a poorly written part, and director Vignola has no time (or ability) for directing actors.

So then the better performances come from the film’s only running subplot—buddies Alan Hale and William Kent. Hale’s the handyman; Kent’s a… something or other. Doesn’t matter. Kent’s courting Virginia Howell, who’s Moore’s primary detractor, and Albright and Walthall’s landlady, except Kent’s a nebbish and Hale’s a whole lot of man. So Hale and Kent have this series of comedy sequences involving it. Hale’s really good. Kent’s funny. Howell’s a lot better in those parts than when she’s slinging shit at Moore.

Technically, nothing stands out. Leonard Fields and David Silverstein’s script does have some occasionally impressive olde time dialogue—usually for Hale and Kent—where they get to flex for entertainment purposes and not so Moore can wax on about how hard it must be for someone else to have to know she’s in this position and occasionally see her on the street.

But, given the numerous, significant constraints, it could’ve been a whole lot worse. And the scene where Collins tells someone on their planet, Moore’s “A” might be a letter, but on her planet, it stands for “Mommy’s the Best,” is pretty awesome and gives a peek into a better version of the film.