Rocky (1976, John G. Avildsen)

By the time Rocky gets to the big fight, you forget there’s actually going to be a big fight. While the film does open with a boxing match, until somewhere decidedly in the late second act, Rocky isn’t a sports movie. It’s a character study of a boxer, sure, but he’s not in a sports movie. He doesn’t have another fight lined up anyway.

The film starts just before Thanksgiving and ends on New Year’s Day. Holidays aren’t important to Rocky (screenwriter, leading man, and fight choreographer Sylvester Stallone), who’s seemingly been alone for a decade. He’s thirty now, breaking legs for a two-bit loan shark (an oddly touching Joe Spinell), getting occasional fights, winning over half of them, and putting up with his gym owner (Burgess Meredith, mostly saving MAD Magazine time on the caricature) treating him like crap because he’s too old to be a contender.

After the first scene, Rocky’s done with boxing for the first act. There’s talk about it—folks being surprised Stallone won the fight—but the rest of the time is establishing the ground situation. Stallone’s got a crush on pet shop girl Talia Shire, who’s not necessarily not interested in the attention, and he’s best buddies with her drunken “lovable” asshole brother (Burt Young). Young wants a job as a leg-breaker, but Stallone doesn’t think he’s reliable enough. Into the second act, there’s a big implication Young’s trying to pawn Shire off on Stallone in exchange for a job hookup.

Young’s an asshole. They realize in the third act they can make him funny about it and give him some goofy reaction shots during the big fight, but it’s too late. It’s fine. He’s supposed to be an asshole, but he and Stallone’s arc is one of the film’s most rushed.

Just as Stallone and Shire kick off their tender but macho romance, he gets the chance of the lifetime. The world heavyweight champion of the world Apollo Creed (Carl Weathers) is looking for an unknown contender for a New Year’s Day fight. Weathers is celebrating the United States Bicentennial, wants to do something showy. Giving the underdog a shot. Now, we’ll find out later Weathers has not just never lost a fight, he’s never even been knocked down. Rocky has plenty of opportunities to exposition dump about Weathers’s record (the film does use TV news footage as a device, but Shire knows squat about boxing, and Stallone could tell her). Stallone’s a fan of Weathers, but it seems uninformed. In one of Rocky’s sincerest flexes, Stallone pushes back at his regular bartender Don Sherman’s regular racism about Black man Weathers. It’s also one of the most realistic—Stallone doesn’t say why he’s upset Sherman’s a racist and just bounces.

There’s a decent argument for Stallone not knowing how to verbalize it. He’s something of an uninformed philosopher king, lots of observations—he even writes jokes to tell Shire—and Rocky’s most shining moments are when Stallone ventures out into the world. He leaves the gym, the fight club, the bar, his “economically distressed” neighborhood, and participates in the world. Rocky will have several problems by the end, up to and including the last moments, but once it rings the bell in Stallone’s self-esteem character development arc, the movie’s basically won. It’s done the Stallone arc, it’s done the Stallone and Shire arc, it’s given Shire just the scantest amount of character moments on her own (it’s truly staggering how much the film puts on her; she’s charged with bringing it legitimacy). Like the rest of the film, the big fight’s got its problems (Stallone’s got a strategy, a foreshadowed strategy, but they make it coincidental), and its moments (despite uneven sound editing, Stallone and Weathers do have a real scene together amid the blows).

Technically, the film’s a sparsely mixed bag. Whenever director Avildsen actually has a good shot (he’s awful shooting in cramped spaces, which is about half of the movie), cinematographer James Crabe or one of his camera operators messes it up. There are some decent shots throughout the film, but they’re either outside, involve static camera placement, or in giant indoor spaces. Otherwise, it’s buyer beware. Richard Halsey and Scott Conrad’s editing is similarly hot and cold. It’s good for the sports movie, it’s atrocious on the dramatics. Young in particular will change head position and facial expression between his shots. Is it Young, is it Avildsen? Probably. But it’s also artless cutting.

Then the sports stuff is good.

Bill Conti’s score is one of the main stars, along with Stallone, Shire, and, to a lesser extent, Weathers. Weathers gives an unforgettable performance, but… he’s not, you know, particularly good. Stallone and Shire are good. Especially Shire. The supporting cast ranges. Meredith’s cartoonish and semi-pointless (it’s like no one told Stallone after he figured out the plot, he could improve it) until the movie remembers to tell us Meredith could’ve been a surrogate family to Stallone but didn’t because he’s an asshole too. One of the film’s other endearing subplots is Stallone’s good nature—his “friends” all want something from him, which he acknowledges and, once in the position to help, does so.

Except Shire, of course, which just makes them all the cuter. Though Stallone’s pushy advances age poorly (maybe if Avildsen directed them better), but Shire’s into it, so it’s fine… see what you made me say, movie? Do you see?

Anyway.

The film’s greatest unsung performance is Tony Burton. He’s Weathers’s trainer, who realizes Stallone might be good enough to get lucky, and Weathers better take the big fight more seriously. Weathers, spoiler, does not. Hence drama.

Thayer David plays Weathers’s Mr. Big manager. He and Meredith unfortunately don’t get a chance to do a caricature-off.

A shame we’ll never get to see it—the movie reminds everyone at least four times there won’t be a rematch.

Doom Patrol (2019) s04e08 – Fame Patrol

And this, ladies, germs, zombie butts, is what is called an hour of television. Or, well, forty-two minutes of television. “Doom Patrol” once again knocks it out of the park, but then the ball ricochets and pings around the ballpark, going out of the park and then pinging back in and out until the cliffhanger.

The perfectly done cliffhanger.

Fame Patrol gives the characters an impossible episode to endure. While the supervillain either did or didn’t come back in the form of Charity Cervantes, last seen a few seasons ago when Michelle Gomez first showed up (I think in a season finale tag, right?), the Doom Patrol’s got more personal problems going on.

Everybody hates Robotman (Brendan Fraser speaks, Riley Shanahan steps) for giving up his immortality because Cervantes’s cult told him he could see his grandson grow up. Mind you… the episode opens revealing Cervantes has killed everyone but the Doom Patrol in her awakening, including her cult. It turns out to be a great episode for Fraser and Abi Monterey, who’s gotten back to her surrogate family when they need her the most—they’re all rapidly aging and will be dying soon.

She takes on Fraser as a project while her new friend, played by Madeline Zima, tries to help Diane Guerrero. Guerrero is experiencing rapid aging while being unable to connect with her other personalities. She’s also upset about the world ending, maybe. It’s an excellent episode for Zima and Guerrero, too. There’s potentially a pin in it for later, but I’m hopeful “Doom Patrol” won’t do the characters dirty.

While Zima doesn’t share too much with Guerrero, she’s experiencing profound loss on a couple levels similar to Guerrero’s. The aforementioned dead cultists included her father, a space warlord (Zima’s a space cop), and her creator (Lima’s a comic book character). She’s very confused and in a lot of pain. The episode gives Zima and Monterey a lot of space to flex in their performances, even though they’re the supporting players in their scenes. The script—credit to Tamara Becher-Wilkinson—is simply exquisite in the character interactions. Perfect music from Kevin Kiner and Clint Mansell, especially for the Zima and Guerrero scenes.

Matt Bomer (voicing, with Matthew Zuk doing the bodywork) goes off to his room to mope—after making the very deft observation, Cervantes seems more like one of the team than their nemesis—only for Sendhil Ramamurthy to show up, looking for help in his disintegrated state. It’s a nice plot arc; not quite the weight of the other two, but nice. Ramamurthy and Bomer are great together. Or Ramamurthy and Zak. Or is it just Ramamurthy because he’s acting opposite someone who’s not responding? Or do Zuk and Shanahan read the lines while they’re shooting?

Anyway.

The last grouping is April Bowlby, Gomez, and Joivan Wade. Like I said, if Wade doesn’t have a dedicated guest star to play with, they don’t have anywhere to put him. Part of the plot will involve his (magically induced) obliviousness. He and Bowlby do get a nice scene together where she gets to play mentor again.

But Bowlby, Gomez, and Wade have the broadest plot strokes. Bowlby can’t stand Cervantes and wants to nuke her from orbit before she has a chance to time monster out on everyone (again). Gomez thinks there’s something weird about Cervantes no one else can see. And then Wade’s just along for the ride.

It ends up being, of course, a fantastic ride.

Excellent direction from Bosede Williams. “Doom Patrol”’s not slowing down. I can’t wait to see what’s next.

Maybe some man-eating zombie butts. One can only hope.

Theater Camp (2023, Molly Gordon and Nick Lieberman)

Theater Camp is a mockumentary, but doesn’t really need to be one. The occasional title cards set some of the stage (no pun), but the documentarians don’t just not exist in the film—their subjects don’t even acknowledge they’re being filmed. And it’s about a bunch of theater kids and theater adults—and social media influencers—so you’d think someone would notice the camera crew. Co-directors Gordon and Lieberman (who “co-wrote” with cast members Noah Galvin and Ben Platt—Camp’s improvised) get some mileage out of the format in the first act, then don’t know what to do with it until the epilogue.

Mockumentaries can always do something in the epilogue if they want, thanks to the format.

But in the first act, the format lets the film introduce Amy Sedaris as an impassioned, perpetually broke theater summer camp owner who ends up in a coma during her spring fundraising tour. The film establishes her sidekick, played by Caroline Aaron, who will always be around in the movie but never have much to do except drop the occasional great one-liner. If there’s a scene about Aaron taking over the camp (or not), it didn’t make the final cut. Instead, Sedaris’s non-artistic son, played by Jimmy Tatro, takes over the camp. He’s a social media influencer planning to document his unexpected boss status.

He never documents his unexpected boss status. It’s like Camp forgot the bit until the third act. His influencer stuff comes back when evil rival camp owner—venture capitalist Patti Harrison—starts sniffing around the camp and flatters Tatro by watching his videos. Tatro was never into the arts, and, you know, content creators aren’t actually creative, so he doesn’t understand all the weird theater kids. Or the camp counselors. He only really bonds with Galvin, who plays the “third generation” stage manager; Galvin secretly has performing talent but has never exercised it.

Tatro’s plot is initially about running the camp into the ground because he’s a dope, only to have to try to save it once he makes one mistake too many. Along the way, he hires a new counselor (Ayo Edebiri), who the film pretends will matter and doesn’t. Thanks to the (intentionally) narratively choppy second act, Camp never has to do character arcs, which would be strange anyway since it focuses on the adults, but it should be about the kids. Question mark.

What’s so impressive about the film—thanks to editor Jon Philpot—is how well the thing flows. Even when the title cards are handling the audience, Camp’s got a great pace.

Besides Tatro’s camp owner in trouble plot, the main story is about Gordon and Pratt’s original musical. The camp does multiple musicals every summer (it’s so low budget we don’t see the others because they couldn’t afford the songs), and Gordon and Pratt’s is always the centerpiece. They grew up as besties going to camp together, only to become bestie camp counselors. Gordon’s been in love with Pratt forever, except he’s gay, which doesn’t matter since most characters are sans-sexual. The movie avoids going there at all, which is fine, but also, why bring it up in Gordon’s character’s ground situation? Especially given some of the later reveals, which the movie could’ve baked in early instead of dropping late for actual dramatic effect and not twists.

Anyway.

The adult cast is all okay or better. Since the movie makes fun of Gordon and Pratt so much, it’s hard to really “care” about them, especially when their actual emotional scenes are played for comedy. With them as the punchlines. It’s not unintentional, either. These sequences are usually beautifully cut by editor Philpot. It also limits their performances.

Gordon’s better than Pratt, though. Pratt seems to be protesting the idea he should have any meaningful scenes whatsoever, even when other characters try to drag them out of him. Ha ha, he’s a narcissist. So’s Tatro, and he’s a delight; easily the best adult performance.

Great, small turns from Nathan Lee Graham and Owen Thiele.

Galvin’s good, Aaron’s good, Edebiri’s good. The latter two just don’t get anything to do, and Galvin’s got to wait for the movie to gin up a way to get him involved. Sure, it does a great job with it, but it’s way late.

But what makes Theater Camp more than a competent, middling outing is the kids. In no particular order, Bailee Bonick, Donovan Colan, Luke Islam, Alexander Bello, Vivienne Sachs, Alan Kim, and Kyndra Sanchez hold it together. Jack Sobolewski, too, but—like Galvin—we’ve got to wait for him. The kids all have phenomenal timing, especially opposite the adults. It creates this lovely contrast in acting styles. The kids are eccentric but real; their counselors are eccentric but for a movie. None of the kids really get a showcase part. Sort of Sanchez, sort of Colan, but not really. They’re the Theater Camp players, but they’re essential.

Cinematographer Nate Hurtsellers does a nice job lighting (though the fake Super 8 is pointless unless it’s supposed to be a filter gimmick; though no one’s got a phone in Camp, not really). Gordon and Lieberman’s direction is good, which is sometimes disconcerting because the direction works, but the documentary conceit does not.

To be sure, Theater Camp could be better. But it’s still very impressive.

Grantchester (2014) s08e01

The mystery in “Grantchester”’s season premiere seems a tad simple. The episode’s got lots of foreshadowing—whether it’s the victim (warning: the episode kills a teenager, which is harsh), the suspects, or the season setup. I’d forgotten “Grantchester” saves the biggest twist for last, and the finale takes the proverbial cake away from the other established season subplots. Until the final scene, it seems like we’re in for a season involving Robson Green’s impending (and forced) retirement, newlyweds Tom Brittney and Charlotte Ritchie expecting a baby while Brittney learns to dad with step-son Isaac Highams, and then Al Weaver’s trying to start-up a halfway house amid NIMBY neighbors.

All of those subplots will doubtlessly continue, but none of them are going to be the main season plotline. It even ties into this episode’s mystery a little: the dangers of motorbiking.

While the people of “Grantchester” aren’t sure about having a bunch of young people, boys, girls, Blacks, whites, in motorcycle clubs, Brittney’s sure it’s a good idea. Local mechanic Shaun Dingwall agrees, turning his garage into a de facto clubhouse where the “gang” can fix up their bikes and hang out. In addition to Dingwall’s son, Elliot Norman, there’s Black (and deaf) orphan Jayden Reid, as well as “girls can bike too” Antonia Rita. Except, we’ll find out as the episode progresses, Rita’s about the only one who thinks girls should be allowed to bike. Especially in competition.

Everyone in “Grantchester” seems vaguely progressive until Rita talks about how Dingwall tells the kids how women competing would “lessen the sport.” More competition leads to less sportsmanship. Wokka wokka.

Brittney’s put together a charity race for the teen biker gangs, and—for a moment—the townspeople embrace the youth and their interests. It all goes wrong after the murder, of course, and the cliffhanger isn’t going to help things; but for a brief moment, Brittney’s convinced everyone to show some grace.

Though he’s having his own problems being graceful at home. Ritchie’s sensible atheism really doesn’t jibe with Brittney’s Anglicanism, especially not when she makes more sense than him.

The show’s gone from having, basically, a cast of four—Green, Weaver, vicarage housekeeper Tessa Peake-Jones (who doesn’t have a season subplot yet), and the hot young vicar (Brittney’s officially put in more time than James Norton at this point)—to twelve-ish. The show infamously doesn’t name Green and Kacey Ainsworth’s kids (other than Skye Lucia Degruttola, who got a subplot a few seasons ago), but they’re still around. With everyone paired off, there are plus ones, there are kids–so, big regular cast.

So big the initial season setup doesn’t even have time for a mystery.

The episode starts sturdy, a little predictable, sure, but in a victory lap sort of way. Then, the cliffhanger writes a big dramatic check for things going forward. This season’s not just going to be Green bucking against dipshit boss Michael D. Xavier and Brittney taking forever to listen to advice.

Can’t wait.

Though I’m sure Brittney will also take forever to listen to anyone else.

Tomb of Dracula (1972) #37

I only have the vaguest memories of my previous Tomb of Dracula read through, but when Harold H. Harold appears this issue… I remembered he was going to be obnoxious beyond compare. In not disappointing my expectations, writer Marv Wolfman succeeds in disappointing my everlasting soul.

The issue opens with Dracula in Boston, messing around with a bunch of American young people. They just want him to chill out and groove, and Dracula, weakened by Doctor Sun’s mystery attack, is having none of it. He doesn’t feed, however; he’s too weak. When we next see Dracula, he will be feeding with no real explanation of why he didn’t feed before. And the comic will have skipped over the question of his Boston lair, which theoretically must be a thing.

Because instead of spending the day with Dracula, Wolfman instead tags along with Harold. Harold is a hack writer who’s been trying to get over his current case of writer’s block for three years. At least, I think it’s three years. Harold’s had writer’s block for three years; Harold writes worse than a three-year-old plant–lots of threes.

Wolfman tracks Harold from his failed drafting, where he decides just to plagiarize for his freelance assignment, then to the office where he sexually harasses and demeans the office girl, Aurora. She’s just a pretty face, he tells her, and dumb as a box of rocks. Except after he comes across Dracula in the street—Harold thinks there’s been a car accident, but Drac really dive-bombed a couple on a motorcycle and made sure to eat the girl because he’s sick of how empathetic he’s been lately. Where’s empathy gotten Dracula? Nowhere.

Anyway. Harold calls Aurora at like two in the morning for help, thinking about how she’s stupid, but she’s pretty, so maybe he’ll get laid after they take care of the vampire on his couch. I really hope Drac eats him next issue. Or lets Aurora eat him.

Capping the issue is a scene where Brother Voodoo tells Frank Drake even though Frank doesn’t seem like a white savior (he’s so ineffectual compared to lady friend Rachel Van Helsing, after all), Brother Voodoo sees the white savior in him, and all he needs to do is act with unwarranted confidence, and he’ll feel better.

It’s an eye-roll of an ending. Thank goodness for Gene Colan and Tom Palmer’s sublime art. Though their soft, lascivious cheesecake of Aurora juxtaposed against Harold (i.e., Wolfman) deriding her is weird and off-key.

Maybe Dracula can turn Aurora, and she can eat Harold. Just so long as he doesn’t become a major supporting player. Now, there’s a scary thought.

Doom Patrol (2019) s04e07 – Orqwith Patrol

Aka Thank Goodness Patrol. Sorry, just need to acknowledge how everyone was pretty sure MAX was going to delete the rest of “Doom Patrol” off the hard drive without dropping them.

Things pick back up where we left off–the team is in over their heads (again), and the end of the world is neigh (again), and they’re all too mad at each other to save it (again). It’s a glorious return, finally giving Joivan Wade a chance to air all of his character’s grievances in a strong scene. He’s teamed up with childhood friend grown-up Elijah R. Reed; they’re trapped in Orqwith with everyone else, but Reed doesn’t have any superpowers. Good thing drawings become reality in Orqwith.

Out of nowhere (well, almost), Wade blows up at Reed about how much being a superhero sucked, even if it led to Wade being a lousy friend too. Wade—sans cybernetics so long now you have to wonder if they’re coming back—doesn’t have exterior conflicts similar to his teammates, but he and Reed’s arc this episode perfectly showcases why he’s “Doom Patrol” material. It also shows how awkwardly the show is balanced. If it weren’t for Reed, Wade wouldn’t have anyone to team up with.

Diane Guerrero, Brendan Fraser (talking his part), and Riley Shanahan (walking the rest of that part) are also prisoners in Orqwith, except they’re on a different mission. Oh, right. Wade and Reed are trying to rescue Matt Bomer (voice) and Matthew Zuk (bandages). The episode’s got no room for Bomer’s moping, so they turn his rescue into a running joke. But the main stuff is Guerrero and Fraser bickering their way through newly revealed villain Daniel Annone’s Bond villain exposition dump, complete with an alternate-reality digression.

Guerrero needs Fraser to stay strong, except the only thing Fraser’s guaranteed not to do is stay strong.

Meanwhile, back on Earth, Michelle Gomez and April Bowlby are trying to remain calm while enraged at one another. It’s a character relationship episode for them, and it’s so good. Gomez wants to make things work so they can save their friends—she’s on a redemption kick, after all—but Bowlby wants to focus on how Gomez is redemption arcing because she wronged the team. Bowlby especially.

And they have too much to drink.

The cliffhanger finale’s got a deep-cut reveal, and—like the best “Patrol”—is tragically human.

Bosede Williams’s direction is good. Orqwith isn’t the most visually interesting alternate dimension, but Williams finds the drama in all the scenes. She gives all the actors a little more time, which really pays off. Some great Clint Mansell and Kevin Kiner music, as usual; the great thing about “Patrol”’s score is how the show often uses it as a contrast. So this episode, there’s a contrasting energy to Gomez and Bowlby’s arguments. It doesn’t worry about matching the style; rather the intensity of the moments.

So good.

“Doom Patrol”’s so, so good. Thank goodness it survived.

Buddy (1997, Caroline Thompson)

Buddy is in desperate need of some contextualizing. The film takes place—roughly—between 1928 and 1933. Given that timeline, it’s a little weird the Great Depression doesn’t start, but Buddy’s also really strange about when it decides to be grown-up and when it doesn’t. The film tells the story of eccentric socialite Gertrude Lintz, who raised chimpanzees as her children. Until a zoo needed to get rid of a baby gorilla, and she raised him as a human child, too. It turns out chimps and gorillas are different, which Lintz—played by Rene Russo—completely ignores, even as her husband (Robbie Coltrane) tells her to think about it, even as her assistant (Alan Cumming) tells her to think about it.

If Buddy could talk, he’d probably tell her to think about it too.

But Russo doesn’t listen. Or when she does listen, it’s not a scene. Buddy skips almost all of the character moments for Russo, which is really strange since she narrates the movie (presumably with lines from the real Lintz’s memoir, which… could use some punching up).

Buddy’s very short—eighty-four minutes (I didn’t time the credits either)—and most of the movie involves Russo trying to get Buddy (a combination of animatronics, puppetry, and man in suit) to learn how to act more civilized while the chimps she’s ignored since four minutes into the movie have hijinks. Buddy’s bullish on training apes to perform tricks, which is a bit of a flex. Though regular science at the time—in the form of a Paul Reubens cameo—thinks apes are violent man-eaters or something. As for zoos… they don’t talk about why zoos are bad. Except lack of money. Wonder where they could get some.

The chimp hijinks are incredible, but they’re also in questionable taste. Buddy casts many of its characters as caricatures—watching Irma P. Hall fight through being the Black housekeeper to eccentric rich white folks is incredible. Not to mention once she shows she’s going to put in the effort opposite the animatronic.

The first few scenes of the film are a little concerning. Everything is for sight gags, or it’s the lackluster narration. And then Russo and the baby gorilla doll aren’t dramatically compelling. But once Buddy starts to grow, Russo shows off how well she can act opposite the practical effects. And the practical effects are great. In the awkwardly paced third act, the script reveals that the whole thing has been about the animatronic ape’s experience of the film, which he can’t communicate because—despite having an elaborate supporting cast—Buddy only exists as Russo’s accessory.

Now, she comes to that realization, too, which means there should be some fantastic character development.

Except, like all the other character development, Buddy skips it. Buddy even skips the whole point because it doesn’t want to get into the history.

Though everyone else is ready for the history. Colleen Atwood’s costumes, Daniel A. Lomino and David Nichols’s delightful art deco production design, whoever put together the elaborate World’s Fair sets they’re on for under five minutes. A lot of effort went into Buddy. Either lots ended up on the cutting room floor, or the producers (and director and screenwriter Thompson) sorely misunderstood what they were doing.

There are also some weird scenes someone fought to keep in, like Russo telling priest Philip Baker Hall (in a fantastic cameo) to get over the whole creationism bit and get with the real. All the cameos are one-sceners—Rubens, Hall, John Aylward, a delightful Mimi Kennedy, young Dane Cook doesn’t count—which doesn’t help Buddy feel less… herky-jerky.

But the main leads are all good—Russo, Coltrane (who gets very little direction but still does a bunch of work), Cumming (he’s the standout), and Hall (Irma P.).

Lovely Steve Mason photography and a good—if repetitive—Elmer Bernstein round things out. Buddy’s a bit bumpy but more than okay; it should’ve been much better.

This post is part of the Friends Fur Life Blogathon hosted by Quiggy of The Midnite Drive-In and Rachel of Hamlette’s Soliloquy.

Beast from Haunted Cave (1959, Monte Hellman)

Besides the unfortunate special effects execution (the conceptions are fine), the only thing wrong with Beast from Haunted Cave is the title. And, I suppose, some first-act budgetary shenanigans—the movie’s about Frank Wolff’s crew knocking off a gold reserve in a mining town and heading across the mountains on skis to escape, and they have this big exposition dump about the heist. Only when it comes time for an effects sequence, the movie entirely skips it. Someone should’ve ponied up for emergency vehicle stock footage.

They don’t skimp (by Beast’s standards) on the Beast for the finale, which helps the movie stick to its landing.

Here’s the setup: Wolff has hired ski instructor Michael Forest to take he and his crew (who Forest ostensibly thinks are just Chicago businessmen) on a two day, cross-country ski trip. It just happens to be timed after Wolff and the crew knock over the reserve. They’re in the sticks–Beast shot on location in South Dakota, which sometimes means better locations, sometimes not—and the reserve’s not guarded on Sundays. Or they can distract the guards? It might be in the exposition dumps, but the subtext of those scenes is always Wolff’s main squeeze, Sheila Noonan, making eyes at Forest.

Noonan and Forest have a contrast flirtation. He’s a hunk, she’s a babe, but he’s wholesome (they’re heading to his cabin, where he gets away from it all to read the encyclopedia and learn about the world he doesn’t want to experience), and she’s fallen. Much of Beast is their getting-to-know-you scenes. Forest’s not good, but he’s not godawful, and he’s sympathetic. Noonan’s good, though. For most of Beast, they don’t know they’re in a horror movie; they think they’re in one of those back-to-nature noirs, and they toggle beautifully.

It helps the third act is maybe eight action-packed minutes.

The best performance is Wolff, who’s an awesome asshole. Forest isn’t so worried about his party having guns until he witnesses Wolff’s management style—Richard Sinatra (cousins) is going off the rails because he watched the Beast eat his hot date, and no one believes him. The Beast is chasing Sinatra; if you see the beast, it’s coming for you. Because it’s a terror. It taunts its prey with visions of digested victims and so on. It looks terrible because it’s 1959 and low budget, but the concept–some faceless spider monster draining your precious bodily fluids–is terrifying.

And director Hellman gets how to oscillate between the terror and the crime suspense. Beast is always done straight, just cheap. Wolff’s got some questionable makeup decisions, but the acting’s so good beneath them, it doesn’t matter. Finishing the quality triangle is Charles B. Griffith’s script. Griffith, Hellman, Wolff. They make Beast something special.

Wally Campo plays the other goon, who’s goofier than Sinatra, even when Sinatra’s freaking out. But both Campo and Sinatra get to show some humanity, while Wolff’s just an exercise in cruelty. Him, you watch for the tension, while they’re a combination of comic relief and dread. Then, Noonan and Forest have their star-crossed flirtation.

And there’s a spider monster out to eat them all.

Hellman’s direction is often quite good, with solid black and white photography from Andrew M. Costikyan, nice enough cutting from Anthony Carras, and a score full of personality by Alexander Laszlo. Laszlo flexes in odd directions at times, with varying degrees of success, but it’s always hep.

Beast from Haunted Cave is more than all right.

Except that title. Like, call it The Hold-Up or something generic heist. It’s a heist movie with a monster, not a monster movie with a heist. Otherwise, though, real cool.

All Creatures Great and Small (2020) s04e01 – Broodiness

“All Creatures” returns with an Easter special. Because the show’s changed so much since last time—Callum Woodhouse is off in World War II (it’s 1940)—the episode’s less the start of a new season than a special, which is fine, just a peculiar start. Since last episode (a Christmas special, so just a handful of months later), the veterinary clinic has found a new normal, well integrating Rachel Shenton into the house as de facto bookkeeper. Things seem to be going well (enough), but it’s hard to tell because Samuel West has given up tobacco for Lent, and it’s almost over, and he’s jonesing for a pipe.

Meanwhile, Nicolas Ralph seems to be taking to co-ownership in the practice well, while Anna Madeley’s ready to get on with her life and divorce her long-absent husband. It’s unclear where things stand with Madeley and just pal Will Thorp; despite her getting a relatively big setup for her divorce subplot (which includes an intentional public shaming stage), the episode doesn’t reveal much about her experience. “All Creatures” continues to keep reveals about Madeley for special occasions. Not even Easter is special enough.

The episode starts with Ralph taking a leisurely drive back to town from country, with “Creatures” showing off the beauty of the English countryside, then almost hitting little kid Billy Hickey and his dog. Hickey’s going to be Ralph’s nemesis for the episode, a poor kid who Ralph profiles and decides is mistreating the dog, even as Shenton tells him to give Hickey a chance and not to be a dipshit. West’s got his own medical case about a ewe who rejects her lamb, and how West’s forgetting he’s not the only one going through things, and farmer Paul Hilton might have it rough, too.

Back at the house, Madeley and Shenton share a subplot about medical supplies while mostly playing support to the boys. West will give Madeley some support in writing her divorce statement, but it’s for the eventual benefit of his character arc. Shenton and West get some great scenes together as part of the episode’s antics. “All Creatures” spends the first quarter of the episode showing how life has changed since war began—men are just gone, with the town trying to continue in their absence—and it’s all very serious. Hickey’s a kid in an unsafe, if not dangerous, situation, and so his plot has a lot of serious.

Broodiness compensates with downright sitcom antics around the house, with West as the butt of the joke. It works out, especially juxtaposed against West’s subplot about the farmer. “All Creatures” manages to do a deft contrast of West and Ralph’s cases for the episode and how the duty of care relates to each. It’s a very nice, eventually rending morale.

“All Creatures” gives no indication of what it’ll be doing this season, but this first episode does reassure wherever they go, it’ll be more than worth the trip.

Speaking of… the drone shots. Not just when Ralph or West is driving around town, but for some of the establishing shots; they got themselves a drone, and they know how to use it. Nice directing from Andy Hay, great photography from Sara Deane.

It’s so nice to have “Creatures” back.

Battle Beyond the Stars (1980, Jimmy T. Murakami)

Battle Beyond the Stars answers that age-old question… what if you mixed the star-fighting of Star Wars, the visual grandeur of Star Trek: The Motion Picture, and some of the production design of Alien, but also had all the sexy babes in the galaxy hot for John-boy Walton’s bod. Also, it’s a remake of Seven Samurai.

I should also mention the budget—approximately twenty percent of the original Star Wars (two million, which mostly went to the respectable special effects). Stars has shockingly good space effects. They just don’t have enough of them and sometimes reuse the same footage. They can’t do multiple ships in a frame, which limits the visuals after a certain point, but it’s a fine effort. James Francis Cameron did the special effects for the film.

Unfortunately, even though the space stuff looks good, the sets and “exteriors” are rather wanting. There are some okay matte shots of the alien worlds, but the actual sets are… I wanted to say iffy, but they’re much closer to bad. There are good exterior shots, but they’re models without any people. Sorry, I really want to talk about how Stars somehow didn’t know what trench warfare meant, but we’ll have to wait a bit.

The movie opens with intergalactic (literally, screenwriter John Sayles likes to talk about all the galaxies) bad guy John Saxon showing up at the peaceful world of Akir (home of the Akiras, which is more amusing now than when Stars originally came out) and threatening to nuke them from orbit if they don’t promise to be his subjects. The Akira are a peaceful people ruled by the Varda, a guide to a pacifist lifestyle, but Sayles didn’t write more than a rule and a half. Or they cut the rest. Some of Stars definitely got cut; you have to wonder about other parts.

Saxon’s seen Seven Samurai so he knows he’s got to threaten the yokels and then give them a deadline so they have time to mount a resistance, and there can be a movie. So, he leaves to go mess with some other planet.

Young farm boy with a hankering for adventure, Richard Thomas, decides he’ll go round up some mercenaries to defend the planet—he hasn’t seen Seven Samurai but the town elders explain it to him—and he takes Obi-Wan Ke… he takes Jeff Corey’s space ship, which has an AI on board named Nell (voiced by Lynn Carlin). The spaceship looks like a part of the human anatomy. Well, two parts, but parts in a pair. In fact, from different angles, it looks like two different pairs of parts of human anatomy.

Anyway.

Thomas’s first stop is Corey’s old friend Sam Jaffe, who isn’t going to a lost cause but also wants to breed Thomas with his daughter, Darlanne Fluegel. Fluegel seems like she’s going to be quite bad in Stars and she might be quite bad, but once Sybil Danning shows up, Fluegel improves, thanks to the comparison. It might not be Fluegel’s (or even Danning’s) fault. While director Murakami is good at the space stuff and some of the dramatic stuff, he’s utterly inert with the romance. And since Stars becomes a low-key race between Fluegel and Danning to bed Thomas, the romance will be important. Ish. I mean, it’d have been nice for Fluegel not to oscillate between love interest and exposition blatherer, and it’d really have been nice if Danning weren’t a scantily clad star warrior, but I’m not sure it’d have made too much difference.

But it would’ve made some kind of one.

Fluegel and Thomas team up to save his planet; he goes one way to get more help, she goes another. He’ll bring in George Peppard (as future Earth hillbilly space trucker Space Cowboy, one half of Stars’s Han Solo), Robert Vaughn (the other half of Han Solo, this one a soulless space assassin), and these nice Borg, led by Earl Boen, in a lot of makeup.

Plus Danning, who demands he let her fight alongside, but Thomas doesn’t like pushy women, so he tells her to bug off. She’ll tag along because that bod’s too hot.

Meanwhile, Fluegel gets kidnapped by space lizard Morgan Woodward, who, it turns out, hates Saxon–so, lucky timing.

Thomas is an affable, likable enough lead, but the best performances are Vaughn and Peppard. Peppard takes a while to warm up, but Vaughn’s on from his first scene. Carlin’s a lot of fun–unfortunately, Saxon’s awful. The supporting cast’s okay; there are no standouts either way.

The sublime editing from Allan Holzman and R.J. Kizer is the standout of the entire film (besides James Horner’s proto-Star Trek score). They cut the effects sequences just right and the non-effect sequences just right. Holzman and Kizer’s cutting is responsible for many effects sequences’ success. They cut just as the limitations are about to show.

Daniel Lacambre’s photography is good, too. Stars is visibly cheap but never bad-looking. Well, never too bad-looking.

It’s a peculiar, always diverting, usually engaging oddity.

Even if someone thought fighting in the trenches meant digging wide corridors where they could have battles on the same set but pretend they’re somewhere else.

Finally, look fast for Julia Duffy and faster for Kathy Griffin.