The Trial (1962, Orson Welles)

Given how much writer, director, and special guest star Welles cares about performances—not only does he dub over one of the other actors, he steals a juicy monologue from Michael Lonsdale—one would think he’d have seen the problem with star Anthony Perkins. Because everyone’s looping their dialogue in The Trial, Perkins gave this performance at least twice. But probably more. And it never works.

There are contexts where Perkins’s performance could work. Had Welles turned the film into a Fox melodrama, a la Peyton Place, with aw-shucks Perkins discovering the realities of the American legal system, it might’ve worked. Not sure how all the ladies throwing themselves at Perkins would work then, though. It might’ve just been easier to get a different lead.

Perkins plays the part like he’s Jimmy Stewart gone to Washington; only Welles’s adaptation of the source novel doesn’t let time progress or characters develop. I had to check and see if the end’s the same as in the novel (it’s not, Welles made a very, very bad choice), and it also turns out the novel takes place exactly over a year. The movie takes place over a… week? Two? There’s some suggestion of time passing late in the second act. Still, since Perkins is an erratic, obnoxious American in some vaguely Eastern European city, he could also just be an entitled, impatient asshole.

Welles breaks out the film as a series of vignettes, which is nice because it helps compartmentalize the more and less successful scenes. Even with Perkins Mayberrying his way through the film, Welles is fully committed to the adaptation and busts ass. In addition to Perkins, Welles also has to contend with wanting cinematography from Edmond Richard. Richard’s lighting is so universally flat and bland, so ignorant of shadow, it gives the impression there wasn’t time or money for anything better. They’ve got the nifty sets—Jean Mandaroux doing the art direction—and Welles has all sorts of neat shots, but there’s no personality.

It’s so flat it’d be better in color. At least there’d be some insight into what the characters are experiencing in their nightmare world. We see them, but we never see how they see one another. It might also explain why every woman in the movie throws herself at Anthony Perkins, ranging from his widowed landlady (Madeleine Robinson) to a couple dozen tweenage girls. In between, he romances Jeanne Moreau and Romy Schneider the most seriously.

Actually, wait, there’s also Elsa Martinelli. I lost count.

Perkins isn’t surprised at being irresistible, either. It’s apparently the norm for him, which suggests a far more lurid prequel, which Welles might’ve enjoyed directing. He tries his damndest to make Perkins and Schneider’s romantic interlude play like an exaggeratedly overt Hollywood melodrama. It’s never sexy because the women all have ulterior motives, and Perkins knows it and plans on bedding and abandoning them.

While Perkins disappoints, the rest of the cast is mostly excellent. Moreau, Schneider, and Akim Tamiroff are the standouts. Welles’s extended cameo is just okay. He under-directs himself.

The Trial’s fascinating. It’s long, it’s repetitive, it’s confounding, but it is fascinating as well. The use of music is outstanding; Jean Ledrut composed. The editing’s okay—better than the cinematography—but the cutting sometimes overcompensates for Welles not being able to do something because of budget.

Then there’s the ending. Of course, Welles had his reasons for changing the novel’s ending, but if he was going to do something so silly, why didn’t he end it at Stonehenge (where the demons dwell)?

But then, thanks to Welles being Welles, the film pulls up just a bit through the end credits—narrated by Welles—for a better landing. He just needed to remind everyone he’s Orson Welles, and he made this picture.

This post is part of the 2022 Classic Literature On Film Blogathon hosted by Paul of Silver Screen Classics.

Lilting (2014, Hong Khaou)

Lilting is not a character study. You’d think it’d be a character study since it’s studying two characters to the detriment of all else (including the actors’ performances), but it’s actually a flashback-filled attempt at lyricism. Except for Lilting and writer and director Khaou, lyricism just means flashbacks. And the same editing device where dialogue plays between cuts, so someone won’t be talking on-screen during a shot because the shot’s from after they got done talking, but the sound will be their dialogue over their unmoving lips in close-up. Khaou and editor Mark Towns must think this fracturing device adds something to the scene because they do it repeatedly.

Lilting’s a series of unconsidered narrative devices; they’re not bad on their own, sometimes even good (or potentially good); strung together, they don’t add up.

The film’s about an intensely dramatic situation. Cheng Pei-pei is a Chinese-Cambodian woman who’s been a British citizen for thirty years; she never learned any English. In old age, she relied on son Andrew Leung to negotiate the English-speaking world for her. He stuck her in an old folks’ home, decorated like the fifties and sixties, to try to confuse the residents into thinking they’re young, but it just makes them sadder.

Then he died.

It takes most of the movie to find out how and why he died.

But he died, and she thinks about him a lot, hence the flashbacks. Sometimes the flashbacks transition into the present day through editing hijinks. Khaou knows the flashbacks will have an emotional intensity, but he doesn’t want to do anything with that intensity. Just create it and let it sit, which is fine when the film’s building to something.

Only Lilting isn’t building to anything. Quite the opposite; it’s a denial of building to anything. But for most of the runtime, Khaou pretends it’s going somewhere to get some dramatic momentum.

Leung’s boyfriend, Ben Whishaw, comes to the old folks’ home to visit Cheng, and she’s not happy to see him. Unfortunately, Leung never told mom Cheng he was gay, so instead, she thinks Whishaw is her dead son’s shitty, bossy white guy roommate.

Whishaw hires an amateur translator, Naomi Yang, for Cheng and her old folks’ boyfriend, Peter Bowles. Most of the film will be Cheng and Yang talking in Mandarin without subtitles. There are some subtitles, but only when the movie wants the intended audience to know what’s going on. I wonder how it plays to native Mandarin speakers, especially moms over fifty who thought they’d be seeing a movie about Cheng. Instead, it’s mainly about Whishaw projecting on her. Sympathetically.

Whishaw’s a well of hurt, which makes him somewhat sympathetic, but he’s got no character otherwise. The film holds off on various reveals—which it misuses—until the third act. Before then, we mostly see Whishaw being kind of shitty to Yang, whom he meets at the beginning of the movie. She decides, through thick or thin, she will sacrifice her dignity for whatever Whishaw’s paying her.

Yang gets the least amount of character but puts in the work, acting-wise.

After her, there’s Bowles. He’s middling. Some of it is the script, some is the part, and some is just Bowles not having pizzazz.

Cheng’s good. She ought to be the way Khaou spotlights her unspoken grief and trauma. Shame it doesn’t inform a character or performance.

Leung’s unimpressive as the dead son in flashbacks. He either scowls with his shirt on or off, buffly. It’s really not his fault; there’s nothing in the script except pouting and being buff.

Lilting’s got some lovely photography from Urszula Pontikos, and the second act’s compelling, but Khaou bungles the conclusion. The first act’s awkward as Khaou tries to establish the narrative structure, but then he changes it for the superior second act. At least the first act builds to something. The third act’s all about throwing away the movie.

It’s disappointing. Cheng, Whishaw, Yang, and even Bowles put in enough work they ought to get a movie out of it.

Transatlantic (1931, William K. Howard)

Transatlantic is a pre-code Modern Marvels Melodrama. Set in some fascinating technological, man-made invention or creation, a varied group of characters get together and have some drama. Sometimes there’s a murder, sometimes there’s not. Transatlantic has a murder. Unfortunately, it takes its sweet time getting there too, which gets frustrating; the film doesn’t even run eighty minutes, and it’s got at least fourteen minutes of artistically null montage padding.

I need to specify that montage padding is artistically null because the film’s third act has artistically potent montage padding. Transatlantic’s editing is fascinating; for most of the film’s runtime, it seems like editor Jack Murray and director Howard are doing a lousy job filming the script. Howard can’t direct the script, and Murray can’t cut the dialogue. It’s real obvious; lead Edmund Lowe has a bunch of desperate one-liners to close scenes, and no one can get them right. They’re painful.

Thankfully, even Transatlantic knows not to overuse (too much) a device.

The film’s got exquisite Art Deco production design, and even when Murray’s cuts are obviously between location second unit footage and the sound stage, the film’s visually impressive. Howard never goes too wild with the action set on deck; Transatlantic takes advantage of it only looking like an ocean from the water. Set most of your action in dining halls and staterooms; it’s like you don’t have to be on an ocean liner at all.

After an eight-minute opening boarding montage, the film quickly establishes its cast and their situations. First, there’s kindly old lens grinder Jean Hersholt. He’s European; he came to the United States, worked for years, saving his money, and now he’s taking daughter Lois Moran back to see the Old Countries. He invested his money with banker John Halliday, who’s also on board. Halliday’s traveling with his wife, Myrna Loy (who isn’t, it turns out, young enough to be his granddaughter), but wants to cat around with Swedish dancer Greta Nissen.

Loy knows about Nissen, causing her distress, but she’s also the money in the marriage, so Halliday doesn’t want her going too far.

Finally, there’s Lowe. He’s the Gentleman Thief skipping the States, so he doesn’t have to testify against a pal. He’s not working this trip—when fellow criminal-type Earle Foxe offers him in on a score, Lowe turns him down flat. Lowe takes an interest in Loy’s martial distress (they once knew each other, all very obscure) while also befriending Moran and Hersholt. Especially Moran.

Lowe’s medium charming. If he could deliver his zingers, if Howard could shoot them, if Murray could cut them, he’d be high charming. A compelling performance in Lowe’s part would entirely change Transatlantic, which usually suffers from a lack of performance personality.

Luckily, around the halfway point (in the film, not the voyage), Howard, Murray, and cinematographer James Wong Howe start showing off. There are two Nissen dance performances; the first isn’t any good, the second’s got dynamite shots and cuts. It’s a precursor to the superior third-act action sequence, which has Lowe tracking the bad guy through the ship’s bowels. Gunfights, fisticuffs, chases, all sorts of things. It’s a movie-saving finish.

Lowe’s okay, Loy’s not good, but she’s sympathetic, and Halliday manages to be an effective creep while also not giving a good performance. It’s inconceivable he and Loy are married, but he also can’t sell his hard-partying grandpapa behavior. Moran’s middling, ditto Nissen. Though Moran’s at least got some moments. Nissen does get that good dance scene. Hersholt’s bad.

Billy Bevan plays Lowe’s steward, who can’t stop repeating the same description of ocean liner life. The film hangs on to the bit so long, and through so many unfunny uses, it finally works in the end.

Kind of like the movie.

The Steel Helmet (1951, Samuel Fuller)

The Steel Helmet is an admirable effort from writer, director, and producer Fuller. However, from the start, it’s clear some of the film’s successes will come with qualifications. Fuller, for example, has a great shot a quarter of the time, a terrible shot a quarter of the time, and okay shots half the time. Lousy shots always come after the good ones to emphasize the downgrade.

Fuller, cinematographer Ernest Miller, and editor Philip Cahn have a terrible time putting sequences together, especially when they’re going from set to location. For example, the climactic action finale looks like it’s reused footage from another war movie; it’s not; it’s Fuller; it just looks nothing like the rest of the film.

It’s not just for the action sequences, either. The problem’s present in the first scene and every one after.

There are unqualified successes, of course. Many performances are fantastic, even when Fuller’s script loses track of his protagonist. The film opens with tough sergeant Gene Evans surviving a North Korean ambush. The bullet went into his steel helmet and looped around, leaving only a minor cut. A South Korean orphan, played by William Chun (as “Short Round,” which is apparently where Spielberg got it from for Temple), finds Evans and frees him. They quickly become pals.

On their trip through Oz, they soon meet medic James Edwards. Edwards is Black, Evans is white, and Chun is Korean. There are scenes between Evans and both new friends about race, with excellent character moments for each of them.

Instead of finding the Cowardly Lion, the trio finds a lost squad. Led by officer Steve Brodie, they’re supposed to set up an observation post in a Buddhist temple nearby. Evans knows Brodie and hates him; Brodie’s a dipshit officer. Evans also knows Brodie’s sergeant, Richard Loo. Loo’s Japanese American; Brodie doesn’t listen to him because he’s not white. Fuller, with a lot of gruff and bravado, drags the racism out of its hold enough to look at it in the light before letting it scurry back in.

He’ll spotlight it later when a North Korean officer (Harold Fong) tries to sway both Edwards and Loo away from the actively racist U.S.A. Both attempts are protracted, and neither comes to a substantial conclusion (outside an awkward scene for the actors); however, it was enough to get the FBI investigating Fuller.

The second act is the squad hanging out at the temple, with Evans as the de facto lead, but the focus widened more towards an ensemble piece. Besides Brodie, whose inevitable “dipshit officer redeems himself at the end” arc doesn’t take up a lot of them, there’s also Robert Hutton, Sid Melton, Richard Monahan, and Neyle Morrow in the squad.

Hutton gets the most to do, though Melton’s the most memorable.

Everything’s generally fine until the third act when Fuller tries taking the focus away from Evans and spreading it out. Then, just when he seemingly manages to widen it, he tightens back in on Evans for a lackluster postscript.

Great performances from Evans, Edwards, Brodie, and Loo. Fong’s a little much—Fuller’s script walks a fine line of anti-Communism, anti-officer, pro-infantry, pro-progressive but armed U.S.A.—and Fong gets the worst of it. The mumbo jumbo also screws up Evans’s performance a little, leaving him in limbo as far as his character development.

Still, it’s impressive as all hell, with a great score from Paul Dunlap, and when Fuller hits, he hits. It’s even more impressive given the meager budget; Fuller knows what he’s doing, but there’s just not enough money to realize it.

Fright Night Part 2 (1988, Tommy Lee Wallace)

At first glance, it appears Fright Night Part 2 is the rare example of a film saved by a mullet. Lead William Ragsdale doesn’t have much more onscreen charisma than last time, but with his gloriously juvenile late eighties wavy mullet, his lack of appeal becomes charming. Or it may be another thing director Wallace fixed this time around; the horrific mullet, which would distract entirely in a lesser film, would still help a lot in that case.

The sequel picks up approximately three years after the first film; now twenty-seven-year-old Ragsdale (the mullet makes him look younger than in the first movie) is a nineteen-year-old college student. He’s been in therapy at the school, which appears to be provided. The film establishes, later on, they’re at a community college; Ragsdale’s got a single and a private bath, the student union has a bowling alley; it’s a very well-funded community college.

Ernie Sabella plays the psychiatrist, who convinces Ragsdale vampires aren’t real. The first movie was his brain protecting him from discovering a serial killer next door who kidnapped his girlfriend and apparently brainwashed his best friend into serial killing too. The sequel will end up being all about the first film in one way, but the continuity’s loose.

Sabella’s the only disappointing performance. It’s like they wanted Danny DeVito and got this guy instead but left the script for the disinterested DeVito. Sabella tries, and his scenes are sometimes really effective thanks to the other actors and Wallace’s direction… he’s just not very good.

Almost the entire rest of the cast is good. Leaving aside Ragsdale, Roddy McDowall’s good (he gets a full arc this time), and Traci Lind’s good (as Ragsdale’s new girlfriend but not the damsel in distress); the villains are all good, with one asterisk. But Jon Gries, Brian Thompson, and Russell Clark, all unqualified good turns as the new gang of creatures come to terrorize Ragsdale and McDowall. The asterisk is main villain Julie Carmen, who doesn’t just try to seduce Ragsdale away from Lind but also has her sights set on taking over McDowall’s horror movie hosting gig.

Since the fallout from the first movie (apparently, the film’s epilogue was a bad dream), Ragsdale has been avoiding McDowall. Sabella encouraging Ragsdale to get back in touch with McDowall is where the film’s main plot seems to start, except unrelatedly to Ragsdale’s therapy breakthrough, vampires are moving into the same building where McDowall lives. It’s a giant, gothic apartment building in L.A., even though the movie’s not set in L.A. (the street opposite the building, which is primarily a composite effects shot, is so L.A.). For a while, it seems like Part 2 is going to be a paint-by-the-numbers retread of the original, sticking to the home locations, but then Part 2 opens up, and then again, and then again. And it keeps opening up, only returning to the building for the excellent finale.

Wallace does a great job directing. His cinematographer, Mark Irwin, isn’t up to many of the shots, unfortunately, but there are still some great sequences in the film.

Now back to Carmen. When she’s a seductive vampire, she’s fantastic. With Brad Fiedel’s “wish I was Tangerine Dream” score and Ragsdale having to wear dark sunglasses for a long stretch of the film, Fright Night Part 2 feels like Risky Business with vampires, especially as it becomes a mystery for a while. Ragsdale and McDowall both investigate the vampires, sometimes to comedic results, usually to bloody.

Of course, Wallace is happy to use dream sequences—and it’s a vampire movie, so why not—which lets them get away with a bunch.

But when Carmen’s just got to drop exposition like a fanged Bond villain, she’s lacking. The first half of the movie, I wondered why she didn’t have a more successful career, then she started talking about something besides Ragsdale being yummy (if only she’d commented on the mullet), and her line reading’s so, so bad. She improves a little afterward, thanks to more seductive vamping, but it’s too bad she’s not better.

The script’s well-paced, the gore’s excellent (though it sometimes goes on just a little long), and Fiedel’s score’s… not without its own charms. The film definitely needs better cinematography, but even though the music’s too much, it might be just right.

Fright Night Part 2’s a surprising success; big kudos to Wallace, McDowall, Lind (who gets to play the real hero, without a jealousy subplot either), the effects people, and Ragsdale’s mullet.

Prey (2022, Dan Trachtenberg)

Prey is roughly thirty years late. It’s a Predator prequel with ties to the existing franchise (mainly the second one), but it’s a conceptual no-brainer and one they’ve been doing in the Predator licensed comics for decades. The movies established the Predators had been to Earth before, so why not show one of their earlier encounters? Of course, obviously, anthology series never work; studio reticence makes sense. It’s still a no-brainer.

The film takes place in the eighteenth century on the Northern Great Plains. A Comanche tribe happens across a visiting Predator and, thanks to the ingenuity of a (shouldn’t have been) unexpected hero, survives to tell the tale. And tie into the future continuity.

Amber Midthunder is the unexpected hero, though she’s only the unexpected hero to the tribe. Especially once big brother Dakota Beavers rather shittily reveals he’s been cribbing off Midthunder’s notes their whole lives and taking credit for the synthesis. Her brains, his brawn; well, specifically his male brawn. Midthunder’s a capable hunter, but she’s still a girl. Can’t give the girls too much to do; who else will get up early and go gather.

Beavers leads the tribe’s war party; about a half dozen other red shirts who don’t even care Midthunder knows how to track or treat wounds. Girls, icky bad. Beavers appreciates her contributions, occasionally letting his confidence buck cultural constraints, but he still treats her like competition, not a comrade. Prey could’ve used another six or seven minutes on their relationship, especially how their presumably deceased father figures in. Michelle Thrush plays their mom, but they don’t have any family scenes together, just Thrush and Midthunder, then Midthunder and Beavers, then Thrush observing Beavers’s successes as a hunter from a distance. There’d have been time for it (and not just because the end credits are a shocking eight and a half minutes, Prey desperate to get away from the ninety-minute mark like it’s a nineties action movie).

Even underdeveloped, Midthunder’s a strong enough lead—and Beavers is fine enough support—to keep Prey going through its first and second acts. The third act, when the film becomes the inevitable, rushed series of original Predator homages, is pretty good but never adds up for Midthunder. The problem with doing character development in a Predator movie is the formula doesn’t actually need any, and director Trachtenberg and screenwriter Patrick Aison stick very much to the formula.

They just put another movie at the beginning of it.

Trachtenberg’s direction is always okay and sometimes inspired. Unfortunately, none of those inspired moments come in the third act. Despite four (or six, depending on how you count) precursor Predator movies, Trachtenberg’s got no fresh ideas for his homage sequence. It’s almost like they shouldn’t have done it. But still, always okay, sometimes inspired, never bad.

Lovely cinematography from Jeff Cutter, good music by Sarah Schachner, solid editing from Claudia Castello and Angela M. Catanzaro. Prey has a bunch of pastoral sequences, establishing Midthunder and her faithful dog (alternately the star and not the star of the show), but Trachtenberg hurries through them. At the film’s beginning, I was expecting Prey to go long with its Malick moments. But it doesn’t go anywhere near long enough with them.

Quibbles aside, Prey’s done more for the franchise than anything in decades. Hopefully, Disney’s better making movies about invisible alien monsters killing (mostly deserving) humans than Fox. They sure seem up to the task after this one.

The Hoodlum Saint (1946, Norman Taurog)

The Hoodlum Saint is a surprisingly long ninety-four minutes, though since it takes place over eleven years (at least), I suppose some plodding is to be expected. There’s plenty not to be expected about Hoodlum Saint, starting with the time period. It begins in 1919, with a fifty-four-year-old William Powell returning from the Great War to discover, well, son, if it was up to me….

He was a newspaperman, which for a bit seems like Saint is going to be a newspaper picture. It’s not.

Once he doesn’t get his job back—an uncredited Will Wright plays the editor, establishing Saint’s going to reunite Powell with a half dozen (at least) MGM or Thin Man costars—but once he doesn’t get his job back, we find out Powell’s friends with the local hoods. The film starts in Baltimore. James Gleason, Rags Ragland, Frank McHugh, and Slim Summerville play the hoods. Gleason’s the boss and has something of a story arc (directly related to the title, no less), while the rest are just comic relief. McHugh disappears for a large portion of the second act… then Ragland disappears for a large part of the third act. They’re all fine. Nothing wrong with Saint is any of the actors’ faults.

So then it seems like it’s going to be some kind of crime picture; Powell heads with the hoods down to the local Catholic Church, where he tells off the priest; he’s in it for number one now. Only then it’s this strange business comedy where Powell enlists the hoods’ help in… getting him into a wedding party so he can hobnob with the wealthy and beg a job off one.

Except before he can meet a rich guy, he meets Esther Williams. He’s crashing the party and kisses her to throw off suspicion. Williams is twenty-five. Not in the movie; they never discuss the pronounced age difference, but Powell’s at least supposed to be in his thirties, possibly forties, given how they old age make-up him by the end. It’s so obvious you think they’re going to comment on it.

They never comment on it. It’s also not going to be a romantic comedy about coworkers—Williams works at the paper where Powell gets a job after meeting her. He’s really just interested in it so he can go off and become a millionaire in New York City. That ambition works out for Powell, except the hoods all come along because Baltimore’s no fun without him (bailing them out of jail); Williams stays. Their relationship is so chaste at this point, it’s not even for sure she’s the romantic interest.

In New York City, Powell catches the eye of the even more inappropriately aged Angela Lansbury; she’s a club singer. Lansbury’s twenty-one. I guess she also ages a decade throughout, though she disappears for long stretches because Powell’s love interests aren’t crucial to the main plot. The main plot—at what must be halfway through the movie because Powell’s already a wealthy businessman—involves St. Dismas, the Good Thief from the crucifixion, who is, you guessed it, the hoodlum’s Saint. Powell wants to prank Gleason instead of just bailing him out, so he has the other hoods pretend they’ve been converted, then Lansbury’s going to bail him out with the name Dismas.

Gleason will become a changed man over the next few years, dedicating himself to charity work.

And then the stock market. Because by 1929, double millionaire Powell convinces all the working stiffs to play the stock market. Also, he’s given up on Williams, who couldn’t wait forever for him.

So, the stock market crash will cause Powell severe emotional distress, and it’s going to get him into the third act, where Hoodlum Saint becomes an “atheist sees the light” movie. With Hays Code constraints.

It’s a very, very weird movie. And never anywhere near as good as it ought to be with the cast. While Powell and Williams can banter, both comedically and dramatically, director Taurog’s shockingly bad at directing their scenes. Hoodlum Saint ought to be easy studio fodder; instead, it’s clunky and meandering. The parts are too thin, but the acting’s universally solid. Powell, Williams, Gleason, Lansbury. The script—from James Hill and Frank Wead—does them no favors.

Terrible, silly music from Nathaniel Shilkret (like slide whistle sounds) does a lot of damage, but Ray June’s photography is good. Unfortunately, Ferris Webster’s editing is not, but it appears to be more lack of good footage from Taurog.

Hoodlum Saint is a tedious movie with an excellent cast reduced to middling performances thanks to the script and direction.

This post is part of the Third Esther Williams Blogathon hosted by Michaela of Love Letters to Old Hollywood.

Whose Life Is It Anyway? (1981, John Badham)

Director Badham intended Whose Life Is It Anyway? to be black and white, which would probably help with the staginess. It’s a play adaptation. Badham handles the relatively big, busy cast well, but he doesn’t know how to shoot lead Richard Dreyfuss. Dreyfuss is playing a recently paralyzed sculptor who, after approximately six months, realizes he’s not going to get better and doesn’t want to go on. On stage, the physicality of Dreyfuss’s performance matters. On film, it doesn’t. Or, at least, Badham doesn’t figure out how to make it matter. Especially not in he and cinematographer Mario Tosi’s wide Panavision frame.

Dreyfuss is good in the lead but nowhere near singular or even exceptional. His character development is defined by monologues, which refer back to scenes we’ve seen and add peculiar, narratively contrived context. He does get a good lengthy monologue during his mental health competency hearing, but it’s table stakes for the film. If there’s a courtroom scene, you expect the lead to get a good monologue. But it’s earnest enough. Badham really does try; he just can’t bring any nuance to the film.

He gets universally solid performances out of the supporting cast. There’s hospital administrator John Cassavettes (who’s arguably got the least depth), doctor Christine Lahti, lawyer Bob Balaban, hospital orderly and reggae punk rocker Thomas Carter, and then a series of nurses. Kaki Hunter plays the main one; the film opens with Dreyfuss’s accident. He’s an accomplished Boston sculptor who’s just installed a waterfront installation, then he gets in a terrible wreck. After the ER scene—look fast for Lyman Ward (and Jeffrey Combs later)—time skips ahead to Hunter’s first day, where she meets charming, irascible Dreyfuss.

While the film always accounts for Hunter’s experience of the events, she’s barely a character. She’s the object of Carter’s affections after a certain point and little more. Not Hunter’s fault, but rather the script’s. Even Badham knows to give her extra attention just to maintain a rhythm.

Janet Eilber plays Dreyfuss’s dancer girlfriend. They used to spend days at his studio with her dancing, possibly in the nude, probably not through dry ice fog, because there’s a black and white dream sequence. The one black and white sequence they let Badham do, and he wastes it early on in the picture; Dreyfuss has refused valium, so Cassavettes gives it to him anyway. He dreams about the past. A black and white dream sequence in the middle of a color melodrama, it’s an unsuccessful but not unambitious piece. If the whole thing were black and white, who knows.

Even if the film were in its intended color palette, there’d still be Arthur B. Rubinstein’s music. Rubinstein does a somewhat jazzy, upbeat score, which clashes and brings energy from those clashes. It’s just maybe not the right energy. They probably would’ve done better with no music, especially since Badham occasionally emphasizes the sound of the machines keeping Dreyfuss alive… but only occasionally. The machine noise would be omnipresent.

Back to Eilber. She gives the film’s worst performance when adjusted for importance. If she were better, another who knows.

Lathi’s good in a just okay part. She gets a lot to do in the second act, but it doesn’t go anywhere. But she tries. Eilber tries too, which helps. Badham makes sure everyone’s appropriately serious. And appropriately comical when Dreyfuss’s bad jokes break the tension.

Whose Life Is It Anyway? is stage adaptation Oscar-bait melodrama, but not bad stage adaptation Oscar-bait melodrama. It’s thoroughly competent; while Badham can’t crack the important adaptation stuff, he does a fine job with the day-to-day hospital and tracking its staff. It looks gorgeous thanks to Tosi’s soft lighting. Nice cuts from Frank Morriss. Rubinstein’s score is amiable. The cast works hard.

It’s perfectly acceptable and never anything more.

The Witch: Part 2. The Other One (2022, Park Hoon-jung)

The Witch: Part 2. The Other One starts with a flashback to the very late nineties or very early aughts—someone’s still got a cassette walkman, but MP3 players do exist. Now, The Other One is a sequel, but it’s a “start from scratch” sequel, so for a while, it seems like this story will be important.

Not really. It brings Jo Min-su back in from the first movie, then establishes witches are always twins before jumping ahead to the present. So, just keeping track, we’ve met a new cast, introduced them to the old cast, then jumped ahead and abandoned them. Other One closely tracks four or five characters, with another ten in the background. Writer and director Park treats it as a gimmick, all these different people pursuing the title character, who we’ll meet incredibly slowly and intercut with other characters’ stories. It’s a busy film.

In the present, a strike team of other witch-powered people—lots of superpowers in Other One; lots—attacks a research laboratory and kills everyone, except then Shin Si-ah gets up and walks out. She’s covered in blood, and it’s snowy out; lots of good visuals. Park spends the first half of Other One putting a lot of time into the composition. Then, in the second half, which is an extended fight scene at night with a couple dozen people and lots of superspeed… it seems like composition’s all of a sudden less important. But, first half, lots of mood.

Shin gets to a road where a van of bad guys who have just kidnapped local landowner Park Eun-bin. She’s back in Korea from the United States; her father just died, and she’s there to care for little brother Sung Yoo-bin. And to ensure her evil uncle Jin Goo doesn’t sell the farm to resort developers. He’s not just vaguely evil; he’s a crime boss. The implication is Park and Sung’s dad was a crime boss too. Establishing the ground situation on the family dynamics takes Park almost the entire movie. Everyone’s got a history, lots of people know each other, but Park very gingerly reveals those details. The mood is more important than the exposition in scenes, like when Lee Jong-suk goes to talk to Jo about it. They’re suspicious of one another because they’re part of different factions in this super-secret organization, which basically created all the witches.

If they have superpowers, we don’t find out this movie. Probably next.

Jo’s going to get old friend Seo Eun-soo to hunt Shin for her, but Seo and Lee have history together, which the film spends too much time on. The Other One runs two hours and seventeen minutes, and there must be at least ten easily cuttable minutes. Unless it matters for the next movie, in which case, release an extended cut. For this movie, The Other One’s got considerable excess.

Seo’s some kind of government agent who hunts witches. She’s got a literal man-bun bro sidekick Justin John Harvey. They speak in English to one another, with Harvey complaining about Seo swearing at them in Korean. They have a lot of scenes together and no chemistry. Seo’s English language acting is presumably not-native language acting, so she gets some slack. Harvey’s just an amateur. Their scenes are sometimes amusing, but most times, they’re just trying way too hard and never finding a moment.

Until they start having action scenes, then it turns out they’ve both got superpowers. There are seven people with superpowers fighting in the final sequence. It’s basically an X-Men movie at that point.

Okay, so Shin saves Park from Jin Goo’s thugs, and Park takes her home to brother Sung. Jin Goo’s going to terrorize the household the rest of the movie, escalating in violence and intimidation, with Shin having to protect her new friends. Meanwhile, everyone else is looking for Shin, too, all headed out to the farm.

Where there’s a lengthy fight sequence, complete with rocket launchers and flying and knives and all sorts of things. It feels very much like director Park’s trying to make up for not having enough story, so at least there’s whiz-bang gore action. The Other One never feels much like a horror movie, just a gory action one with lots of standing blood. The long fight takes place at night, with Park rushing through it. When you’ve got a dozen people fighting at once, you can be fast while still being slow.

The acting’s all fine. Seo’s the biggest disappointment (you keep waiting for her to be better when not speaking English, but, first, she’s usually speaking English with Harvey, and, second, she’s not really any better with Korean dialogue). Jin Goo’s good as the villain you didn’t think would be important but ends up driving the plot.

Shin, Park, and Sung are all good, but they don’t really have much to do. After the first act, Park and Sung are entirely supporting Shin or one of her pursuers. They get no time for themselves. Sung eventually gets more because he’s around while Park’s out picking up red herring.

Most of the third act is set up for the next movie, which is unfortunate. Just when Shin finally gets some agency, she loses it to franchise building, which is too bad. It’s the worst thing about the movie, which has been teasing post-Other One plot lines throughout, but always additively. Sometimes too much additively, but never at the expense of Shin.

The end’s at her expense. And the finish—with the uninspired but elaborate nighttime action—doesn’t need any more disappointments. The Other One ends mid-stumble.

It’s fine and not the same old thing for a sequel, but it’s also long, dense, and sacrifices performances for world-building.

That said, I’m definitely onboard for another one. Can’t wait.

The Big Picture (1989, Christopher Guest)

At its best, which isn’t often, The Big Picture is a vaguely charming Hollywood satire about young director Kevin Bacon discovering making it isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. But also not. Because Picture skips over Bacon’s “making it” period, other than being a dick to best friend Michael McKean and driving a Porsche instead of a quirky AMC Gremlin. The AMC Gremlin has a lot of personality onscreen; unfortunately, the film never makes it feel like Bacon’s car. But Bacon’s real success, working with soulless Hollywood producer J.T. Walsh and his gang… not on screen. We see the build-up to it, but not the actual scenes.

Then it’s just fall out.

I’m not sure where Picture’s at its worst. Probably when Bacon runs out on girlfriend Emily Longstreth to hook up with starlet Teri Hatcher, only to discover Hatcher’s got a boyfriend (something the film never addresses again), then comes home and forces Longstreth to break up with him. Unfortunately, Bacon’s already got a paper-thin character, so it makes him unlikable for a long stretch. His eventual redemption won’t even come from within; the film will bring out one of the more successful—though not really successful—big swing performances to facilitate it.

Blaming Picture on Bacon’s too easy, though. He’s just playing the role as written.

Most of the time, Big Picture’s a toothless, tepid, inconsistent, lackadaisical mess. The hopefully intentional anti-climactic third act should give the film a lot of character, but Picture doesn’t have the cameos for it. Instead, it’s a Hollywood satire where the best they could do is Eddie Albert and Elliot Gould for cameos. And Gould’s co-star Jason Gould’s dad; the film oddly doesn’t address nepotism. Though there’s a lot it doesn’t address. Longstreth’s not Hollywood, so she’s okay. Bacon’s fellow film student Jennifer Jason Leigh’s too avant-garde for mainstream, so she’s not Hollywood. But the other women are all pretty terrible. Hatcher’s an unthinking succubus, Tracy Brooks Swope’s a soulless studio exec-wannabe, Fran Drescher’s a greedy wife.

Thank goodness Longstreth’s an angel of redemption. She’s also way too good for how the movie treats her. For the first act, she’s an accessory to Bacon in his scenes. In the early second half, during their breakup, she shows some personality, but then she ingloriously exits so Bacon can complete his move to the Dark Side.

It’s unclear if Picture forgets its subplots and supporting cast members or if it just didn’t have the budget for them. It’s a Hollywood movie where they’ve got limited time on the lot.

Again, since Bacon’s just playing the part as written—an Ohio farm boy who can’t be expected to be responsible or accountable when fame and fortune are in grasp—it’s not really his fault. He’s not believable as a film school wunderkind who desperately wants to make a Bergman movie, mainly because Big Picture doesn’t acknowledge he’s trying to make a Bergman movie (without having any insight into the subject, which is a whole other thing).

Longstreth’s fine. The part doesn’t let her be good. She’s outstanding a few times, especially in the movie fantasies Bacon occasionally has to pad time. He’ll imagine he’s in a noir or something. Bacon’s clearly miscast in the scenes, and Longstreth’s great in the one she gets to play in.

Speaking of miscast… poor Walsh. He’s an obviously capable actor in a part he’s entirely wrong for. The script doesn’t help him either.

Don Franklin’s legit good as his flunky. It’s too bad he doesn’t get more.

McKean’s sort of around as Bacon’s conscious for a while. He and wife Kim Miyori are expecting their first child, providing a contrast to Bacon’s pursuit of Hollywood success. McKean—who co-wrote—is the best of the main cast.

Hatcher’s fine as the succubus. Not her fault she’s one-dimensional. The movie asks a lot of Leigh, and she delivers most of it, but it needs her to be a magician, and Picture frequently proves magic isn’t real. Hollywood or otherwise.

Guest’s direction is middling. He relies on David Nichtern’s not quirky enough score too much for personality. Then when movie music becomes a plot point, Nichtern’s score is an obvious missed meta opportunity. Ditto Jeffrey Sur’s competent but unimpressive photography (McKean’s a cinematographer trying to make it, and Bacon promises he’ll take him along to Hollywood).

Martin Short’s got an extended uncredited cameo as Bacon’s agent. He’s the best thing in the otherwise bland Picture.