All Rise (2019) s03e02 – The Game

I’m just going to assume the first OWN episode of “All Rise” was some kind of “new network” pilot. Because this episode’s not just a lot better, it doesn’t even feel like that episode. Maybe because there’s not constant, overblown music. But also… Wilson Bethel’s got a goatee in this episode, and Simone Missick’s hair’s different; it feels like the first real episode after a pilot. And it’s in better shape, thank goodness.

The show’s leaning into humor and heart. The case is a severe one—star hockey player Zane Holtz and Instagram influencer Olivia Rose Keegan were having consensual rough sex, and then he assaulted her. There’s not a lot of opportunity for lightness, so the episode goes front-heavy with the humor beats. During the actual trial, the show relies on young assistant D.A. Ronak Gandhi for the relief. It’s not exactly comic relief, but Gandhi’s an affable character. He’s a millennial wunderkind ADA who thinks Bethel’s (professionally) incredible and surprised to discover the courtroom is one big friends group.

Keegan’s good, Holtz’s scary, but there’s a disconnect when it comes to Lindsey Gort. She’s defending Holtz against fiancé Bethel, while Samantha Marie Ware is mortified at what defense attorneys do. Gort acts like it’s nothing, humanizing her through Bethel later on. But it’s impossible to blame her—it’s the script. Credited to Gina Gold and Aurorae Khoo, it directly raises questions from Ware to Gort, then ignores them all, but with Gort doing all the avoiding.

It’s a strange oversight, especially when so much of the rest of the episode is about professional… well, development. J. Alex Brinson and Bethel talk professional talk, Brinson talks professional talk with Jessica Camacho (also romance subplot check-in but some professional talk), Missick gets to talk with other judge Patricia Rae; lots of shop talk for everyone. But Ware’s left hanging.

Camacho’s whole plot line in this episode is professional too. She’s trying to get her holistic law practice going. It’s a fairly good setup for a season arc for her. More immediately, Missick’s got a professional subplot of her own with her assistant, Ruthie Ann Miles, throwing a wrench in their friendship. So it’s a whole bunch of professional storylines.

But not Gort. It keeps the character one note. Defining her through Bethel’s even worse.

It’s mostly a good episode. Bethel shares space with Gandhi well—he’s very complementary to the guest star—but he doesn’t get anything much of his own. Missick’s got some decent moments, but the Miles subplot feels (not otherwise unsuccessfully) shoehorned in. Camacho’s got the best arc.

Lindsay Mendez also has some good moments; she’s Keegan’s victim’s rights advocate.

It’s a little breezy at times, but the show at least feels like “All Rise” again and not some weird restaged version with the same cast.

The Staircase (2022) s01e06 – Red in Tooth and Claw

If someone wanted to take the time—and I’m not suggesting it—analyzing “The Staircase” ’s moving thesis about subject Michael Peterson (Colin Firth in his future Emmy-winning performance, not undeservedly) as the series progresses might be interesting. This episode’s where the show wants viewers to feel bad for ever thinking Firth could’ve killed Toni Collette, even as it continues to reveal his petty, malicious parenting style, particularly to his adopted daughters. Just because Firth’s an asshole doesn’t make him a murderer; also, we spent four episodes trying real hard to convince you not to trust him.

This episode might be the first where no one calls Firth a liar, though son Dale DeHaan does talk about his untrustworthy nature. He and Patrick Schwarzenegger are having a chat in flashback about Firth cheating on first mom Trini Alvarado (who was delightful and isn’t back) with Collette, then hitting Alvarado up for money ever since. We also find out he wanted to give away one of the adopted daughters for having panic attacks.

Of course, since the show’s now through Juliette Binoche’s intrepid documentary editor turned freedom fighter’s perspective, Firth’s a tragic hero. It’s tonally all over the place; the show missed an opportunity to style Binoche after Joan of Arc, as she gives up her own life to save Firth’s while his family’s off doing their things. Lots of reveals in the various family visits to Firth in prison, with that part of the story taking place just after he’s lost his third appeal.

And it turns out Michael Stuhlbarg, in a competent but utterly phoned-in performance (it’s also the writing), wasn’t willing to do a lot of old-age makeup, so I think part of his beard gets grayer. Not sure he’s committed enough for an Emmy.

The main plot is Binoche and neighbor Joel McKinnon Miller coming up with the most likely, although most absurd sounding, explanation for Collette’s death. It’s a “stranger than fiction” solution and reasonably well-executed, but once they introduce the idea, it’s obvious it will pan out. Moreover, the close-to-present material—Firth about to plead manslaughter and get out on time served in 2017—heavily implies it.

Though, given it’s “The Staircase,” I suppose it could be another red herring. I’m not sure how they’re going to get another two episodes out of the story. I guess I could Google, but no.

The episode’s script credit is Emily Kaczmarek, who co-wrote one of the better previous episodes, so I’m guessing it’s her co-writer. Leigh Janiak directs. At least it’s not Antonio Campos. The most amusing manipulation bit this episode, other than the entire 2017 framing, is how the show wants to demonize Schwarzenegger and DeHaan simultaneously to juxtapose redemptions, but it’s set five years apart. DeHaan used to be a cheater but got his act together after dad Firth went to prison. Schwarzenegger… used to be a more functional alcoholic than after his dad went to prison and is now struggling.

Collette gets a slightly demonizing flashback subplot about being shitty to sister Rosemarie DeWitt on Thanksgiving. It’s notable primarily because it’s the only time the show’s been disparaging of Collette’s character, but also because I’d forgotten DeWitt was even on the show, she’s so immaterial to it. It’d be nice if prestige shows cared about the finished product as much as the casting announcements.

The Staircase (2022) s01e05 – The Beating Heart

So, the present action of “The Staircase”—minus Colin Firth flashing back to being a kid with a shitty dad so he could grow into a shitty dad himself—starts in fall 2001 and goes to 2017. This episode begins in 2004 when Firth’s character has been in prison for six months. Meaning the trial took more than a year. The show did a terrible job with the passage of time on it; it’s possibly the worst thing the show’s done, and it’s had some lows.

Amusingly, the kids get together in this episode and talk about the awkward passage of time; how it hasn’t been so long. Sophie Turner once again has to acknowledge neither Patrick Schwarzenegger nor Dane DeHaan care that Toni Collette is dead; the real question is, are Firth and sons sociopaths or just narcissists. If it were a better show, I’d say the time acknowledgment was intentional.

It is not a better show.

Though this episode’s definitely one of the stronger ones, again with a script credit to Craig Shilowich, whose episodes have been much better than show creator Antonio Campos. Who also doesn’t direct (he did the previous episodes); instead, it’s Leigh Janiak. So maybe less Campos means better “Staircase.”

Besides the kids selling off the house to pay for Firth’s appeals, the documentarians are the significant subplot. Producer Frank Feys wants the documentary to accurately represent the trial from the jury’s perspective; editor Juliette Binoche (who’s having her letter-writing friendship with Firth now) and director Vincent Vermignon want to emphasize Firth’s possible innocence. As a result, there are numerous pointless scenes about it, setting up Feys as an asshole.

Not sure a show entirely based on manipulative storytelling should get meta about manipulative storytelling.

Firth in prison is the main “present-day” plot. He’s in somewhat constant danger and more sympathetic than ever, since he’s got Neo-Nazi meth heads out to kill him. He also confirms he voted for Gore (meaning he’s not racist), which they could’ve established earlier.

Speaking of elections and manipulative storytelling, the episode reveals Firth lost his mayoral election in a landslide, making the first episode’s implication the establishment framed him because he was pushing them out a little much. Never look back, I guess.

In that vein, Toni Collette’s flashbacks are all about Firth being a piece of shit to Turner and nothing about the bats. They have a dinner party scene where he’s a controlling prick, but more interesting, it introduces friends who never appear again.

It’s scary this episode’s so much better than usual. It’s also got the least Michael Stuhlbarg; correlation doesn’t mean causation, but… it’s got the least Stuhlbarg.

Probably Firth’s best acting in the series. He’s outstanding.

And DeHaan finally gets some material, and he’s not very good; not sure why I was expecting him to be any good. But, then again, the material’s wanting.

Whatever.

Miss Fisher’s Murder Mysteries (2012) s01e09 – Queen of the Flowers

It’s a very intense episode. Miss Fisher (Essie Davis) is mentoring a group of underprivileged girls for a pageant and they’re the mystery, so they’re the ones in danger. It’s the first time “Miss Fisher’s” has really done the child or youth in grave danger thing and it’s a lot. Both because the story behind the threat is… not unpredictable but nonetheless upsetting and because Davis’s ward, Ruby Rees, is one of the girls but isn’t directly connected with the main plot, yet she too ends up in danger. It’s like the show saved up all this kind of tension and unleashed it here.

The episode opens with a dead girl in the water at the beach, undiscovered. Turns out it’s one of Davis’s proteges—in addition to Rees, she’s got klepto Eva Lazzaro, pyromaniac rich girl Taylor Ferguson, and then victim Zoë Amanda Wilson. And Davis gets to be intimately involved in the investigation right away—Nathan Page is quick to point out she’s going to be a lot more effective interviewing “wayward teenage girls” than he will be alone.

The investigation leads to Ferguson’s weird living situation with reclusive wealthy, drunkard grandfather Terry Norris—Davis took Ferguson on as a favor to him—where they find out Wilson was a former maid, something Ferguson forgot to mention. So she’s immediately suspicious, but then there’s also Ben Schumann. Schumann’s the nephew of mayor Andrew S. Gilbert and, despite (or because of) his flippant attitude, has got some secrets. Davis has an amazing scene where she dresses Schumann down for the subterfuge. Seeing Davis—and Phryne—around the impressionable youths is outstanding. There’s a whole role model thing going on, as Davis assumes that role, throwing aside the traditional gender role she’s supposed to be teaching the girls, who are already going through things those propriety lessons aren’t going to help.

Hence, a judo lesson at one point, which surprises constable Hugo Johnstone-Burt but not detective Page.

Rees’s story is entirely different, with her newfound celebrity—they make the society page in the newspaper—drawing mom Danielle Cormack out of the woodwork. Turns out Davis was never able to adopt Rees because they couldn’t confirm Cormack’s fate. With her back, it’s unclear what’s going to become of Rees; Davis has one idea, Cormack another, and neither are quick to consult Rees.

Really good stuff with Cormack and Rees. Really hard, really good. The episode does a phenomenal job not leading with the exposition on how things are done in 1920s Australia, instead letting the characters lead and filling in with exposition later, if needed. Like when Ashleigh Cummings getting caught up on the goings-on. It’s expository, yes, but it also is character development for Cummings, who’s unprepared for Rees’s possible departure.

Screenwriters Jo Martino and Deb Cox do a particularly excellent job with that arc for Cummings, since Rees hasn’t really been around a lot in the show. The script goes a long way in establishing Rees and Cummings’s friendship, which was offscreen.

As usual, excellent episode. And breaks all those rules I thought the show had.

Also… no Phryne Fellow. Would’ve been inappropriate. But it’s the first episode without one.

Miss Fisher’s Murder Mysteries (2012) s01e07 – Murder in Montparnasse

So this episode takes everything I said—based on the last two—was needed to make a great “Miss Fisher’s.” Turns out I’m completely wrong, because Murder in Montparnasse doesn’t just break (most) of my rules, it breaks my bigger, obvious rules for melodramatic plotting. It ties together two seemingly disparate subplots and does it as a plot twist. The episode keeps necessary information from the viewer; it’s not so much a trick, but definitely… in the cheaper aisle as far as narrative devices go.

This episode opens with one of communist cabbie and Fisher Crew member Travis McMahon’s friend getting intentionally run over. Cop Nathan Page doesn’t take it particularly seriously, leading McMahon to “hiring” Essie Davis to look into it. The investigation involves a bookie, Hector Chambers, who welshed on a bet to McMahon and his friend; he’s got an alibi—involving his car being stolen—and Page can’t quite believe he’d set up a hit using his own car.

Once there are shootouts in the streets, however… it gets Page’s attention, leading to a sting operation where he has to make a big sacrifice to protect everyone involved. Mostly Davis. Great stuff.

But the investigation isn’t even the biggest plot of the episode; it’s more about Davis’s old friend from post-WWI Paris, Linda Cropper, coming to visit. Cropper was married to a painter, who’d used Davis as a model—and tragically died—and so there’s a lot of history between the two.

When someone breaks in and steals one of the paintings (Stately Fisher Manor needs better locks, really does), Davis has to deal with the present day intrigue as the episode throws in flashbacks revealing more of the history. And revelations about ex-lover Peter O'Brien.

There’s a lot of humor—in the first half of the episode more—like when Davis teases constable Hugo Johnstone-Burt about his die-cast toy cars. And then Davis’s sidekick, Ashleigh Cummings, and butler, Richard Bligh, have a nice subplot about Cummings dealing with her disapproving Catholic priest (beau Johnstone-Burt is a Protestant, after all).

So the episode does history, it does Davis having a major tie to the mystery, it does lots of cast and it all works out beautifully. It’s a character development episode for Davis, with some big moves for Page too.

Just great.

A Safe Place (1971, Henry Jaglom)

A Safe Place tracks the relationship of apparently financially secure but listless hippie Tuesday Weld and her square of a new boyfriend, Phil Proctor. Weld spends her time presumably stoned—though we don’t see her smoke, her friends are always rolling a joint or smoking one—and dwelling on the past. She can’t get over the lack of magic in the world today (today being 1971); there’s a great segment on how exchange names on telephone numbers were special while numbers are not. At times it feels like Safe Place can’t possibly have been tightly scripted but then other times feels like it must’ve been. The actors do a great job drifting between the two feelings, particularly Weld, Jack Nicholson, and Gwen Welles. Though Nicholson it’s a little different; he always makes it feel spontaneous, in which case extra kudos to Weld for not reacting.

Nicholson shows up at near the beginning of the film but we don’t have any real context for him, though it’s clear he’s a romantic interest for Weld, presumably one in her past. Despite Proctor’s constant pursuit of Weld, they never spark, especially since Proctor can never shut up. Weld wants things quiet so she can drift into her imagined past, to when she was a kid and would watch the magician across the street in the park. Orson Welles plays the magician. He never feels scripted, which is fine, it’s Orson Welles doing a bountiful performance complete with an Eastern European accent. He goes so big, relishing in it so much, you can’t quibble with any of it. The one real trick he’s always wanted to be able to perform is making something disappear. He takes Weld to the zoo and tries it out on the animals, which leads to some amazing moments.

Both Welleses, Orson and Gwen, are establishing tone for Weld to later interact with; the Orson Welles at the zoo stuff is a fun, carefree tone, while Gwen Welles has a phenomenally despondent monologue about being objectified and dehumanized living in 1971 New York. That monologue, which director Jaglom gives a showcase like nothing else in the film gets, not even Nicholson when he shows up proper, needs to be there to fully establish Weld’s ground situation too. She’d never have a monologue like it, it’d be out of character, but her experiences are clearly similar.

Once it becomes clear how the film “works,” how it moves from Weld to her imagined past, when the film’s following Weld there in her mind and when the film’s just going there—Weld’s the lead but not the protagonist, she’s the subject, with Proctor ending up being somewhat closer to a traditional protagonist role but only because he’s takes a lot of action. Or threatens to take action. He’s kind of exhausting in how much action he takes, which gives the film this wonderful sense of empathy for Weld even as she’s (ostensibly) inexplicable. Proctor’s a lot. Clearly he’s a lot.

Jaglom establishes the ebb and flow of the timeline visually, through editing, composition, and direction. Weld frequently looks directly into the camera, watching the world around her unfold. Jaglom also will shoot the Welleses straight on, but for different effect. With Gwen Welles, the eyes mesmerize against her story, offering the viewer a chance to examine her in this bare moment. Orson Welles it’s sometimes for humor, sometimes for magic. Except we already know it’s not real magic but is it something nefarious or just mirthful chicanery. It’s always hard to tell because while everyone exists in the same spaces—mostly around Central Park Lake, or at Weld’s apartment (or on its roof), Orson Welles doesn’t interact with anyone but Weld. The first act has a lot of cuts establishing how he’s been there but isn’t there but is there. He’s there when Weld needs him, but he’s not entirely dependent on her.

Gwen Welles, Proctor, Nicholson, they all interact in one way or another. Proctor’s in the room during the Gwen Welles monologue; his attendance of it is apparently around the time Weld gives up and just lets him in. Some time later, when Nicholson enters the action proper, it’s after Proctor has moved himself into Weld’s apartment and has assumed a male authority figure role, but not one Weld or anyone else takes seriously.

It’s all very intricate, very complex, entirely established and explored through anti-sensical conversations, camera movement, and editing, everything tied together with selections from the Columbia Records songbook playing in the background—Weld’s got a jukebox in her apartment, presumably filled with them, including some fantastic French language cover versions.

Phenomenal photography from Richard C. Kratina—even if you can’t get onboard Safe Place’s jumbled narrative (which still ends up being way too epical), the photography alone can keep interest. Then there’s Pieter Bergema’s editing, which is somehow even more exquisite than the photography.

Weld’s good, Nicholson’s good, Proctor’s okay. The Welleses are good, though Gwen’s better and has a lot more work to do. Jaglom’s direction is aces.

A Safe Place is a qualified success—the third act is way too obvious and Proctor, both in terms of performance and character in the film, isn’t enough—and some absolutely exquisite filmmaking.

Superstore (2015) s01e02 – Magazine Profile

Two months have passed since the previous episode—based on how long new guy Ben Feldman has been at the store and he’s gotten a settled in. During those two months he’s apparently chilled on the America Ferrera romantic interest, or—more likely—the writers realized they were rushing that plot line. Assistant manager Lauren Ash is still making googly eyes at a mostly unaware, occasionally confused Feldman however, because it gets laughs.

And letting Ferrera and Feldman actually develop chemistry is a good move; it doesn’t come up much in the episode, which has Feldman getting involved with “reporter” Eliza Coupe during her trip to the store. Quotation marks because Coupe writes for the chain’s corporate magazine, which has some hilariously odious practices.

Of course, Coupe shouldn’t be focusing on Feldman but store manager Mark McKinney, who’s a lot more sympathetic this episode than in the pilot—and no longer has gray hair, so something else happened during the two month window.

Ferrera’s time is mostly spent trying to get McKinney ready for reporter Coupe; her visit frames the episode, leading up to Ash discovering Coupe and Feldman locking lips, which leads to a really funny emergency staff meeting—though it’s unclear who gets to go to staff meetings (regular cast and supporting actors with lines) during the middle of business hours—where Ash has to have a hard talk with everyone about inappropriate sexual workplace behaviors.

The episode’s got two subplots. The first is for Colton Dunn, who doesn’t want to end up on the magazine cover… seeing as how he’s both in a wheelchair and Black, it’s not like photographer Josh Fadem (who’s wonderfully slimy) will be able to resist exploiting the combination. It’s really funny. Dunn’s great.

The other subplot is about pregnant teenager Nichole Bloom (who doesn’t look like she’s in still in high school) trying to get jackass, dimwit white boy rapper baby daddy Johnny Pemberton to record a jingle for the store. It turns out in the end, when they present the jingle to Coupe, they’re a lot better playing off people as a couple than playing off each other. It’s fine but it’s not on par with the rest of the episode, which solidly juggles laughs and heart.

Tea Party (1965, Charles Jarrott)

Tea Party opens with Vivien Merchant getting a job at a toilet bowl company. The second or third shot of Party is a toilet on display. Strikingly weird without the context; director Jarrott and editor Raoul Sobel are enthusiastic about the visual possibilities without really being any good at them. It’s the medium; Tea Party is a mid-sixties television play, shot on video; there’s only so much anyone’s going to be able to do with it, visually. And Jarrott and Sobel try. Jarrott’s better at the… visual montage than at the shot composition, which brings us back to Merchant and the beginning of Party.

She’s going to be secretary to the self-made, king of the British bidet Leo McKern. Best toilets and such in the country. The interview goes well until McKern starts asking about Merchant’s old job and she reluctantly tells him about her handsy old boss. McKern drags it out of her, then condemns such behavior. It’s weird because Jarrott’s male gaze is overt in the scene. Merchant’s legs get distracting because you’re trying to see past them after a while. Jarrott’s got to make it real clear; after this awkward start, Party’s frankness will become one of its assets. The frankness also helps inform the performances. Tea Party, at its best, is a symbiotic success—the writing, the acting, the production (if not the direction itself). But at the beginning it’s weird.

Especially since McKern is getting married the next day to Jennifer Wright, who’s way too young and pretty for portly blowhard McKern. But damn if McKern hasn’t convinced himself he’s Wright’s dream guy; him begging her for validation on their wedding night is rending, alternately making him sympathetic for asking bit her not for lying to him. It means you can’t trust Wright and not just because of her creepy brother (Charles Gray) who only showed up before the wedding and has inserted himself in their lives. McKern seems perturbed by it, so hires Gray, but then Wright just goes to work for Gray. So some possible sympathy for McKern; especially since he’s got these little shit twin sons, Peter Bartlett and Robert Bartlett, who are weird but because McKern’s got to be a weird dad. But also the twin thing.

Only once Wright starts working for Gray, McKern starts getting wild for Merchant. Like… sniffing her office chair level. It’s a gross turn and really informs how the narrative distance should be taken. It’s just the medium… Pinter and Jarrott are keeping you away for a reason.

It takes Merchant a while to realize what’s up, but then she starts playing along. We get no insight into her as a character because… Pinter writes her like a cartoon. She prances around the office, swishing at McKern. Is it intentional or passive? Is it just the sixties secretary or is Merchant doing it with agency? Pinter goes on to raise a few questions, seemingly without any intention of answering them because answering them would give the supporting characters too much depth. It’s all about McKern and his descent into jealous horniness. It makes him see spots. For a moment it seems like fellow old (and optometrist) John Le Mesurier is going to have a real talk with McKern, which seems like it’d be great, but Pinter goes another way and whatever he comes up with isn’t great. It’s fine, but not great.

Like the ending, when they bring it all together for—well, for a Tea Party. It’s a pragmatic conclusion but relies entirely on Jarrott’s direction instead of anyone’s acting. He and editor Sobel try a lot with Tea Party, but very rarely actually succeed. They’re not up for the task at the finish.

Quite strong performances from McKern, Merchant, Gray. Le Mesurier’s good. Wright gets an incomplete but because of the script. You keep expecting the Bartlett brothers to stand at the end of a hall, holding hands, telling McKern to come play with them. They’re Party’s greatest potential. Their perspective on the whole thing would’ve given a lot more possibilities.

Instead, it’s a tad blah. Especially when you consider it copped out on its more interesting implications.

The Swindlers (2017, Jang Chang-won)

The Swindlers is all about being all about the con movie. No one in the film is meant to be trusted, though some of the characters are more sympathetic than others. The film is full of twists—the titular Swindlers aren’t a well-functioning unit, but a collection of blackmailed con artists and their corrupt district attorney boss—so someone is always either about to screw over someone else or has just gotten screwed over. How much screwing over everyone can take… well, the characters are meant to end up on a collision course. The sandbox they’re in is so small it’s inevitable, though sometimes for unrevealed reasons.

Those reveals aren’t exactly surprising, because the film invites an examination of its subterfuge; without the fun of unravelling the cons, The Swindlers wouldn’t work. More than not working, it wouldn’t exist. Writer and director Jang is very directly out to entertain, ditto his cast.

The film opens in flashback. South Koreans have just fallen victim, en masse, to a Ponzi scheme. The perpetrator escapes, with millions. Jang moves between various victims (and various kinds of victims) before settling on ostensible lead Bin Hyun. Bin’s a small-time crook, son to a world-class forger; turns out dad (Jung Jin-young) is also involved with the Ponzi guy. Bin gets a little bit of character development, mostly reactionary, then the movie jumps ahead to the present. And Bin disappears.

Instead, the film follows con artists Im Jin-ah, Ahn Se-ha, and Bae Seong-woo. Im is the gorgeous con woman who apparently likes jewelry (none of the three get any actual character details after their first two scenes). Ahn is the computer guy. Bae is the straight man. Yu Ji-tae is their boss, a corrupt district attorney who’s on a mission to shutdown the Ponzi schemer’s collaborators. Sometimes he uses his team of con artists, sometimes he uses the cops and his staff, sometimes he uses a street gang he’s also blackmailing. The film never really pauses to dwell on Yu’s villainy. But it’s considerable, especially as the film progresses, as he adds greed to his list of sins. Once hundreds of millions of won are in play, Yu becomes even less trustworthy.

Of course, the alternative is to trust Bin, who eventually aligns himself with Yu and team to take out the Ponzi schemer, who’s too smart to come back to Korea so instead he sends straight-edge stooge Park Sung-woong. Im ends up with the job of gaining Park’s trust, leading to some rather amusing sequences. Park and Im work well off each other; no one else in the film really has the opportunity to work up any rapport. So it’s nice they’re so good together.

Though it’s never clear how Ahn and Im, in particular, operate in such a dangerous world. Bae’s a brute and Bin and Yu are dueling masterminds, but Ahn and Im are kind of just nice people. Sure, they’re con artists, but they lack the temperament for all the potentially perilous situations they’re in.

Again, Jung doesn’t really care. He just wants Swindlers to amuse and he succeeds. Ahn and Im are both perfectly good. Bae’s good. Bin’s really likable. Choi Duk-moon’s hilarious as one of the marks. Yu’s not likable, but he’s a pleasant bad guy to follow around. He’s always got to be on guard with his team, which somehow gets him some sympathy. For as long as the movie needs it before things get more intense, once the money score aspect of it gets introduced. Because everyone’s got a different agenda they’re trying to achieve.

Because if they didn’t, they wouldn’t be Swindlers.

The film’s technically solid. Jang’s not a great director by any measure, but he’s competent at directing the actors through the various plot twists. Their general likability makes it work. Nice editing. The music is a little much but composer Bang Jun-seok seems to understand the film needs help and goes all out to provide it. If Jang were a better director, the music would be way too much. But its enthusiasm is good, given the circumstances.

The Swindlers is slight. It’s also consistently amusing and has a great pace. It’s cute. Not in a pejorative sense at all, but like many of its cast members (Bin, Im, Ahn, Park), it’s just cute.

Peanuts (1965) s01e27 – It’s Flashbeagle, Charlie Brown

It’s Flashbeagle, Charlie Brown has to be seen to be believed… but also doesn’t need to be seen at all. The special is a Peanuts-riff on… Flashdance. Like, Snoopy saw Flashdance and has become inspired to go out dancing until dawn every night. Meanwhile the Peanuts kids are into dancing now too. Though their dancing is themed–i.e. Peppermint Patty leads an aerobics dance, which makes sense, Charlie Brown leads a hoedown, which doesn’t, Lucy does a “Lucy Says” directional song… set to Hey Ricky. It’s all very, very, very weird.

But also not particularly good. There are a few funny bits–but there’s not a lot of story; the kids have a dance party and Snoopy and Woodstock are messing around with the punch. Only Charlie Brown (Brett Johnson) sees what’s happening. It’s funny. It’s also nowhere near enough to make Flashbeagle anything more than an oddity.

Bill Melendez and Sam Jaimes’s direction is fine. On the non-musical number parts, it’s downright good. And while the musical numbers are extravagantly produced and well-animated, they don’t dazzle. The original songs are synth-poppy, which gets annoying fast. I suppose the special’s also of interest because it shows a lot of adults (out clubbing, before they step aside so Snoopy can get down to his theme song… which kids listen to on boomboxes at one point).

It’s weird. Flashbeagle is very weird.

Not weird enough to be worth a look though. The acting is fine. Johnson’s not particularly impressive as Charlie Brown, but Fergie’s good as Sally. Gini Holtzman is an all right Peppermint Patty, even if her song is astoundingly obnoxious.

Somehow Fleshbeagle itself isn’t obnoxious. Just… strange.