Tomb of Dracula (1972) #7

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Writer Marv Wolfman arrives with a bang… or a howl. Wokka wokka.

The difference is immediate. Wolfman’s got his purply exposition, but it’s purposeful. There are lots of nice echoes between lines; the style’s right for the book, which has Dracula returning to London, going out for a snack, and surprised to discover his intended victim already knows him.

While it’ll soon make sense why his intended victim, Edith Parker, knows him, it doesn’t make as much sense why he doesn’t know her. Edith is a new major supporting player, daughter to vampire hunter Quincy Harker (son of Stoker novel “heroes” Mina and Jonathon). Wolfman’s most prominent development in his first issue is their introduction; Quincy’s the moneyed mastermind behind Rachel Van Helsing’s operation, and he calls them back to London. When Quincy gives Frank Drake a tour of his estate, showing off vampire hunting gadgets (put a pin in them) and giving Dracula’s history. Tomb of Dracula is now in Stoker’s novel continuity.

Until Dracula knows Quincy, who was born after the novel’s end. So not in Stoker continuity. Wolfman couldn’t even keep it going for an issue.

It’s a bewildering writing fumble, but then so are the gadgets. The vampire hunters do indeed go a-hunting, but they don’t bring any of the fancy gadgets. After Quincy tells Frank it’s not as simple as driving a stake through Dracula’s heart, all they do is try to drive a stake through Dracula’s heart. It’s hard to feel bad for them falling right into Dracula’s trap.

Wolfman does an excellent job with the plotting too. The twists are actual surprises, only requiring a single, easily explainable plot reveal. Though the cover says it all—Dracula’s plan involves hypnotizing children into unstoppable killing machines. The vampire hunters aren’t going to kill a bunch of kids, right?

Not all of Wolfman’s takes are great—Clifton Graves is obnoxiously simpering at this point but also utterly inept. Dracula’s so unimpressed with his performance, he comes up with the killer kids plan. But then Wolfman also doesn’t do the “Frank’s low and high-key racist or ableist to Taj” thing. Instead, Frank’s nice to Taj. What an idea.

The art’s great. Wolfman’s script and Gene Colan’s pencils tell the same story, and Tom Palmer’s inks are gorgeous. Finally, Tomb of Dracula has arrived. I knew Wolfman and Colan do one of comics’ great uninterrupted runs on the title, but I didn’t realize it would take six issues to get there. Even with the slightly grating continuity gaffes—seriously, there’s a lot of talking in the comic, Quincy could’ve mentioned Dracula waking up in the twenties for a bit–it’s a great read.

While the vampire hunters are a little too overconfident, Wolfman’s got Dracula mocking them for it and starting to show personality as a villain. Wolfman’s ability to hit the ground running is impressive.

Though he does scape-rodent rats a little much. No rat slander!

Tomb of Dracula (1972) #6

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If I remembered this issue closely resembles an early Swamp Thing comic in the Wein and Wrightson era, I’d forgotten. Except Swamp Thing #4 went on sale over three months after this issue of Tomb, so that Swamp Thing resembles this issue, not the other way around.

No spoilers, but it involves the guest monster and the English moors it occupies. Though here in Tomb, “monster” gets quotes. It’s just some guy with horrific medical things going on.

Gardner Fox contributes this issue’s script, and it’s much better than last time. It’s not good, but it’s much better. And there’s never any wonkiness to Gene Colan and Tom Palmer’s art—they’re cooking with gas from page one—making the entire experience relatively smooth. Fox is also more comfortable writing the comic; characters aren’t expounding half their dialogue. The dialogue’s not great, but it’s got some unintentional moments. For example, I’m hoping Fox intended Dracula to come off a wee sexist when describing vampire hunter Rachel Van Helsing and wasn’t just being verbose. And then it’s the best anyone has written erstwhile protagonist Frank Drake. He keeps his mouth shut instead of blabbering.

Well, he blabbers a little—everyone does in the book; Fox hates panels without word balloons or something. But nowhere near before.

Okay, so, the story.

Dracula and Lenore, who he luckily happened upon in the past, come back to the future, only not in the mansion where Dracula started his time travel adventure. Instead, they’re somewhere on the moors; this twist basically breaks the black mirror rules but whatever. They’re back, they’re hungry, and they need to find a place to sleep.

Someone ought to do a montage of Colan panels where Dracula’s ambushing some village girl walking home through the countryside. This issue’s got the third (at least) such scene in the series.

The vampire hunters go back to the castle from their mirror and find Scotland Yard waiting with a hot assignment. Suspected vampire victim on the moors, where there’s also a bog monster, but no one thinks it’s the bog monster.

At first, it seemed like the issue had a rocky plot in the second half until I realized Tomb of Dracula is a chase scene as ongoing comic. They can only catch Dracula once; he can escape them every twenty pages. Entirely changes how the third act sits.

Albeit still with Fox overwriting the dialogue, but it’s more suited for the (out of nowhere) soapy romance he finds in a literal pit. And the art’s superb this issue. Might be the series best, just in terms of quality and effect. Colan and Palmer are on it.

Werewolf by Night (1972) #6

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Frank Bolle’s not the best inker for Mike Ploog’s pencils, but he’s far from the worst. This issue’s got some fantastic panels, even with Bolle muting the Ploog faces. Most of the art’s at least good, if not better, with only one wanting page when writer Len Wein introduces the cop who’s figured out there’s a werewolf on the loose. But the cop’s only a tease for later. Instead, the issue’s all about an evil circus swami kidnapping Jack so the show can have a real, live werewolf.

The issue starts with an unrelated action sequence; Wolfman Jack versus truckers (back when they were unionized). It’s a bit of a page killer, something to get the werewolf in Werewolf by Night as soon as possible. There’s no connection to last issue—other than when the cops talk about the events—but when Jack’s sister, Lissa, shows up, she’s apparently forgotten she found out her brother was a werewolf and she’d be turning someday too.

However, she at least isn’t paired off romantically with Jack’s roommate and bestie Buck Cowan, who’s in his forties at least. Lissa’s not yet eighteen. I’m just waiting for that icky to hit.

After the opening werewolf action, set on the last night of the full moon, Wein jumps ahead to the next one, though Jack isn’t preparing for it because, if he did, there couldn’t be a comic book. He’s always got to be taken vaguely by surprise the moon gets full every month.

He, Lissa, and Buck are on a day trip to San Diego, where they come across the circus. The swami immediately hypnotizes Jack to make him docile enough for kidnapping. Lissa and Buck disappear from the story at this point, with Buck telling Lissa her brother probably just hitched back to L.A. out of boredom. The cop scene’s next and seems like it’d be a missing persons report.

Nope.

There’s a little introduction to Jack and the circus; the second tier bad guy is the dwarf lion tamer who resents having a werewolf around; the good guy is a gentle giant who doesn’t let the lion tamer abuse hypnotized Jack. But once the full moon rises, there’s no way to keep the werewolf under control, and the whole circus has to get in on the fight.

The beginning’s a little rocky, with the art carrying the water, but the eventual roaming circus chase and fight is good. Wein doesn’t overwrite the narration as much previous writer Gerry Conway did.

It’s fine. For a seventies Marvel horror book, it’s totally fine.

Werewolf by Night (1972) #5

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Artist Mike Ploog is back to inking himself, and it is glorious from the first page. There’s even a recap of the previous issue, so everyone can see what they missed not having Ploog ink himself. The recap also burns some pages for writer Len Wein, who’s got the somewhat inglorious task of picking up the series on a downturn. Wein’s scripting is fairly indistinguishable from previous writer (and Werewolf creator alongside Ploog) Gerry Conway.

The action begins with Jack reverted to human form and heading back to collect sister Lissa from captivity. Unsurprisingly, he can’t just rescue her because the bad guy from the last issue has an evil brother, but this one’s a scientist who wants someone murdered. In exchange for the werewolf doing the deed, brother bad guy will cure Lissa’s lycanthropy. I’d be remiss not to mention—because it was a silly development and shouldn’t be forgotten—in Werewolf’s current canon, Jack and Lissa are Satanically cursed; they become werewolves because Satan wills it. Where the heck is Mephisto in this continuity?

Anyway.

Wein’s got no time for Satanic curses, so Jack’s going to go kill some guy for the scientist villain who’ll then cure Lissa. Lissa is unconscious this entire issue; she was unconscious most of last issue. No one writing Werewolf’s got time for her.

Speaking of time, this issue takes place on the fourth full moon in the monthly sequence but calls it the third. They made a mistake a couple issues ago doubling up full moons—they skipped the second night straight to the third—but they roll it back here. Jack missed the second night but had two third nights in a row. I guess it’s good they’re back on track, though I wish they’d move the story along instead of doing immediate sequels to previous issues. Every villain’s got a brother or a daughter to continue the action the very next day, while human Jack spends most of the daytime unconscious or off-page.

No character development here… just glorious action, both werewolf and human. Wolfman Jack’s prey is in a fortified mansion with militarized guards, meaning it’s werewolf versus machine guns, but also Jack hightailing it on a motorcycle at one point. And since it’s 100% Ploog, it’s fantastic even as it gets more and more absurd.

Given all this book’s got going for it—so far—is phenomenal Ploog art or the promise of phenomenal Ploog art… it’s concerning knowing he won’t be around much longer. Maybe Wein’s just finishing old business, and now the comic can get moving.

More likely, it’ll just be a series of contrived villain-of-the-month stories, but one can hope.

Werewolf by Night (1972) #4

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It’s a better issue than last time but still far from the Werewolf heights. The issue’s enough to stop the free-falling, though; if only Marvel gets someone who can ink Mike Ploog’s pencils. Frank Bolle does the job here, and, while better than Frank Chiaramonte, he’s still not great. The werewolf at least looks scary, and the faces are better; they’re less Ploog-y, however. The cost of competent inking is apparently the personality.

But there’s also not much personality in the story either. It opens with the werewolf on an abandoned movie backlot, some great white hunter out to get him, then flashbacks back to last issue’s cliffhanger; Wolfman Jack has rescued sister Lissa, who’s unconscious, and is carrying her away to safety. When the werewolf puts her down, she wakes up and realizes it’s Jack. There’s also a bit about her fear she’ll become a werewolf, too; along with the silver bullet vulnerability (this issue might be the first to show it), the family genetics curse is a lot different in the new Werewolf ground situation. Jack’s not just a werewolf; he’s a Satanically cursed soul.

Oddly, the issue has none of that crap in it. Conway gave it up just a month and a half later.

After the werewolf runs off from Lissa, the great white hunter kidnaps her, then waits for the werewolf to change and kidnaps Jack too. He’s been following Jack, having searched him out when he realized there was a werewolf. The hunter’s name is Joshua Kane. Conway writes him like George Kennedy from Cool Hand Luke but rich and evil; it’s so fun to read characters written like actors but not in the desperate hope of casting them in the role. Ah, the seventies.

Anyway.

It’s an all-action issue for at least two-thirds, with Kane hunting Wolfman Jack through this abandoned movie backlot. Mostly they stick to the Old West street and the fantasy castle. The setting seems like a better idea than it plays out, partially because the hunt’s not particularly dramatic. Kane will release Lissa if he can hunt the werewolf; it’s left somewhat unresolved. At one point, there’s a massive exposition dump about Kane tracking Jack, which Conway left out of the villain reveal sequence. Again, though, it’s Marvel-style, so maybe Ploog didn’t pace it right. Or maybe Conway really wanted to do the big dump later on.

Whatever.

Werewolf started something special, quickly fell on its face, and is now picking itself up… maybe.

Werewolf by Night (1972) #3

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Oh, no, is Werewolf by Night going to run off the rails this early? I’m hoping it’s just Gerry Conway burning out on the writing, though the Frank Chiaramonte inks ruin the Mike Ploog pencils too. Actually, the final art’s so de-Plooged, I wonder if he even finished the pencils. There’s occasionally effective art, mostly with the pacing, but it’s never good.

And the final fight sequence is terrible.

The issue opens some months after the previous one, if anyone’s keeping track of continuity, with Jack now living with Buck. It initially seems like Conway’s closing outstanding B-plots quickly; last issue they took the Darkhold to a priest, this issue opens with the priest finishing the translation.

Little does the priest know it’s going to unleash literal Hell.

Priest calls Jack, Jack drives out to see him, forgetting—as usual—it’s the full moon tonight and he changes while driving, crashing the car. By this very early point, things are clearly wrong with both writing and art. The human faces aren’t Ploog-y enough, then the werewolf is… bad. But the writing on the car crash is similarly bad, only without Conway having the excuse Chiaramonte might be inking it wrong.

Things go downhill from there, with Wolfman Jack heading out to the priest’s mission to discover an evil spirit has possessed him. This evil spirit was once a priest himself, and wrote the Darkhold in the Middle Ages. It’s a really, really bad, reductive history for the Darkhold—which gets passed around as a scroll until Jack’s dad gets it in the fifties or whatever, and then binds it. It’s too bad Jack’s dad had that binding hobby, because the Darkhold makes him a werewolf.

Meaning the Russell family werewolf curse is one generation old and is actually demonic possession. Satan himself wants Jack Russell or something.

It’s bad but maybe not spectacularly bad. It’s predictably bad seventies comics. Up until the bull-helmeted Roman spirit soldier from Hell shows up to fight the werewolf.

Alongside that silliness, Jack’s sister, Lissa, has an actually scary arc where she’s trying to get to the priest’s place only the evil spirit has filled the valley with flesh-eating fog. All the human figures are bad, most of the werewolf stuff is bad, but disintegration to skeleton scenes are all good. Too bad they’re not important to the story.

The comic ends on a cliffhanger where they forget how many nights Jack has wolfed out this month. It’s very obviously one, but they say it’s two. Not sure if that gaffe’s Conway or editor Roy Thomas’s fault, but they both have been doing bad work all issue so it’s no surprise.

I knew Werewolf’s art was going to get intolerable eventually (Don Perlin for the win), but I had no idea I’d have to sit through badly inked Ploog. And vapid, pseudo-Christian Satanic panic.

Big sigh.

The Exorcist (1973, William Friedkin), the extended director’s cut

The extended director’s cut of The Exorcist runs ten minutes longer than the theatrical version. The last time I saw the theatrical, I thought the movie needed some more time to figure itself out. Turns out I was wrong. The ten extra minutes just make it sort of tiresome. Like, the third act of the film—with the lengthy actual exorcism sequence—is already a slog without having to slog through to get to it.

The first two acts of The Exorcist is a series of vignettes, intentionally doing a stilted summary. Director Friedkin, cinematography Owen Roizman, editors Evan Lottman and Norman Gay—even screenwriter William Peter Blatty—it’s all for effect. The film oscillates between Hollywood movie star living in Georgetown to film a movie dealing with daughter Linda Blair’s seemingly neurological decline and local priest Jason Miller’s family problems. Miller’s mom is sick and broke and he went to Ivy League schools on the Church’s dime to become a psychologist and it’s not like the Church is going to pay for her health care. Eventually the two storylines converge, with some (delicate) prodding from the script, and the film slowly moves out of summary for the third act.

Except it’s just for the exorcism. And the exorcism is long and boring (I mean, it’s a Catholic service). The film entirely loses momentum, especially since everything else building fizzles in the third act. After being simultaneously under intense focus and ignored, top-billed Ellen Burstyn’s disappearance becomes all the more obvious. It’s no longer about Blair getting better, it’s about Max von Sydow and Miller fighting the evil one.

Also, was it so obvious in the original version when Miller doesn’t mention to von Sydow how the demons possessing Blair requested him—von Sydow—by name? It’s a major plot hole and removes the oomph of von Sydow’s reappearance in the film. The Exorcist opens with a lengthy prologue set in Iraq where priest-archeologist von Sydow gets worked up over some recent relic finds and is overly dramatic about it. It’s long, seemingly pointless, utterly competent and occasionally inspired—kind of a metaphor for the film succeeding it—it’s a distinctive non sequitur of an opening. But when von Sydow comes back–actually coincidentally even though Miller’s heard a tape of Blair’s demons saying the character’s name—the prologue retroactively loses the distinct factor. It’s just a prologue.

Though von Sydow isn’t going to save the day with archeology, he’s going to do it with a good old-fashioned exorcism, which the film’s been building to since the opening titles and amped up with doctor after doctor failing Blair so they’re going to need an Exorcist. It’s inevitable. Though it’d be amazing if they hadn’t tied the threads together and it was just character studies.

Anyway.

The third act’s a wash. The epilogue sort of saves things. The exorcism scene never looks as good as it should. Not the special effects, which are fine (also pea soup is gross) or better, but the visual scheme Friedkin and Roizman go with for the third act. They just don’t crack it. The rest of the movie, they’ve got it down. But inside Burstyn’s house for the battle with the Dark Lord… Friedkin and Roizman don’t have it.

I sort of knew the “extended director’s cut”—director’s definitive cut–wouldn’t actually fix The Exorcist but I didn’t think it’d make it worse.

I was wrong.

Magnum Force (1973, Ted Post)

With forty minutes left in its way too long 124 minute runtime, Magnum Force starts getting real tiresome. The film’s already gone through multiple set pieces, with the Clint Eastwood ones pointless to the narrative but apparently what screenwriters Michael Cimino and John Milius think is character development, while the ones related to the a plot—a cop assassinating San Francisco’s top criminals—somehow even less interesting. After an okay first one, director Post runs out of composition ideas but still pads out the hits.

In the meantime there are the women throwing themselves at Eastwood, which is sort of amusing because he gets to mug charm a bit and Christine White showing sexual agency in a housewife in 1973 is kind of unintentionally progressive (ditto Eastwood’s “gay rights” moment, so long as they shoot well, less the film’s sexualizing women of color, Adele Yoshioka and Margaret Avery, in its “see, they can be objectified too” approach), and then the red herring suspect for the killer cop. All the red herring stuff does is make Eastwood look dumb because it’s obviously not the red herring.

Oh, and then there’s Hal Holbrook. So much Hal Holbrook. Holbrook’s Eastwood’s boss and a flag pin wearing straight edge dweeb who berates Eastwood in front of everyone and cracks jokes about him being a killer then flinches whenever Eastwood looks his way. Far more macho are the motorcycle cops, who end up being the de facto suspects because… well, Milius and Cimino aren’t really very adept at mystery plotting. Especially once the movie starts sharing all the information with the viewer and it’s just Eastwood paying catchup. The motorcycle cops are rookies David Soul, Tim Matheson, Kip Niven, and Robert Urich, and then Eastwood’s old buddy and weathered, drunken veteran Mitchell Ryan. Ryan’s also married to White; it’s obvious why she’s snuggling up to Clint versus Mitch Ryan.

Eastwood’s partner this time is Felton Perry, who’s around to be a positive Black character (i.e. only gets called the n-word by White criminals). Perry’s really likable and pretty good–Magnum Force does not have much in the way of good performances, so Perry’s a bit of a godsend. You at least aren’t sorry when he’s around, which can’t be said for, you know, Holbrook, Matheson, Ryan, or Soul. Soul’s probably the best of the bunch, performance-wise, but it’s such a thin character–with the primetime supporting cast and Post’s pedestrian direction (the car chases are dismal), Magnum Force often feels like the action for a bad TV cop show with some scenes from a poorly written Clint Eastwood vehicle thrown in. But never enough of the Eastwood vehicle; he doesn’t get an arc, unless you count hooking up with Yoshioka—and whatever Post thought lingering on what appears to be Eastwood’s character’s wedding photo (the last movie established he’s a widower) just before he gets slamming with Yoshioka… well, it doesn’t work. Even if it’s supposed to be weird. It’s not lingering enough to be weird. Because weird would be some personality and Magnum Force has zip to offer in that department. Even Lalo Schifrin’s scant score disappoints. And when he uses the original movie’s themes… it just reminds this one is such a downgrade.

Frank Stanley’s photography isn’t bad. The three times Post wants him to do things with focus, Stanley can do them. The rest of the time, it’s all well-lighted, just rather boring Panavision. You’d think the poor composition would be better than Post’s terrible direction of actors—who, to be fair, get lousy dialogue from Cimino and Milius—but the third act convinces, no, actually Post’s bad composition is a bigger problem.

Somehow a shootout on an aircraft carrier is boring. Bravo Ted Post. The bad guy frequently shoots six rounds at nothing, reloads, shoots six more rounds at nothing. It takes until the finish, but I guess being bewilderingly in its badness is better than being mundane in it.

The only other thing of note is a scene where Albert Popwell—returning from Dirty Harry but presumably not playing the same punk who didn’t feel lucky—brutally murders a woman. The movie just pauses and says, “Welp, we need some brutal violence against women in this movie, so let’s make it as garish as possible.”

Doesn’t help Popwell’s victim is one of the film’s only likable characters.

As for Eastwood… it’s not a good vehicle. While his material’s not good, it’s also not atrocious; it’s just he has to play stupid without ever actually acknowledging he’s playing stupid because he’s Clint Eastwood, which only makes it more obvious when he’s not smart enough on the pickup. But he’s kind of barely in it? Eastwood’s love life subplot is about as big his non-main plot cop stuff.

The script’s also got some spoofy laughs in it, like it’s a satire of the original Dirty Harry. But it can’t be because Post’s not good enough for it.

It’s an exhausting, unrewarding two hours and four minutes.

Archie’s Parables (1973)

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Archie’s Parables is Christian comics propaganda from the 1970s and is a great example of why it never would’ve occurred to me to read an Archie comic before, what, 2010 or something. But Parables, courtesy Spire Christian Comics and creator Al Hartley. Though using the word “creator” for Hartley is… a lot. Despite both writing and illustrating Parables, Hartley has a lot of disconnects. Like when medieval Archie and Jughead (mind you, they have some major anachronisms) go dragon-hunting… the dragon seems sympathetic (in the art). So Archie and Jughead are just the thug Christians abusing it.

I mean, okay. Especially since the morale of the story is to run non-Christians out of your neighborhood (Hartley seems like he’d be a great neighbor). And by morale, I mean Hartley takes the time to tell you the morale of the story. To run non-Christians out of your neighborhood.

There’s another one about how reading non-Christian books is bad for you so get a Christian book store. Love how Christian book stores are going out of business in 2020, probably because anyone who read this comic in 1973 forgot how to read and so didn’t teach their kids.

None of the stories—there are six—are particularly standout. The one where Archie and Jughead shoot down balloons standing in for whatever 1973 Christians were freaking out about (guess what, it’s all the same shit as today except the gays because no one publicly attested to gays being people in 1973 so they didn’t have to worry)… it’s funny in a historical context. Though also not because, what, ninety-nine percent of the asshats who read Parables in 1973 have done all they can to make the world a worse place since.

The one where Betty prays hard enough to save Archie from the devil is kind of amusing since the comic’s all about how Veronica is a whore who the boys lust after but Betty’s the wholesome one. But when the devil tries to tempt Archie, it’s with slutty Bettys.

There’s a hilariously bad riff on Jonathan Livingston Seagull (Hartley’s an inordinately atrocious writer, though perfectly mediocre enough art-wise for Archie).

Parables is a definite curiosity, just… probably not worth reading unless you want to see if your eyes are going to stay stuck in your head from all the rolling.

The Three Musketeers (1973, Richard Lester)

The Three Musketeers is so much fun, you barely notice when the film takes a turn in the last thirty or so minutes. The Musketeers are on a mission—they’ve got to deliver a letter to England to save at least one lady’s honor, possibly two—and just as the film reunites them all with the promise of action… it starts shedding them. They get in individual fights or duels, leaving Michael York to go on alone. Well, he brings faithful servant Roy Kinnear along, but Kinnear’s just there for the (very good) laughs. It’s not like he’s going to tell York the important things, like how to get off England since it’s an island.

York’s the film’s protagonist, though George MacDonald Fraser’s script isn’t great about treating him like it once all the “guest stars,” not to mention Raquel Welch’s cleavage (once Welch’s cleavage arrives, it’s all anyone present gives any attention, cast and crew alike), come into the film. York’s D’Artagnan, would-be Musketeer, who happens across a trio of real Musketeers who could always use another partner in literal crime. See, the Musketeers work for the King, meaning they brawl (sword brawl) with the Cardinal’s guards. The film never bothers explaining why there’s the animosity between the groups or why, although loyal to the King (Jean-Pierre Cassel), his Musketeers fight with the Cardinal’s men, even though the King is allied with the Cardinal. Charlton Heston, with what appears to be a fake goatee, is the Cardinal.

Doesn’t matter, the guys in red are bad, the guys in (mostly) black are good. The good guys are Oliver Reed (Athos), Frank Finlay (Porthos), and Richard Chamberlain (Aramis). Reed’s the drunk pensive but heroic one, Finlay’s the vaguely inept dandy, Chamberlain’s the adept dandy as well as the trio’s Don Juan. Chamberlain, we’re told, likes the married ladies. So does York, as Welch is married, and the film gets a lot of laughs out of mocking her cuckold (a fantastic Spike Milligan).

The first half of the film introduces York, the Musketeers, evil (he’s eye-patched so there’s no mistaking it) Christopher Lee, and the political ground situation. See, Cassel is useless fop who’s going to let Heston do whatever Heston wants to do, so long as Heston at least pretends Cassel isn’t a useless fop. The film shot on location—in Spain, not France, but still in palaces and such—so you’re seeing the intrigue play out with these impeccably costumed (Yvonne Blake’s costuming is magnificent) “royals” lounge around palaces and deserve a Revolution more by the minute. It adds a wonderful subtext to the film, which showcases and romances the grand opulence of historical royalty without being able to not show it also as, you know, utterly pointless and a really bad way for society to function. Because the Musketeers are alcoholic gambling addicts who end up stealing from the commoners. Arguably, the Cardinal’s guards are “better” civil servants. Though—again, Fraser doesn’t dwell—the Musketeers are mercenaries between wars; adventurers in the sense drunken carousing is adventuring.

And, arguably, the big mission at the end is against the King, though arguably for France. Musketeers is lightly bawdy adventure comedy for the whole family—though, unless she really, really, really likes Michael York, there’s nothing anywhere near approaching the male gaze equivalent of Raquel Welch—so no dwelling on politics, infidelity (klutzy Welch doesn’t even seem aware her husband might mind being cuckolded), or even its characters. See, one of the things you realize in the finale—besides how, outside a cat fight between Welch and bad lady Faye Dunaway in ball gowns (and what glorious gowns they are), the ball Welch and Dunaway are dressed for, and some solid sight gags, the finale’s action is rather uninspired and unenthusiastic—you also realize the titular Three Musketeers are totally unimportant to the film at this point. York getting the most to do makes sense, but the film goes so far as the make the other Musketeers comic relief. Brief comic relief.

It’d be fine if the sword fights were better, but they’re not. Three Musketeers starts with a gymnastic training sword fight scene between York and his father and then some more nonsense with York (he’s naive to the point of buffoonery, which is rather endearing as York plays it completely—and very Britishly—straight); it takes the film awhile to deliver a great sword fight, but then it does deliver a great one, with Lester’s best action direction, John Victor Smith’s best cuts, but also Dons Challis and Sharpe’s sound editing. Three Musketeers goes from being a “handsome” period piece to a considerable period action picture. And then the fight’s over and it’s back to handsome period piece, funny, active. But once Welch’s cleavage enters the literal frame, Lester and the film’s ambitions for an action picture disappear.

There’s a decent night time sword fight with the opponents using hand lanterns to see, but the finale’s fireworks-lighted long shot swordplay brawl isn’t anything special. The most impressive thing about a grand action picture’s third act shouldn’t be the awesomely ostentatious costume ball costumes but then you also wouldn’t think David Watkin’s photography would be so much better on the ball than the action sequences either. Three Musketeers goes into the third act somewhat soft and never really recovers.

At least solid performances from everyone. It’s hard with Welch because she’s got a lousy role and you almost wish she was bad so she wouldn’t work in the lousy role. But she’s not. She’s not a comedic genius but Lester’s not interested in her performance, he’s interested in her anatomy. York’s a good lead. Reed’s awesome. Chamberlain’s got like six lines. Finlay’s good. Supporting cast… Milligan and Kinnear are great, Cassel’s fine, Lee’s great, Dunaway’s okay (again, crappy part), Heston’s tolerable.

Of course, I’ve skipped mentioning the subplot about French Queen Geraldine Chaplin and British prime minister Simon Ward, somewhat unintentionally, but suffice to say, it’s an important subplot and both actors are good. Even if theirs is the far more interesting story than anything else going on in the picture. Especially the Welch cuckolding Milligan subplot, which is sometimes hilarious, usually funny, but not interesting. It’s cheap laughs. Chaplin and Ward… Fraser and Lester could’ve done something. They do not. Nice roles for both actors though. Thin but nice.

The Three Musketeers is glorious, gorgeous adventure. It has the pieces to be better but not the ambition. It’s easy; sometimes easy is good enough.

This post is part of the Costume Drama Blogathon hosted by Debbie of Moon in Gemini.