The Moon (2023, Kim Yong-hwa)

The Moon runs about two hours, but it’s got enough story for eight. About the only way to tell all the story it’s got overflowing would be a miniseries remake. And even then, you could probably toss on another couple of episodes to even it all out.

The film concerns South Korea’s second attempt at a moon landing. Their first attempt blew up five years before this one. Moon takes place in 2029, so the first attempt was 2024. It doesn’t so much take place in the near future as the immediate future and then the very near future. Except, for all the truthiness of Moon, there isn’t any. Korea’s doing a solo moon mission because they want to take all the water out of the moon (we’ve discovered there’s probably water under the surface, and whoever controls the water controls the spice). The United States and all the other English-speaking countries with white people have teamed up to share the moon–no word on anyone else.

The U.S.-led group also has a space station orbiting the moon at all times. It has landers on it so they can go down and do a Tom Hanks-inspired skip and sing whenever they want, but Moon almost immediately establishes no one has walked on the moon since the seventies. This new mission is going to be the first time since then. Actually, wait, it might be possible only Americans have walked on the moon, including since the seventies, which means they don’t let the other astronauts on the lunar space station go walking on the moon because Americans are dicks.

Americans are dicks is another of Moon’s subplots, it turns out. See–and buckle in–disgraced Korean Astronautics and Space Center (NASC) flight director Sol Kyung-gu, who oversaw the previous tragic mission, is back because he designed the control module, and they need him. His ex-wife (Kim Hee-ae) dumped him, moved to the United States, renounced her Korean heritage, married a white dude to raise her son with her, and became the head of NASA. Lots of Moon involves Kim telling Sol to shove it whenever they need help.

Now, there’s the subtext about South Korea wanting to strip-mine the moon and not share with anyone else, especially Kim. It’s bizarre. The geopolitical implications are all very, very strange.

But Moon doesn’t get into any of them. Not when it’s also got one of the astronauts–Do Kyung-soo–vastly unqualified for the mission. It turns out his dad (Lee Sung-min in a not-tiny but always silent cameo) was Sol’s partner on the previous mission, and when it went bad, Lee was the one who killed himself in disgrace. Another big thing about The Moon–basically all of the Korean guys in authority positions imply they frequently consider suicide instead of having to apologize or be uncomfortable. It’s so much.

But also Sol and Do don’t know they’re working together. And they have so many secrets from one another.

Presumably, Do has another secret, which somehow the film felt the need to cut–he’s supposed to be an elite ROK Navy SEAL, except he’s terrible under pressure and spends all his time not under pressure panicking about being under pressure. The other astronauts–who disobey orders and kick ass because they’re astronauts, bro–make fun of him for being such a worry wart.

There’s also Sol’s sidekick, Hong Seung-hee, taking up screen time because they wanted an ingenuine (at one point, she and Do seem like they’re going to have a long-distance connection, but it’s actually nothing, which is weird). Oh, and new KASC political appointee Jo Han-chul is freaking out about everything because he wanted an easy government job without any responsibility.

See, it could easily go eight episodes. I haven’t even gotten into the constant terror everyone finds themselves in once things start going wrong.

Not talking about what goes wrong isn’t necessarily a “no spoilers” decision, either. The Moon’s a science and technology thriller a la Apollo 13 but since it’s based in a poorly thought-out reality (courtesy director Kim’s script) and doesn’t pretend to know any of the engineering whatsoever… it’s just a bunch of words and visuals out of other movies. The special effects are great, no complaints in that department, but they’re just showing various, pre-existing visual tropes.

In all, Moon’s not original (though letting melodrama knock a science thriller off course so much isn’t common), but it’s usually compelling. Do’s not good, but he’s sympathetic. It’d have helped if they revealed he’d faked his way onto the mission, just so the KASC astronauts don’t seem incompetent. Sol’s fine, but there’s not a part there. The rest of the supporting cast is solid–Jo’s a lot of fun, always in the background.

The Moon’s a very tense, simultaneously bloated and thin special effects extravaganza. The only thing missing is the human drama, making it a phenomenal contrast between that genre and melodrama.

The Scarlet Letter (1934, Robert G. Vignola)

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

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

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

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

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

Anyway.

Walthall.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Good Bye, Lenin! (2003, Wolfgang Becker)

Somewhere near the end of the second act, Good Bye Lenin! starts having some narration problems. At first they seem like a little bit too lazy writing or, given Lenin has five screenwriters, a too many hands situation. There’s just a disconnect between protagonist and narrator Daniel Brühl’s experience and what the film’s doing. Then, as Lenin enters its muddled third act, it’s clear the disconnect is either by design—which seems unlikely unless the point is to make Brühl into a narcissist—or director Becker missed the boat.

Lenin doesn’t just ignore the most interesting points it raises—with some optics because they’re all for the ladies and despite the movie being about Brühl being an exceptional mama’s boy—it doesn’t even do right by Brühl. Ostensibly, the film’s about listless East German young adult Brühl’s complicated history with reunification; his mom, played by Katrin Sass, who the film manages to diss, showcase-wise, which is incredible given she’s in it all the time–she was a Party member who spent her life spreading the good word and then she was in a heart attack-induced coma when the Wall fell.

When she wakes up, the doctors tell Brühl she can’t handle any excitement, which he takes to mean he’s got to lie about the Wall falling to keep her alive. So it’s a bunch of hijinks. Eventually it gets real, with Brühl and sister Maria Simon learning maybe mama Sass told them some lies too. And then it flushes all the real for more hijinks, including Brühl’s romance with nurse Chulpan Khamatova. Khamatova has a “subplot” about having problems with Brühl’s elaborate scheme to lie to Sass, but it’s really just a scene and the end of even the pretense of agency. Sass doesn’t get a name in the credits—she does in the film, but she’s just mama in the credits—and despite the female characters outweighing the male, the film doesn’t even try to beat Bechdel. Even when it’s not about Brühl, Becker’s there to make sure it’s not about anyone else in the meantime.

When it seems like Lenin’s about Brühl’s experience with the Wall falling, it’s good. When it seems like it’s about Brühl and Simon’s family secrets drama, it’s better. When it’s about Brühl gaslighting Sass? It’s always running out of steam. Especially once everyone starts calling Brühl on the gag going on too long, only then the gag just keeps going on too long. There’s also the subtext about Brühl—and many of the former East Germans—wishing things would go back to the way they used to be. Not everyone wants to drink the literal Coca-Cola.

Lenin does zilch with it.

Sass is great. Simon’s really good. Florian Lukas is adorable as Brühl’s buddy, who helps him make fake newscasts for Sass’s benefit. That subplot’s a double-edged sword once Lukas’s video production techniques become more interesting than the main plot.

Brühl’s fine. He doesn’t have a character arc. He doesn’t learn anything. Taking those considerations into account, he’s fine.

Good supporting turn from Burghart Klaußner, who the movie positions like a deus ex machina, but then ends up just being background.

Good Bye Lenin! ought to be a lot better. It does Sass incredibly wrong, and doesn’t do Simon or Brühl any favors. Maybe they needed a sixth screenwriter.

Room Service (1938, William A. Seiter)

Room Service appears—well, sounds like—it sounds like it ends with Groucho Marx singing along to a spiritual in a stage play and breaking into occasional mimicry of a Black woman singing. For no reason. Like there was a subplot about a racist parrot they cut from the movie (it runs seventy-eight minutes, so it’s not impossible). But, no. It’s just this weird, shitty moment, which kicks Service square in the nuts.

Without that moment, I’d describe Room Service as middling, but—wait for it—inoffensive Marx Brothers. We’re in the era where Zeppo’s retired, Groucho’s checked out, Chico’s fifty-fifty, and Harpo’s seventy-thirty, but the direction’s bringing him down. Visibly.

The Brothers will get into a bit throughout the film, and director Seiter won’t showcase it. It’s like he’s resentful at his stars… all of them. I’m not sure Lucille Ball gets more than one close-up. She just sort of walks in and out of scenes, providing cleric support and reminding everyone Groucho’s dating a hottie. It’s too bad because she and Groucho have enough chemistry; it’d have been fun to see her around more. Room Service did not start its life as a Marx Brothers play, so the archetypes are a little off. Screenwriter Morrie Ryskind is more successful with some adaptations than others. Groucho’s the least successful.

Anyway.

The bad guy in the movie is Donald MacBride. He’s the company man from corporate (hotel corporate) who’s in town to throw the Marx Brothers out for being deadbeats. MacBride originated the role on Broadway, which is kind of a surprise since MacBride’s the one who knows where the camera’s supposed to be, and Seiter doesn’t. MacBride does whole scenes acting in a non-existent covering shot. Or maybe all that footage got lost. Maybe it had the racist parrot on the same reel, and someone smart burned it before it got to the editing room.

It’s not in the IMDb trivia.

The direction’s never good; about a fourth of the jokes land, though there are eventually excellent jokes (thanks to Harpo). Chico gets less and less enthusiastic throughout; he’s playing Groucho’s sidekick, only Lucy really ought to be Groucho’s sidekick, but then there’s Cliff Dunstan as Groucho’s suffering brother-in-law. Dunstan’s great. He also originated on Broadway. And Room Service is actually about putting on a Broadway play. Groucho’s the broke producer. Obviously.

Just as Dunstan has to throw Groucho out, playwright Frank Albertson comes to town to see how things are going. See, he’s broke too. He’s also the most obvious Zeppo part. It’s just so frustratingly a Zeppo part.

Albertson’s okay. He’s fine. He doesn’t have to sing or dance, he just has to moon over Ann Miller, which is weird because of a significant age difference. It also complicates Miller being good. Like, she’s good, but it’s just… no. IMDb trivia page has the details.

The opening credits are cute, which shouldn’t be as memorable as one of the film’s standouts. There are some good sequences, but they’re obvious set pieces and never as good as they should be. Some of it’s the production. The sets are just a little small, especially since Seiter’s composition is so bad. That composition—and the lack of coverage—hurts the editing. George Crone’s a little slow with the cuts, even when it’s not to compensate for Seiter, but if Crone paced it better, the movie would probably only be too short to be played as the feature. Room Service’s plot is skin and bones, and they still pad reaction shots.

The third act’s a boon. Basically, once a turkey flies, it’s on an uptick until the end.

Then wham goes the WWTF of Groucho’s singing voice.

What and why.

My Name is Julia Ross (1945, Joseph H. Lewis)

The funniest part of My Name is Julia Ross is when May Whitty, just after having local vicar Olaf Hytten visit, says son George Macready needs to kill Nina Foch before a doctor shows up because while they might be able to convince no-nothings like the vicar, a doctor would be able to tell she’s not mentally unwell.

Whitty’s worried a doctor might listen to a woman, which would foil their plans, and obviously, a vicar would not. If ever there were a moment for Whitty to mention she wore a mask during the influenza pandemic.

Ross is the tale of Foch’s very bad job placement. She’s a single girl living in London; her landlady, Doris Lloyd, is a mean jerk, and the building’s maid, an enthusiastic Joy Harington, is a mean jerk who’s also a thief. The film opens with Foch back from another unfruitful job hunt. She finds a letter awaiting her—a wedding invitation from former co-lodger Roland Varno. He’s off and gotten married, even though Lloyd thought Foch would seduce Varno away from his fiancée. There probably ought to be a pin in that detail—and there’s sort of a half-pin—but Ross only runs an hour and five minutes, so there’s no time for subplots.

Besides the wedding invitation, Foch also finds an advertisement in the newspaper for an employment agency she’s never visited before. So she hurries off and has such a great interview with Anita Sharp-Bolster (who’s not in Ross enough; in fact, she inexplicably disappears around the halfway mark) she gets the job on the spot. Well, after Sharp-Bolster can bring Whitty and Macready in for the final interview.

See, the employment agency is a sham. Whitty and Macready are looking for someone to replace Macready’s absent wife, but just in body. Can’t collect on life insurance without a body.

Before Whitty and Macready can drug Foch and whisk her off to the seashore for the main part of their scheme, Foch has to go home and see Varno one more time. His fiancée dumped him at the last minute for moaning Julia Ross at inappropriate times. The scene where Varno explains it to Foch is somewhat painful, as the film flexes Varno’s confusion at the fiancée’s problem. It also reveals Varno’s going to be a weak link in the cast. Foch has to hold their slight scene up entirely.

It also might not help Varno’s next scene is during some of the film’s day-for-night shooting, which looks terrible even on the backlot. Burnett Guffey’s photography is usually one of the film’s strongest technicals, but the day-for-night’s bad. Luckily it’s only a couple scenes throughout. Ross is technically solid—especially for a B picture—with director Lewis having some strong scenes. Editor Henry Batista doesn’t seem to know how to cut them, though, so there aren’t any breakout scenes.

Most of the film consists of Foch in her prison—a seaside manor house—where maid Queenie Leonard can’t figure out why Foch isn’t happy to be married to a rich guy; she’s got such nice clothes, after all. Leonard’s not in on the scheme, so Foch is usually trying to convince her to help. But Leonard’s also not going to be believing any women, especially not over upper-crust Whitty’s say-so.

Throw in regular implications Macready is uncontrollably violent, and they’ve got a reasonably compelling hour-long mystery.

It doesn’t pay off in the finish, with the finale being particularly contrived, but it’s an okay B suspense thriller. Whitty’s good, but not singular. Ditto Macready, who Lewis knows how to direct… while Macready doesn’t understand how Lewis is directing him. It’s a peculiar situation. Finally, Varno’s a lukewarm, slightly damp towel (at best).

And Foch’s okay. She’s never not successful in the part, but never anything more.

My Name is Julia Ross is okay. It’s a suspense thriller told from the perspective of the people causing the suspense, not the person experiencing it, which isn’t a sound narrative structure; it’s also only sixty-five minutes.

Luther: The Fallen Sun (2023, Jamie Payne)

“Luther” show creator and Luther: The Fallen Sun writer Neil Cross started talking about him and Idris Elba doing a Luther movie for at least a decade before Fallen Sun. Like everyone else, Cross assumed the singularly charming, extraordinarily talented Elba would be too busy being a movie star to do another “Luther” TV series. Except, as Cross and most other white people learned in the 2010s, the world’s super-duper racist and Elba, the most obvious James Bond casting pick ever, actually, would never be a movie star.

So they kept doing the “Luther” series, even soft-booting the show a couple times over five series and nine years. The Fallen Sun, which is never called The Fallen Sun onscreen and has zilch to do with the movie itself, takes place after the last series… but retcons a bit. Fallen Sun is more of a spin-off than a sequel to the series, with only Dermot Crowley returning from the show with Elba. The series ended with Elba headed to prison, something Fallen Sun sort of continues, but changing the circumstances and removing the character development Elba had been building since the first series.

Because Fallen Sun’s about Elba doing streaming movie series, not about him doing a TV series. And to prove it’s really a movie, Fallen Sun runs over two hours… which actually just makes it a two-part episode, but I suppose they shoot it in Panavision. Well, Panavision aspect ratio. It’s also director Payne’s first film credit after twenty years of TV work.

Cynthia Erivo plays the no-nonsense new copper on Elba’s old beat. Erivo’s fine, but she’s got very little to do. But she does add some movie cred. More than villain Andy Serkis, who’s a Bond villain serial killer. Everything’s very elaborate but also very disturbing, even though Payne can’t manage a single suspenseful sequence in the picture. Not when Elba’s fending off his fellow inmates in prison or when Serkis is stalking teenage girls. As far as suspense goes, Sun’s inert.

It’s also full of pointless subplots to pad out the run time. Cross stuffs in a bunch of filler to make up for Elba not having a character to play anymore. His backstory doesn’t matter, and thanks to the retcon, having him go to prison isn’t even necessary. Sun goes to multiple unnecessary places, but thanks to Elba, it basically works out.

And it’s got an astoundingly dull Serkis performance too. Serkis is better than it seems like he’ll be initially, but only because he threatens to be godawful but just ends up one-note. Late fifties Serkis is less believable as a criminal mastermind than as a forty-something (which makes me wonder who Cross originally envisioned in the part). Serkis is also an inexplicably capable knife fighter; Sun establishes Elba—while not “Black Superman”—can fisticuff his way through a prison riot, only for unassuming Serkis to out-street fight him.

Why? Because it’s a movie, remember? So it can’t be over at the hour mark.

The supporting cast is all solid, though dippy copper Thomas Coombes is too dippy, and it reflects poorly on Erivo’s character, who ought to be better at her job. Elba’s only an impressive detective because he’s doing better work than Erivo and her team. Unfortunately, neither Elba, Erivo, or Crowley (who gets a bunch to do) ever quickly figures out the clue; they need that two-hour runtime.

Writer Cross also has an annoying device where one character tells another character a secret, which allows the second character to act on it without the audience knowing what’s about to happen. It’s exposition doubling, and the only time it needs to pay off–the lethargic third act—it noticeably doesn’t.

It also doesn’t really matter because it’s Elba mesmerizing his way through the silliness. Sure, it’s grotesque, cruel silliness, but still. It’s silly plotting.

I really hope they do more.

House of Bamboo (1955, Samuel Fuller)

I had a variety of ways I was going to open this post. I was going to make a Robert Palmer reference for my apparent target demographic (it would have read: Director Fuller has cranes and knows how to use them). Except it turns out… Fuller didn’t have a dozen cranes roaming the Tokyo streets. He shot it on a minimal budget for locations, and the city shots were done guerilla without permits. It’s okay, though, I think. The thank you to the Tokyo cops might’ve been bribes.

But I also thought about talking about the film as a relic from the past. It’s a crime saga set in post-war Japan, filmed on location. Also, on some very elaborate sets on sound stages, where Fuller presumably does get to use his flock of cranes (to excellent effect; he directs the hell out of Bamboo). It opens with Jack Webb-lite narration describing how military policing works in Japan, initially following American army captain Brad Dexter and Japanese official Sessue Hayakawa. They’re investigating a train robbery at first, and then the story jumps a few months, so there can be more narration when stickup artist Biff Elliot’s shot with the same gun used in the opening robbery.

Oh, yeah, there’s a big train robbery opening, with Fuller and cinematographer Joseph MacDonald taking full advantage of the wide, glorious CinemaScope frame.

Then the action cuts ahead a few more weeks with Robert Stack arriving. He’s Elliot’s pal from the service and just out of jail. He thinks Elliot’s got a gig for him, except Elliot’s dead, and his widow (Shirley Yamaguchi) didn’t know he was a crook until she read it in the paper.

Now, Stack thinks white guy Elliot is ashamed of Japanese wife Yamaguchi because he kept her a secret from everyone. Except it’s actually because the other Japanese women are shitty to Yamaguchi for marrying a white guy. The way it’s presented, with Yamaguchi the victim of bigotry on her man’s account, seems to be telling American women if they’re racist to their husband’s buddy’s war bride, they’re being as bad as a Japanese woman.

Also, Yamaguchi talks about how Americans could have no idea how the social pressure works… even though interracial marriages were still illegal. It’s peculiar. Bamboo’s very pro-Japan (well, pro-American colonization project Japan), but Fuller’s also sympathetic to particular plights (who wouldn’t want a wife “taught since childhood” to dote on her husband) and seemingly oblivious to others.

His obliviousness is a blessing at times, however. He made it through making the movie with Stack in the lead. The only thing worse than Stack playing tough guy is Stack playing sensitive romantic. See, he’s going to fall in love with widow Yamaguchi… at the same time, he’s asking her to pose as his squeeze to help him infiltrate Elliot’s gang.

Robert Ryan leads the gang. Ryan is mic-drop fantastic. No notes. Even when he seems to jump the shark, it’s to build up to something else later. Rising action is unfortunately rare in Bamboo too; only Ryan gins up enough momentum.

The supporting cast runs hot and cold. Yamaguchi’s okay in an endlessly problematic part and not bad opposite Stack, which is an achievement. She’s barely in the third act, though, because the movie has to acknowledge she and Stack aren’t ever going to kiss, so what’s the point?

Cameron Mitchell plays the second-in-command, who Stack inadvertently starts to replace, further engaging Mitchell. Mitchell’s great. Bamboo somewhat compensates for Stack’s wooden performance, with the other actors bringing the heat. Except Mitchell can easily do it, whereas Yamaguchi’s already got a lot on her plate. And Ryan’s supposedly enamored with Stack, but there’s no reason for him to be.

Ryan fills the gang with ex-military officers drummed out of the service for being violent criminals. Besides his lack of affect, the only significant thing about Stack is his ostensibly impressive criminal record. Only Ryan’s not using him for any of that stuff. Ryan’s just another goon. Plus, Ryan spends their scenes waiting for Stack to start acting, which everyone else has figured out isn’t happening.

But Ryan and Fuller seem sure Stack’s got to have something at some point.

Nope.

An uncredited DeForest Kelley also gets to upstage Stack as Ryan’s other named goon.

Bamboo’s a great-looking film. Fuller loves the wide frame, and he loves doing the Tokyo travelogue—including a finale set at a rooftop amusement park—but he’s got no sense for the script. Or at least how to make it with Stack playing it. Bamboo is an eighty-four-minute movie running almost twenty minutes too long. Stack’s a terrible lead in the first act. Eventually, he gets sympathetic because of the plot, but he’s an American bully, shoving his way around Tokyo and trying to intimidate everyone. However, he’s nice to kids, which is a tell.

Oh, and bad music. Bad in it’s from 1955, so, of course, it’s going to be “ethnic” themed. Except composer Leigh Harline one-ups it by going Hollywood Chinese music. When it’s just thriller music, it’s usually fine.

House of Bamboo isn’t a success, but it’s a superbly made film. Fuller does masterful work. And Ryan’s so good.

Enola Holmes 2 (2022, Harry Bradbeer)

Enola Holmes 2 runs a long two hours and nine minutes, but the movie actually leaves a bunch on the table. For example, antagonist David Thewlis has history with both Sherlock (Henry Cavill) and Mama Holmes (Helena Bonham Carter), seemingly separately, but the film never gets into it. Thewlis is phoning it in, gloriously biting off scenery in giant chunks; he can do this part—and well—effortlessly, which is good because director Bradbeer’s not great with actors.

Everyone in Holmes 2 is solid, however. Millie Bobby Brown is a fine lead, except whenever Bradbeer doesn’t know what to do, he has her wink at the camera or break the fourth wall. It’s cute—but for the first and most of the second act, Brown could just be narrating the adventure straight. She opens the film narrating, and there’s always something; why not just go all the way?

Cavill’s effortlessly charming and more than willing to make room for his younger costars, to the point he’s just taking up space. He’s constantly around in this one like they wanted to make him work for the sequel bucks, but they don’t give him anything to do. The film reveals a bunch about Enola Holmes universe versions of Sherlock Holmes mainstays, but mostly just as gags or Easter eggs. It’s awkward world-building.

Louis Partridge is also back as Brown’s love interest, a young lord trying to fight the good fight against the blue blood stuffed shirts. Partridge never really gets anything to do in the movie. He takes a while to show up, then is sort of around, but also not. He’s perfectly good, and he and Brown get some fine teamwork moments, along with romantic ones, but he should’ve been in the movie more. Or less.

Just like Bonham Carter and Susan Wokoma. Wokoma shows up out of nowhere in the late second act like she wasn’t going to be in the movie, but then they needed a combination action and heist sequence, so suddenly Cavill brings her in. Except when she shows up next, it’s with Bonham Carter, and Cavill’s detached from that whole sequence. It’s like the supporting cast is tagging in and out. Got to keep them around, even if they won’t have anything to do until—presumably—Enola Holmes 3D.

The film kicks off with an affable but uninformative recap of the first film. Netflix is assuming you’re binging both pictures. Since the first movie, Brown has gone into business for herself but not seen Partridge, Cavill, or Bonham Carter much. She’s going it alone. And she’s going out of business, right up until adorable street urchin Serrana Su-Ling Bliss shows up at her door looking for her missing sister. Bliss and her friends are matchstick girls, and it certainly seems possible they’ve stumbled into the rich British people killing poor ones for profit.

Ah, capitalism.

It ends up being a semi-true story, which screenwriter Jack Thorne (with story co-credit to director Bradbeer) does an atrocious job integrating. Too many important things in Holmes seem shoe-horned in, with Bradbeer assuming Brown making a joke or Cavill grinning will cover. The film’s a case study in charm only getting you so far.

Decent, thankless supporting turn from Adele Akhtar as Enola Universe Lestrade, and an excellent bit performance from Sharon Duncan-Brewster as another unappreciated Victorian woman. Hopefully, they’ll bring Duncan-Brewster back too.

If Enola 2 had been twenty minutes shorter, it probably would be more successful. The mystery investigation goes on about ten minutes too long. But then it also needs another twenty minutes in the first act, probably. Thorne and Bradbeer don’t flop, but they need more substance for the cast. Not everyone can chaw sets like Thewlis.

Clerks III (2022, Kevin Smith)

Clerks III starts as a series of vignettes reintroducing the characters. It’s been fifteen years since the previous entry; since then, spoiler alert, one of them has become a widower, and neither has done anything with their lives. For the first time, Jeff Anderson gets a little more to do than Brian O’Halloran, though only in the third act.

Until then, the movie’s a quick setup—Anderson has a heart attack and decides to make a movie about his life at the Quick Stop—with the actors doing their familiar banter routines, just updated a little more the times. Trevor Fehrman, also returning from II, now has his own sidekick, Austin Zajur. Director Smith reprises as Silent Bob, Jason Mewes is Jay. Everyone’s back, including ex-girlfriends Rosario Dawson, Marilyn Ghigliotti, and Jennifer Schwalbach Smith.

Many of the actors—besides Dawson, obviously, whose performance is visibly effortless compared to her costars—haven’t been in a movie since a Clerks and it shows. Schwalbach Smith is so bad I was able to identify her as the director’s wife just by her performance. No other way she’d have gotten the gig. Ghigliotti gets back into the groove quickly, though.

The funniest section of the film is while they’re making the movie. In addition to Anderson and O’Halloran, Mewes and Fehrman are around to cause hijinks, and III brings back all the actors from the first movie to play their “scenes.” It’s kind of lovely, actually, getting the same bit players back, thirty years on. The film doesn’t get sentimental about it, which is good because it goes off the rails with sentiment. The third act’s sincere, almost successful—successful to the point it saves the movie—ultimately a fail. Smith doesn’t just fumble the ending; he intentionally smashes it.

Besides that section, the second act is almost entirely scenes or montages set to modern folk rock. The first act is all nineties soundalikes (or nineties songs, I guess, I didn’t Shazam), which makes sense since the whole movie starts as an homage to that era. That soundtrack at least fits; the folk-rock? They should’ve just done a musical. Especially since there are great cameos from Melissa Benoist and Chris Wood auditioning for the movie-in-the-movie, and they both want to do it musical theater.

The other cameos are hot and cold. Amy Sedaris has a lengthy cameo where Anderson can’t shut up about “The Mandalorian,” a show she stars in, but the bits aren’t funny because Anderson’s not a nineties Star Wars nerd anymore; he’s just a regular white guy fifty-year-old. And Sedaris is bad. Justin Long’s also bad. Luckily they’re only in it for a bit.

Anderson’s good until he’s got to “come to Buddy Christ,” and then it’s not his fault. Smith can’t figure out how to write it, so it’s another montage, not even a sensical one. O’Halloran seems nervous, disinterested, and miserable to be making another Clerks for two-thirds of the movie, then has a breakout scene, but then the movie’s over.

Clerks III is, of course, a very long shot, but even as a miss, it showcases why it could’ve been a hit.

Maybe Smith’ll figure it out by IV.

George Carlin’s American Dream (2022, Judd Apatow and Michael Bonfiglio)

The first half of George Carlin’s American Dream is a history lesson. Big history and little history; it’s the history of comedy in the second half of the twentieth century; it’s the story of Carlin and his family. It’s the story of his career and how success changed his life; how some things got better, then new things got worse. It’s fascinating and humanizing.

The second half is about directors Judd Apatow and Michael Bonfiglio trying to figure out how they can work in sensational footage from twelve years after Carlin died. They try to tie it in with interviewee Paul Provenza talking about how people wished Carlin were around to comment on the dumpster fire the world’s become since he’s left. But it was always that dumpster fire; we just didn’t have it on video. Carlin in the smartphone era would have been more interesting than a poorly cut montage—Joe Beshenkovsky does a fine job throughout the three-and-a-half-hour documentary, but when they ask him to ape The Parallax View, Beshenkovsky flops.

It’s not all his fault; I’m sure he didn’t pick the Carlin material to accompany the visuals, but the cutting’s not good. The material selection and the piece in general—only a few years after Spike Lee did it earnestly and sincerely in BlacKkKlansman—is a lousy finish for American Dream. The second half is rocky overall; the landing is bad; if it weren’t for interviewee (and daughter) Kelly Carlin, they’d have sunk it. It’s a bad idea, drawn-out, coming at the end of a half-assed conclusion.

Because the second half of American Dream starts with the promise of Ronald Reagan’s presidency fucking with Carlin’s mojo just when he was determined to prove everyone wrong. According to the doc, nothing worked out for Carlin during the Reagan years. He was too busy working to pay off the IRS. So, creatively, he kept hitting snooze.

Except… he didn’t. He started his HBO specials, did “Comic Relief,” and apparently changed his entire professional perspective because of Sam Kinison (or so Dream tries to imply). The first half gets Carlin through high school dropout, radio DJ, traditional stand-up comic, mainstream TV guy, seventies counter-culture sensation, pseudo-has been, coke fiend, wife’s alcoholism, fatherhood, comeback precipice.

Only nope, the comeback would take fourteen years. Per Dream, even though in between Carlin was in Bill and Ted, for example. The movie’s something the documentary doesn’t address until—it’s got a linear structure, which is problematic anyway—but it doesn’t address his casting until it’s covering years later.

It also buries some ledes later when it presents Dogma as being about Carlin, the ex-Catholic; though the doc does not use much of that footage—and never points out Carlin was right about the priests raping kids, probably because it’d piss off useless, pearl-clutching interviewee Stephen Colbert. Then it talks about Dogma as Carlin’s mourning picture; his wife died just before filming. But then it reveals it’s actually about Carlin meeting his second wife. After spending the almost two-hour first half showing its subject’s facets and collisions… the second half goes for easy manipulation. Apatow and Bonfiglio half-ass the finish, but there’s probably no way not to half-ass it since they’re covering thirty years in less time. Plus they need their five-minute “America sucks, subscribe to HBO Max and rebel” commercial.

Carlin, of course, deserves better. American Dream does an all right job showcasing old material, though nowhere near as much as you’d think. It doesn’t discuss the popularity of the HBO specials after the first one, doesn’t discuss his wife producing them (after making a big deal out of her feeling left out during the events in the first half, it leaves her out of the second). The second half feels like parts two and three, and the epilogue abridged. It’s a shame.

Hopefully, it’ll get more people to watch more George Carlin. But not, oddly enough, on HBO Max.