Category: ★★½

Emergency Declaration (2021, Han Jae-rim)

Emergency Declaration is a disaster movie made like a horror movie. It’s not just any disaster movie, either; it’s Airport meets Airplane but with bioterrorism. The bioterrorism doesn’t have to do with the horror movie; it’s all the investigation procedural. The horror movie experience is entirely reserved for the victims (and the audience). Declaration doesn’t thrill, it doesn’t excite, it terrorizes. From the start.

As we’re meeting busy cop dad Song Kang-ho (whose wife Woo Mi-hwa went on vacation with girlfriends without telling him), co-pilot Kim Nam-Gil, single parent Lee Byung-hun, and seeing the flight attendants and class trips arrive, we’re also meeting Yim Si-wan. He’s asking the desk clerk weird questions about the flights because the first act of Declaration is all about how lax Incheon Airport security is going to cause lots of problems.

Pretty soon, Lee’s adorable daughter, Kim Bo-min, has to go to the bathroom and goes to the boys because the class trip is waiting in line for the women’s. In the can, she just happens to see Yim slicing himself open so he can put a vial inside to get through security. Again, it’s Airport, only with bioterrorism instead of a bomb. And then it’s Airplanebecause Lee’s actually a hotshot pilot who burned out and is now a bit of a drunk. Luckily adorable Kim keeps him in line.

Now, by the time Kim sees Yim mutilating himself, it becomes clear director Han isn’t stopping the terror any time soon. Especially not when cop dad Song goes on a call about some TikToker threatening to do something to an airplane. Song pretty quickly discovers evidence, and it’s time to start talking about turning the plane around. Except no one listens to Song for a while.

But it’s okay because we’ve established the pilots made sure to get extra fuel (bad weather in Japan, which comes up again).

So we’re just waiting for Yim to do something and to see how it affects the lovable or at least sympathetic cast of passengers. Especially Kim, because Yim decides to terrorize her.

Now, Yim’s just an incel. He’s some other things on top of it, but when the news eventually compares him to someone else, it’s a U.S. mass shooter incel. Declaration came out in 2021, so in the middle of Covid-19, but you’d never know it. It’s a recent movie where Rona doesn’t happen (wow, did South Korea do things better than the U.S.—everyone’s crowded together in this movie, on plane or not), but it’s about bioterrorism and how people react to communicative disease. So it’s this weird, in-direct commentary on Rona only not, starring a generic incel, only not.

Or it would be such a commentary if Han weren’t just making a terrorizing movie about a lot of people dying horrible deaths and no one really being able to do anything to help, especially not over-promoted men, the United States, or the Japanese. Though Song’s somewhat shoe-horned in so they don’t have to give Jeon Do-yeon too much to do as the government minister in charge of the response. The movie decides in the third act she’s really super-duper important, only they don’t give her enough in the first act. She makes sense; she’s navigating the bioterrorism thriller. Lee’s on the plane doing his Ted Striker thing. Song’s around like it’s Taking of Pelham One Two Three. They needed first and third act drama, so they gave it to Song, while at least some of it should’ve been Jeon’s.

When I say director Han’s trying to terrorize, he’s not being coy about it. Whether or not the unfortunately constant lens flare is supposed to be ominous as far as foreshadowing (spoiler, yes), the editing and music are just about scaring the audience. Lee Byung-woo’s score is excellent. It’s almost entirely just horror movie slasher stalker music. Relentless.

Then the editing—from director Han, Lee Kang-il, and Kim Woo-hyun—cuts to and from characters in moments of incredible stress and tragedy, and fear. Whether they’re in the ground or the air, it’s just about scared people in their worst moments. Han brings incredible severity to this fictional remake of Airport. It’d be an opportunistic melodrama if it were a true story. But it’s not, so it’s just terrorizing.

And it works out pretty well. Declaration starts cracking somewhere in the second half, and it’s falling apart by the third. The film forecasts a lot of the story (intentionally) and occasionally drags things out too much.

There’s some excellent acting. Song and Woo have some great phone call scenes, Lee’s an awesome imperfect hero, and Yim’s never not scary. Han directs the hell of the film with outstanding CGI plane special effects. It’s gorgeous.

It’s also manipulative, and a little insincere, but—as with everything else Declaration does—expertly so.

Park Row (1952, Samuel Fuller)

Writer, director, and producer Fuller is very committed to the bit with Park Row. He almost pulls the film out of its spiraling third act with an audacious epilogue, which ties back into the opening, with its (uncredited) narration setting the scene. The year is 1886, the place is New York City, and there live the finest men in the world—the American Newspaperman. Emphasis on man. Row’s going to have some very interesting misogyny, but it always comes with enough to qualify it down to class commentary. Fuller never lets the film be too mean to leading lady Mary Welch because she’s the love interest too.

Plus, imagine if a dynamic, self-made man competed with Welch in business and ideology and eventually won her over to his side. Fuller gets away with a lot in Park Row and it’s always because he’s got the right lead—Gene Evans. Fuller takes almost twenty minutes to give Evans his first close-up, even though the movie’s narration hands the action over to him. He’s just a newspaperman, after all, he’s not the one making the story, just the one telling it. Except he disagrees with his paper swaying a murder trial against the defendant, putting Evans in paper owner Welch’s sights. The film doesn’t precisely explain Welch’s backstory, but it plays like she’s inherited the paper from a dead father and has been smartly trying to make money with the paper instead of reporting the news like an American Newspaperman.

There’s one scene where kindly old reporter Herbert Heyes gives Welch a startling dressing down, weaponizing the cultural misogyny against her. It’s intense and, like one of the love scenes, impressive what Fuller can accomplish given the constraints. He’s doing a costume drama about a newspaper, only he’s doing it as an action buddy picture. It’s not a Western; it’s a North-Eastern. Or something.

At one point, Evans drags a guy through the streets and beats the shit out of him against a Ben Franklin statue because Evans is righteous. He’s surrounded by an entourage who eagerly acknowledge he’s the next great American Newspaperman. But Fuller never lets Evans grandstand; instead, he focuses on Evans’s quiet idealism. Given Evans spends the first ten minutes of the film mostly just mulling over the chatter around him, the quiet bit works. Much better than when Evans starts talking to his newspaper.

The film would actually have been able to get away with some of that nonsense if the third act weren’t such a mess. Fuller douses all his goodwill in gasoline and lights a match in a few seconds. It’s an impressive capitulation; turns out Park Row didn’t have a third act, after all. The first act had Evans setting up the paper with his gang of newspaper and journalism enthusiasts, second act is the rivalry between Evans and Welch (with a great, Statue of Liberty-related subplot), third act is the rushed wrap-up then the film’s Brobdingnagian flexing finale.

Row’s obviously on a budget. They didn’t even have matte painters; instead, the backgrounds down the blocks are barely three-dimensional models. Beautifully made, not particularly realistic. The block and a half set is otherwise exceptional. Fuller and cinematographer John L. Russell frequently weave around the set, into buildings, out of buildings, and they’re having a ball with it. Initially, it plays to the costume picture angle, showcasing the sets and costumes (production design by Theobold Holsopple), then it distinguishes Row from that genre, then it goes all out action when Evans starts kicking ass.

Evans has some incredible dialogue to pass, and he manages it successfully; his performance is spectacular. Shame the part doesn’t keep up. Welch is uneven but rather good at playing sincere and thoughtful, which works to make up for it. She and Evans also have chemistry, even though they really shouldn’t.

In addition to Heyes, Evans’s gang includes Forrest Taylor as his financier, Neyle Morrow as his cartoonist, Dick Elliot as the newsroom editor, Don Orlando as the Italian typesetter who doesn’t read or write English, and Dee Pollock as the swell kid who wants to be an American Newspaperman. They’re delightful together. Oh, and Bela Kovacs. Kovacs is an inventor. Park Row isn’t about a newspaperman striking out on his own and struggling to find the right idea; it’s about the messiah of American Journalism just needing a blank check. The movie and Fuller are rabidly optimistic.

Park Row comes crashing down at the end, but Fuller builds something really impressive right up until then.

Scream Blacula Scream (1973, Bob Kelljan)

Scream Blacula Scream has a dreadful moment during a crucial sequence, and even though the film takes the hit, it somehow can build up almost enough goodwill—in mere seconds—it could easily succeed. The ending’s a little too confused, though, with a very questionable end credits song and design. But the film’s excellent throughout, surviving a bold, misguided attempt at camp and then a wishy-washy seventies finish.

The film’s got five spectacular elements. First, there’s lead William Marshall. He gets to play a tortured vampire, but without a subplot about reuniting with a reincarnated wife. He’s just trying to get by in 1973, and he’s willing to manipulate, maim, and murder to do it. Scream takes almost right until the third act becomes a cop concerned about his girlfriend hanging out with a vampire and decides to do something about it. Until then, it’s Marshall’s movie, with the deliberate script giving him a lot of space to just act his way through.

Second spectacular element is director Kelljan. While Scream’s scary when it needs to be and generally disquieting when tasked, Kelljan also directs the heck out of the actors, starting with Marshall. After Marshall, Kelljan’s attention is mainly on leading lady Pam Grier, but Kelljan pays attention to everyone. He takes all the victims seriously, and there are so, so many victims in Scream. The first movie didn’t show Marshall building his army of the undead; this one does so in detail, with Marshall’s mistreatment of his “soldiers” being part of his character development.

Third spectacular is Grier. She’s either playing brainwashed, naive, or infinitely altruistic. Grier’s a voodoo priestess, and Marshall wants her to exorcize him. She can’t say no to him, even as the body count around her starts rising. Marshall’s come across Grier through his first victim, her voodoo “cult” rival, Richard Lawson. Lawson’s fourth lead, though Grier’s usually alternating with her ex-cop boyfriend, Don Mitchell.

Mitchell’s the only weak performance in the film. He’s not unlikable; he’s just not good.

However, once the fourth spectacular shows up, Mitchell becomes a lot more welcome because it means more Michael Conrad. Conrad is the police lieutenant (credited as a sheriff in the end titles, like they forgot they weren’t taking place in L.A. again), and Mitchell was his star detective. The latter retired young to get into African cultural studies or something. It’s unclear why Mitchell’s incredibly wealthy.

Conrad’s an absolute delight, and he enthusiastically lifts Mitchell in their scenes together. Conrad doesn’t believe in vampires, while Mitchell can’t think of any other explanation. Well, there’s a brief period they’re investigating Grier, Mitchell’s girlfriend, because of the voodoo, but it gets quickly forgotten thanks to vampire antics.

The last spectacular is a shared one because caveats—Isidore Manofsky’s photography and Fabien D. Tordjmann’s editing. Manofsky’s photography is absolutely fantastic and wonderfully complements Kelljan’s direction. Except for the day-for-night shots. They’re terrible, and there are way too many of them. So, caveat.

Tordjmann doesn’t have quite the same caveat because the editing’s never inadequate or inept like the day-for-night. It’s just okay. Then the third act has some breathlessly cut sequences.

Add them together, and they’re spectacular.

Good music from Bill Marx, nice supporting turn from Lynne Moody.

Scream Blacula Scream’s good. It’s nearly really good, but it’s still damned impressive.

The Big Sick (2017, Michael Showalter)

The Big Sick is the true story of lead and co-writer Kumail Nanjiani and his wife, also co-writer Emily V. Gordon. Nanjiani plays himself in Sick because it’s a star vehicle explicitly for him. Gordon doesn’t appear. Zoe Kazan plays her. Gordon co-writing the film adds a couple of extra layers to the film; the most obvious is how much of a Nanjiani vehicle it’s supposed to be, and the second is how it portrays the couples’ parents.

While the actual events of Sick took place in 2007, the film came out ten years later with the latest in laptop and mobile phone technologies. The visual voicemail scene isn’t true! But it also makes the anti-Brown person racism Nanjiani experiences different than it would’ve been ten years earlier. The always hilarious (not kidding, every one is a winner) 9/11 gags would play so much differently earlier. Big Sick did not forecast the future very well with white male bigots either.

Anyway.

The film starts with Nanjiani as a burgeoning stand-up comic. The film’s never clear who’s supposed to be the funniest on stage, making it a little like a Godzilla movie where there’s no rhyme or reason to why the supporting kaiju can beat up the other supporting kaiju. He’s not supposed to be the funniest, but he’s definitely the funniest. And then some of the people who are supposed to be funny aren’t?

He regularly goes to dinner at his parents’ house, and they’re devout Pakistani Muslims. Well, devout, but there’s swearing. Anupam Kher plays the dad, Zenobia Shroff plays the mom. Shroff’s an overbearing Muslim mom who’s just trying to get Nanjiani to go to law school and marry a Pakistani girl. She brings them over to dinner to audition; Nanjiani keeps all their headshots in a cigar box. Kher’s bit is he thinks he’s cooler than his sons.

They’re not going to ever get anything. Kher at least doesn’t get a cold diss; Shroff gets a cold diss.

However, as the white parents, Holly Hunter and Ray Romano get best supporting bait. Hunter’s fantastic, especially as she and Nanjiani bond. Romano’s excellent, too; it’s simultaneously more impressive than Hunter (because of course she can do this part) while not technically being better. Good thing they wouldn’t be competing for the same nomination.

So, one night in the club, Kazan heckles Nanjiani, and when he sees her at the bar later, he picks her up. She’s a manic pixie dream girl who goes to the University of Chicago for a therapy master’s; she can keep up with Nanjiani’s constant comedian barbs, just like his pals (even better than his doofus roommate, Kurt Braunohler, who’s never as funny as the film thinks). After what she intended to be a one-night stand, they start dating.

Only Nanjiani doesn’t tell his family about her and doesn’t tell her about his family. He definitely doesn’t tell Kazan how mom Shroff wouldn’t stand for him dating a white girl and how he’s actively in the arranged marriage market.

Once Kazan finds out, she ends the relationship, leading to Nanjiani using what he’s learned picking her up to use on other comedy club patrons. Meanwhile, Kazan gets a mystery illness, and eventually, Nanjiani comes up on the phone list for potential support staff. When he gets to the hospital, Kazan crashes, and Nanjiani has to falsify a medical release to allow her intubation. It saves her life, so I guess there are no repercussions.

He calls Hunter and Romano to come into town from North Carolina (they’re apparently North Carolina liberals). After realizing they know how the relationship ended, Nanjiani eventually bonds with Hunter and Romano through a shared intense experience. Lots of great scenes for the three of them, easily the best written in the film.

Does Gordon wake up? Does Nanjiani’s “House M.D.” impression save the day? Oddly, it might, but the film entirely glosses over it.

The third act’s a mess, with Nanjiani making big life decisions and everything related to them playing out off-screen. The film’s got a problem with presenting time passing (odd, since Nanjiani has strict time-based dating rules to juggle white girls and disapproving family), and there’s not anywhere near enough character development on the supporting cast. Given the film’s got two extremely well-paced acts, first with Nanjiani and Kazan, second with Nanjiani, Hunter, and Romano, it’s even more disappointing when the third fumbles.

There’s a nothing subplot about Nanjiani’s one-person show about growing up Pakistani, which ought to be important but isn’t. Though, given Kazan’s not important either, nor are Shroff and Kher, so it going nowhere is par for the course.

Then the end credits post-script reveal the real story—for Kazan (and Gordon), anyway—came after the movie’s events. And then, when you see the actual timeline, it’s even worse.

As a vehicle for Nanjiani, The Big Sick’s perfect. Ditto as Oscar bait for Holly Hunter and Roy Romano. But it’s just a disaffected male redemption movie.

And Showalter’s direction is exceptionally pedestrian. The film’s technically competent and all, but it’s a good thing it’s got a well-written, talky script; otherwise, there’d be nothing doing.

Beans (2020, Tracey Deer)

Beans is an almost outstanding, always pretty good coming-of-age story with a historical event weaving its way through the narrative. The film tracks Indigenous Canadian tweenager Kiawentiio over summer 1990. The film starts with her interviewing to go into a prestigious (and very white) high school, setting up a contrast between her actual name (Tekehentahkhwa) and her nickname (Beans). It’s essential, but it quickly gets back-burnered for the historical events.

So, in addition to Kiawentiio dealing with wanting to go to this high school, which also pleases mom Rainbow Dickerson but causes tension with dad Joel Montgrand, she’s also got to deal with the exceptional trauma of a summer-long stand-off between her tribe and the white Quebecois government. A neighboring town wants to tear out an Indigenous graveyard to extend their golf course. Kiawentiio watches the situation rapidly escalate in person; the film has a gentle start, then an absolutely harrowing sequence where Kiawentiio and adorable little sister Violah Beauvais have to navigate armed police tear gassing and raiding an Indigenous protest camp.

The film uses mostly news footage from the time, which reveals many white Canadians to be racist pieces of shit (though it’s incredible to see so many guns around and no Brown people murdered). Though the whites also attack the Indigenous people with tacit police consent, it’s not so different from the United States.

Director Deer leans heavily on the period news footage, letting the clips edify the viewer on the situation. Unfortunately, the footage doesn’t necessarily correspond to Kiawentiio’s experiences over the summer. And the news footage isn’t a great way of telling the history. The third act is full of deus ex machinas (deuses ex machina?), including the stand-off resolving in the news clips without sufficient transition information. Deer takes the story from A to B to C to E. D seems very important.

Or, if it’s not important for Kiawentiio, why was it so important for the film? Beans only runs ninety-two minutes, and ten of it has to be the news clips. While Kiawentiio narrating through essay or journal or something would’ve leaned on tropes, they’re tropes for a good reason.

But until the third act, Beans is smooth sailing. The standoff aggravates Kiawentiio’s cultural crisis even before she discovers how racist white people get. Following dad Montgrand telling her to toughen up, Kiawentiio befriends local delinquent and bully Paulina Alexis so Alexis can give her toughness lessons. After some false starts, physical assault, and bribery, Alexis agrees and mentors Kiawentiio in breaking bad.

Some of the deus ex machina involves Alexis, who gets a last-minute character reveal to explain her behavior. The friendship’s a reasonably strong character relationship throughout (Kiawentiio and little sister Beauvais is better but gets less attention), so the ending resolutions come off incredibly rushed. Even amid “Beans”’s rushes, Alexis gets the briefest conclusion. It’s too bad.

Deer’s a fine director. Sometimes, cinematographer Marie Davignon can’t keep up, which is too bad. The film always looks okay, but sometimes that okay comes with asterisks. Good music from Mario Sévigny and editing by Sophie Farkas Bolla. If only for a more balanced third act, “Beans” would be a big success.

As is, it’s an almost great historical character study. Kiawentiio’s excellent; there aren’t any slouches, with mom Dickerson quite good despite an eventually underwritten part.

Just wish that third act worked.

The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas (1982, Colin Higgins)

The funny thing about The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas is how much doesn’t actually work and how much of it appears to be entirely director Higgins’s fault. Higgins is no good at storytelling in summary (affable but bland narrator Jim Nabors can’t be helping things), and the musical numbers suggest he’s more an occasionally lucky enthusiast and not a musical director. For instance, Higgins’s direction of star Dolly Parton’s last song is a complete misfire and only saved thanks to Parton and Burt Reynolds. Worse, it comes right after Higgins and (well, maybe mostly) songwriter Parton save the previous song. So Higgins can do it; he just doesn’t do it when it theoretically counts most.

But only theoretically, thank goodness, because the most crucial scene for Parton and Reynolds comes much earlier. They go out on a very long date, no singing, no antics, just the two of them hanging out, drinking beers in the back of Reynolds’s pickup, and talking about how much they dig each other. It’s a fantastic scene, and you spend the rest of the movie wishing there’d be another one.

Reynolds is the town sheriff, Parton’s the town madam. When the present action starts, they’ve been frequent but not exclusive lovers for several years. There’s a lengthy, awkward opening narration montage with Nabors explaining the history of the whorehouse, from before Texas became white Christian nationalist (versus just white nationalist). The house hosts everyone—presidents, farmers, football players—and Parton gives readily to local charities; also, how could anyone not like Parton?

So when trouble comes, it’s from out-of-town in the delightful form of Dom DeLuise. He’s a consumer advocate (Whorehouse demonizes Ralph Nader, which is something to behold) who’s out to get the whorehouse closed down. DeLuise is obnoxious, energetic, and quite good. However, he finds himself in some of Higgins’s worst musical numbers, as DeLuise has a musical theater entourage who follows him around and performs. Higgins can’t crack the absurdism of it.

Also quite good is Charles Durning as the Texas governor who hides out instead of answering questions about DeLuise v. Parton: Dolly of Justice. He gets a great song and dance number, perhaps the film’s only example of good editing. Whorehouse has four credited editors and lots of assistants.

Occasionally, the musical numbers will succeed despite themselves. There’s a way too long “football players dancing excitedly about going to the brothel” sequence, except the dancing’s so good, and Higgins knows it, so it works out. It’s incredible since the song’s terrible. Whorehouse has at least two good songs, and they’re Parton’s, not the musical’s. None of the musical’s songs stand out except Parton and Reynolds’s duet, which is more cute than good. The film then ends with a reprise of an early song, and it’s just a reminder the song isn’t very good.

Acting-wise, Reynolds is probably the better of the two leads. Parton seems occasionally lost, which makes sense, but it’s always only temporary, and she’s infinitely likable. Unfortunately, neither really gets an arc, though Reynolds gets more to do (outside busty musical numbers).

None of Parton’s girls get characters, but housekeeper Theresa Merritt is good. Reynolds’s supporting cast is mostly town leaders; none stand out except Barry Corbin, who’s got a minimal, but distinctive role.

The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas seems like a can’t miss, but Higgins’s inability to do a musical hurts it. Plus, the songs. The original songs aren’t great. They should’ve had Parton rewrite the thing.

Downton Abbey: A New Era (2022, Simon Curtis)

Downton Abbey, the film franchise, has some singular traits (they’re not all problems); most of them related to it being an immediate sequel to a television show, but also the television show’s viewer demographics. Thanks to those demographics, A New Era can get away with a slightly disingenuous subtitle—it’s more of a “sure, maybe, come next to see if anything’s changed”—and lazy title design. When the end credits come up, they’ve got a title card any capable intern wouldn’t have shipped, but it doesn’t matter. Another of the franchise’s traits is the low bar they have to clear. The film’s got a cast of thirty capable actors; so long as Julian Fellowes’s script keeps their material interesting and the plotting straightforward, New Era can never be particularly bad.

Obviously, relying on competent writing and acting will limit its potential as well, which doesn’t even get into whether or not A New Era’s going to be comprehensible to viewers who haven’t seen the previous sixty hours of content. Spoiler, it’s not. Thanks to the acting, some of Fellowes’s callbacks would probably work without context, but New Era’s not interested in being a jumping-on point.

New Era takes place a year after the last film and has a profoundly requisite morbid plot line. The previous film set up Maggie Smith’s character, the family matriarch, not returning for the next film (this film). Because Smith was eighty-five and they didn’t want to recast if she passed away before the next movie. So, already unpleasant. Well, she didn’t pass away, so they’ve got an entire subplot about her waiting around to die. It “works,” with Smith getting in some great scenes, but it’s… a lot. They handle it well, probably franchise trailblazing; it’s just inherently somber, the character and the actor’s fate so entwined.

Of course, Smith’s not the only actor they’ve got to worry about aging. There are a couple dozen others the film’s tracking. The opening titles, listing actor after actor (in alphabetical order), play over a montage—Allen Leech is marrying Tuppence Middleton, following up on their romance from the previous movie. The montage skips around the cast, establishing who’s got a baby now, who doesn’t, who’s married, and who still isn’t. A New Era feels like two episodes of the show smooshed together, with a very special conclusion tacked on to the end; the opening, however, feels like the end of another episode, one we haven’t seen.

The film’s going to take a while to get going, too, checking in and establishing the various subplots—principally, assistant cook Sophie McShera’s complicated home life, which involves her and her husband Michael Fox living with her dead first husband’s father, Paul Copley. Their subplot is the only one entirely disengaged from the rest of the film’s goings-on. Penelope Wilton’s got a tiny subplot where she’s going through Smith’s estate to get it ready for her passing, but nothing of her own; Elizabeth McGovern’s subplot (the only ill-advised one in the film) starts tacked on to Wilton’s before branching out in the late second act. Everything’s wrapped up together, which Fellowes’s script handles with startling ease.

Everything else has to do with or spins out of one of the main plots. First, there’s Smith inheriting a French villa; she can’t make the trip to meet with the angry soon-to-be-former owners, Jonathan Zaccaï and Nathalie Baye, so a large contingent on the regular cast will go on that mission in her stead. Then, at the Abbey itself, persistent money problems have led Michelle Dockery to rent the property to a film production crew led by director Hugh Dancy. New Era dabbles with the two layers of filmmaking, the film within a film and New Era itself, but it’s like Fellowes knew director Curtis wouldn’t be able to pull it off. But there are a couple excellent moments where one informs the other.

The French away team is Hugh Bonneville, McGovern, Leech, Middleton, Laura Carmichael, Harry Hadden-Paton, Jim Carter, Brendan Coyle, Raquel Cassidy, and Imelda Staunton. So ten regular cast, plus Zaccaï and Baye. Zaccaï’s the son of the recently deceased, who’s convinced there’s some story behind why his dad left the villa to Smith, who knew his father for a week decades before. Baye’s the justifiably unhappy about it widow. Their arc will be the film’s most complex because they’re not main cast, so they can’t get too much time, but Fellowes isn’t going to half-ass it either.

There are some excellent comedic scenes for Carter, the proper English butler literally drafted for the mission (by wife Phyllis Logan to get him out of the estate for the film crew), with some lovely character moments for everyone else. The trip provides the opportunity for the downstairs characters—Carter, Coyle, Cassidy—to interact outside the norms, in addition to some mixing with the upstairs cast. It’s okay but dramatically inert; it’s all set up for Bonneville’s understated aristocrat fretting arc and McGovern’s subplot.

The filming at Downton plot is the clear A plot, particularly since it gets the special guest stars—Dancy, Dominic West, and Laura Haddock. Again, Dancy’s the director, West and Haddock are his stars; they’re making a silent movie just when sound is taking the cinema by storm. Dockery and Dancy quickly become partners, first logistically, then more conceptually, as Dockery gets involved in filmmaking. She won’t be the only one—lovable Kevin Doyle will have a significant part in the production as well. Meanwhile, West shows what appears to be a sincere interest in Robert James-Collier, whose boyfriend from the last movie married a woman for cover in between films.

The moviemaking subplot also has starstruck McShera and Joanne Froggatt learning screen idol Haddock’s a lot more complicated in real life—though West’s nice to everyone; it’s a fantastic performance and just what the film needs to offset Haddock’s additional drama (she’s got a Cockney accent, which doesn’t match her glamorous screen persona) and Dancy mooning over Dockery.

Dockery’s got offscreen husband troubles; another problem with doing a movie sequel to your TV show… what if you can’t get all the actors you need back?

The film production plot works out well, resolving just in time for the film’s big swing finale.

At various points throughout the film, one has to wonder how New Era would play if director Curtis were concerned with anything but aggrandizing a TV show for the big screen. The film takes every advantage of its wide, Panavision aspect ratio, which would be more groundbreaking if TV shows (including “Downton Abbey”) weren’t already widescreen. Still, Curtis and cinematographer Andrew Dunn make sure every frame’s chockfull. Doesn’t quite make up for Curtis not having any personality, but he’s got a pragmatic job here.

The two plots even out—partially due to that iffy McGovern subplot—with the finale as the film’s make-or-break. They succeed with it, bringing New Era about as closer to standalone than previously imaginable. It’s a particular accomplishment for the actors, who bring the gravitas.

I do hope they figure out a better subtitle for the next entry.

But, otherwise, Downton—thanks to Fellowes and the cast—remains in fine shape.

The Sixth Sense (1999, M. Night Shyamalan)

Setting aside the twists and reveals, The Sixth Sense is about three character relationships. There’s child psychologist Bruce Willis and troubled youth Haley Joel Osment, there’s Osment and mom Toni Collette, there’s Willis and wife Olivia Williams. The film opens with Willis and Williams celebrating him receiving an award for his work, which she thinks is more important than him, as he’s been neglecting her to do that work. They get past the unpleasantness to some awards night amorousness, only for a home invasion to interrupt them.

One of Willis’s former patients, now grown up, has broken in to let the award-winner know he doesn’t help all the kids and shoots Willis for his trouble. Donnie Wahlberg plays the intruder; it’s basically a cameo but very effective.

Fast forward a few months, and Willis is still recovering from the assault. He can’t keep track of time anymore, including his first appointment with Osment. Osment has a similar case file to Wahlberg, and Willis sees helping Osment as a chance to redeem himself. Except Osment’s not willing to trust Willis with his secrets, including explaining his strange behavior at home and school to Willis. Instead, Osment just scares Collette, who’s overwhelmed and trying to stay afloat since her husband walked out on them.

Meanwhile, Willis’s emphasis on his work has led to further distance from Williams, who ignores his tepid attempts at apologies and explanations.

Obviously, the film’s twists factor in, but not in how the characters experience the events or how the actors essay their roles. There are four layers of Sixth Sense: Willis’s experience, Osment’s experience, Williams and Collette’s experience (they’re just girls, after all), and then writer and director Shyamalan’s actuality. What’s impressive about the film isn’t how everything comes together in the third act—the third act is a series of stumbles, in fact—but how well Shyamalan paces Osment and Willis’s relationship. It takes time for Willis to earn Osment’s trust, for Willis to separate Osment from his professional expectations from Osment; once Osment trusts Willis enough to tell him the truth about what’s going on, the film’s well into the second act. Everything in the film changes at that point, with Shyamalan now showing Osment’s experiences instead of showing everyone else observing Osment’s experiences.

It’s good enough to make up for multiple fizzles of the third act, where Shyamalan whiffs on resolving every single one of the character relationship resolves. The one for Willis and Osment is the best and only stumbles because Willis’s getting relationship advice from a little kid, and it’s not great relationship advice. It works rather conveniently within the boundaries of the film’s twists, but it’s far from a eureka moment. Then Osment and Collette’s resolution is too little, too late, too contrived. In particular, it’s too bad for Collette, who the film wrests through emotions without reward.

The resolve for Williams and Willis is the big one and… Unfortunately, Shyamalan overestimates the chemistry between the actors. Especially since they only have the one big scene together at the beginning, then everything else is detached. Given all Shyamalan’s constraints, it’s reasonably effective but not good.

Osment’s the film’s obvious standout. Until his trite resolution—which Shyamalan drops in like an afterthought—everything Osment does is phenomenal, whether he’s dealing with the usual—school bullies, sad mom—or the abnormal, like crusading therapist Willis, not to mention once the supernatural comes into play. Thanks to the film’s structure, Osment’s the only actor who’s got to maintain a performance through big reveals, and he ably does so. Without Osment, there’s no movie.

Willis is fine. Shyamalan over-directs Willis’s pensive reflection scenes, which works out thanks to Tak Fujimoto’s gorgeous, muted but lush photography, and James Newton Howard’s score. Willis rarely gets to do his charm offensives (Osment shuts them down), and, given the twists and turns, it’s not much of a role in the end.

Similarly, Collette’s got snippets of great scenes, but since she’s usually only seen from Osment’s perspective, there are some hard limits on her part.

Williams is even more limited. She’s not bad, especially since Shyamalan writes her as selfish. There’s also her unaddressed age difference with Willis, which has a lot of connotations thanks to how Shyamalan fills in their backstory with flashback devices; those connotations then inform her behavior in the present action, at the beginning of the film, and not complimentarily.

The film’s got some rocky stretches and some silly stretches—not to mention Shyamalan writes Willis as incapable of handling kids with real problems (it’s like a PG-13 story set in a PG world)—but the core relationship between troubled kid Osment and caring doctor Willis gets it through. That third act’s a mess, though.

The Intruder (1962, Roger Corman)

The Intruder has third act problems of the deus ex machina nature, and they’re actually welcome. If the film figured out how to finish better, it’d be more challenging to talk about. It’s already an exceptionally unpleasant experience.

William Shatner gets top-billing as the title character. He’s a slick, charming, clean-cut Northern (well, Western—he’s originally from California) white supremacist who heads to a Southern town to stir up trouble thanks to a recent integration ruling.

Director Corman and writer Charles Beaumont (adapting his novel and co-starring as the pro-integration school principal) never humanize Shatner’s character. They initially make a joke about it—he helps a little girl off the bus—but then they immediately establish he’s an evil person in search of stupid evil people who need a leader.

He’s in luck; the town’s full of stupid evil people. So Shatner works out a deal to organize the white trash for Southern blue blood Robert Emhardt, who’d never, and do something about the impending integration.

Unfortunately for everyone, Shatner doesn’t realize how dangerous stupid makes evil people, even the respectable ones like Emhardt.

The film juxtaposes Shatner’s story with local newspaperman Frank Maxwell. Maxwell starts the film believing you follow the law even if it says to integrate. Seeing how Shatner affects his fellow townsfolk, Maxwell becomes an integrationist himself. Even though it might lose him wife Katherine Smith. They have a particularly painful scene together where Smith says she’ll stop being so racist because she has to do what her husband says. Intruder’s solution for racism is always patriarchy and some toxic masculinity for effect. But only for those who need it. Otherwise, just patriarchy.

When the film’s heading towards some kind of showdown between Shatner and Maxwell, it’s on solid ground. The juxtaposition works. But Shatner can’t leave well enough alone—he’s already done some heavy petting with Maxwell’s teenage daughter, Beverly Lunsford, if not more, but he also decides he needs to rape Jeanne Cooper. She’s married to traveling salesman Leo Gordon, and since Gordon’s machismo threatens Shatner, he needs to assault Cooper when Gordon’s a way to prove he’s a man.

It’s an exceptionally unpleasant scene in a film with nothing but unpleasant scenes.

But it puts Shatner and Gordon on a collision course, which changes the dynamics. It’s not about Shatner being a racist piece of shit and Maxwell realizing racist pieces of shit are bad; it’s about Gordon and Shatner’s sales styles. And, of course, Shatner assaulting Cooper. But more the sales styles.

There’s also the story of Black high school student Charles Barnes, who gets caught up in the hostilities. The film avoids putting a face on the white students or their parents (outside Lunsford). It’s too busy implying the racist white people aren’t the white school parents. They’re the barely employed white trash who have time to drop everything and make racist picket signs to threaten children.

The third act problems save the film from an unsuccessful scene where Maxwell appeals to the good whites because Corman and Beaumont know it’d play hollow. The resolution they do find, however, plays contrived. Even if there’s a lot of good acting in it.

Obviously, completing the performances is tricky because they’re primarily mundane villains. Terrifying ordinary white guy racists. Maybe they’ve got bad teeth, but nobody in the movie, save Shatner probably, has good teeth.

Gordon’s good, Cooper’s good, Maxwell and Lunsford are good. Lunsford gets a weak part, however. Though she does at least get to have a showdown with her mom’s racist dad, Walter Kurtz, who berates son-in-law Maxwell for not being racist enough.

It’s all distressingly realistic.

Shatner’s performance is exceptional. He’s got maybe one iffy scene—a rally—but only because you can’t believe anyone would fall for such loud stupidity. Or at least you didn’t used to be able to believe it. Reality hasn’t let The Intruder age. It just kept making it more and more true to life.

Corman’s direction’s good. He and cinematographer Taylor Byars do a lot with focus and contrast. There are some weird things—lack of high school establishing shots, for example—but they always seem like they’re probably budget-related.

Good music from Herman Stein.

The Intruder’s pretty good—with that incredible Shatner performance—but it’s got a lot of problems, so it’s almost better it’s not indispensable overall.

This post is part of the Corman-Verse Blogathon hosted by Gill of Realweegiemidget Reviews and Barry of Cinematic Catharsis.

Star Trek: The Motion Picture (1979, Robert Wise), the restored director’s edition

Star Trek: The Motion Picture: The Restored Director’s Edition occasionally feels like a fan project. Or at least a temp project. Like the new opening titles, set in gold. They look like they were done using an iPhone app. Then there are shots where they couldn’t find the original materials, so the picture suddenly looks terrible, like a hacky up-convert to 4K. There are plenty of spectacular restored shots, but when they’re bad, they’re really bad. And they’re usually during effects sequences.

The reason for restoring the director’s edition is because it was made for DVD, and they didn’t do the new special effects in high definition. It took the restoration team a while to convince the studio. The end credits break out the first and second teams, and some of the names are the same; they came back twenty years later to do the same work again, just with eight million more pixels.

The result’s… okay?

In addition to the bad titles and the damaged original footage or whatever, there are a few times the changed special effects don’t work in high definition. Only once is it distracting, when William Shatner, Leonard Nimoy, and DeForest Kelley all lose the edges of their bodies in front of a starfield because portrait mode choked on their pajama costumes.

Some of the CGI is good, some of it is middling, and a couple shots are lousy. It’s sometimes annoying but usually forgivable; they’re well-intentioned.

Content-wise, the narrative is unchanged from the last director’s edition (as far as I remember it). A space cloud of enormous power invades the galaxy, headed straight toward Earth, and the only starship in intercept range is the Enterprise. Except they’re undergoing a massive retrofit to make the ship movie-ready in 1979, not impressive for TV in 1966; plus, they’ve got a new captain, Stephen Collins, leading the same old crew.

But not Shatner, who’s a desk jockeying admiral now, or Kelley, who’s retired to take up some weird future New Age thing if his gold medallion is any indication, or Nimoy, who’s retired to his home planet Vulcan to give up all emotion and… get a more blinged-out gold medallion as a reward. They really missed the chance for Kelley and Nimoy to compare bling.

When Star Trek: The Motion Picture isn’t meandering through its sci-fi thriller plot, it’s vaguely about Shatner desperately wanting to relive his glory days and using catastrophe to do it, dragging Kelley along because Shatner can’t do it without him. There’s actually maybe the argument Admiral Kirk’s going through some depression and saving the known universe is just the way to get out of that funk. So long as he gets some help from his friends.

Shatner and Kelley act that arc, which is occasionally in the script. Nimoy shows up later and sort of figures in, but not really. Shatner’s arc stops when he and Kelley get to worry about Nimoy instead. But more significant than either of those arcs is Collins’s G-rated romance with Persis Khambatta. They used to know each other when he was stationed on her free love planet. They’ve got a bunch of unresolved feelings—not to mention Shatner assuming command of Collins’s ship and everyone on the crew being thrilled—and it gets more runtime than any of the other arcs. Also, it figures into the A-plot of the alien spaceship out to destroy Earth.

There is lots of good acting from Shatner, but Kelley’s an absolute deadpan riot throughout. Nimoy’s okay once he gets over his “logical means rude” bit. Collins is bland but affable. Wise directs the heck out of Shatner and Khambatta in entirely different ways but to similarly strong effect. Even as the finale plods—before racing too quick to the finish—Khambatta’s mesmerizing.

Sturdy support from the rest of the crew—Walter Koenig gets the most fun, George Takei and Nichelle Nichols get lots of background busywork, James Doohan’s around in the first act, then relegated to occasional “dannae ken if she can take any more” scenes. Unfortunately, Motion Picture’s got a clunky story, something the director’s editions improve but can’t fix.

Still, the special effects are glorious, the Jerry Goldsmith’s music’s peerless, and the movie’s generally great looking. Except for the pajama costumes, of course. Wise and the very large cast do wonders even with those silly, silly costumes. There are lots of people around at all times; even if they don’t get lines, they do have to react to the dire circumstances, all while in onesies.

I do wish they didn’t have that really bad footage in this version, but otherwise, all drive systems are good to go.