Category: 1984

Amadeus (1984, Milos Forman)

It’s been long enough since I last saw Amadeus I forgot the narrative face-plant of the epilogue. The film objectifying the suffering of nineteenth-century psychiatric hospital “patients” is bad enough, but the way the film ignores it’s spent the second half of the nearly three-hour film away from narrator F. Murray Abraham… Well. It doesn’t go well, dragging Amadeus down in what ought to be its victory lap.

Albeit a victory lap all about Mozart’s death. The film’s way too enthusiastic about Abraham’s performance, which is fantastic, but it’s better in the flashback than the old age makeup bookends. And Amadeus, despite the title and the magnificent, meticulous directing Forman does with Tom Hulce (as Mozart), tries its damndest to convince everyone Abraham’s character, a never-will-be composer who engineers the downfall of Hulce as an affront to God, is the lead. And Abraham is the lead in the first half of the picture; the film opens with Vincent Schiavelli (playing Vincent Schiavelli) finding boss Abraham in the middle of a suicide attempt. They take Abraham to the hospital, where he recuperates, and a young priest (Richard Frank) comes to hear his confession.

Frank thinks Abraham is exaggerating or lying when he tells everyone he meets how he killed Mozart; the rest of the film is just Abraham convincing Frank (and the audience).

The first half tracks Abraham’s initial encounters with Hulce, who comes to Vienna as an unhappy upstart wunderkind who wants to drink, bed, wed, and write great music. Abraham’s boss, the Emperor—Jeffrey Jones (who’s really good; shame he’s an actual monster in real life)—takes on Hulce over the objections of his musical advisers, Charles Kay, and Patrick Hines. Lots of Amadeus is Kay and Hines acting like old fuddy-duddies while Hulce increases the artistic potential of opera; Abraham watches from the sidelines, manipulating all he can, simultaneously hating and envying Hulce.

The second half is all about Hulce’s financial and personal fizzling as he attempts greater and greater compositions. Elizabeth Berridge plays Hulce’s wife, and the film tracks their adorable, if problematic, courtship. Things come to a head for the couple when Roy Dotrice, as Hulce’s father (who trained him to be the great musician), comes to live with them. Dotrice is either miscast or the part is wrong; Hulce is both devoted and terrified of disappointing his father, except Dotrice and Hulce are utterly flat together. There’s no indication Dotrice is impressed with Hulce’s compositions; he is just displeased with Hulce’s extravagant lifestyle in general and Berridge in particular.

Given the whole second half is about Abraham exploiting Hulce’s relationship with Dotrice to slowly drive Hulce mad… it’d help if Dotrice were better. His portrait does more heavy lifting than Dotrice ends up doing acting.

While the first half has Abraham eventually inserting himself into Hulce’s life through Berridge at one point, in the second half, he’s mostly distant. He’s gifted Hulce and Berridge a maid (an excellent Cynthia Nixon), and Nixon reports back to Abraham, which gives the film the narrative excuse for Abraham acting on information he can’t know, but it’s dramatically inert.

Then Abraham finds himself forced to assist Hulce in his creative process, and Amadeus, pardon the expression, truly sings. The film finally gets Abraham and Hulce, who it’s been juxtaposing since jump, together on screen, and it’s magic.

Then the film punts it for the finish.

While Abraham’s great, Hulce is better. Neither exactly gets to verbalize what’s going on with their characters, with Abraham’s narrations all about intentionally wronging God and snuffing out one of His brightest angels, and Hulce unable to verbalize what he’s going through. It comes out in the music.

Besides Dotrice, the acting is universally outstanding. Berridge is sympathetic and adorable. Simon Callow shows up as the working-class musical theater owner who convinces Hulce to try to write for the people instead of the royalty. He’s good.

Technically, the standout is Michael Chandler and Nena Danevic’s editing. Absolutely superb cutting, whether toggling from present to past, staged opera to dramatics, whatever they’re cutting, Chandler and Danevic do a marvelous job. Forman’s direction is good but better in terms of directing the actors than the composition. Forman and cinematographer Miroslav Ondrícek do a fine job, and there are some excellent sequences (mostly involving Hulce in his descent); the cutting is always what makes them so special.

Amadeus is often breathtaking, beautiful work, with Hulce, Abraham, and those editors particularly excelling.

Ghostbusters (1984, Ivan Reitman)

In the almost forty years since Ghostbusters’s release, the film remains unparalleled in terms of present-day, urban sci-fi action. The film’s a mix of crisp action comedy and a special effects spectacular, with Reitman’s direction toggling as needed and Elmer Bernstein’s score tying a beautiful knot. With the special effects, the film never isn’t grasping too far and never isn’t succeeding. It’s visually exquisite, even when there’s some noticeable foam versus marshmallow. Richard Edlund produced the effects and, well, accept no substitutes.

The film’s also got an incredibly brisk pace—partially due to an elongated victory lap of a third act. In the first few minutes, the film introduces real ghosts—in the New York Public Library, establishing an expectation of location shooting. The film kind of takes a dodge on for set pieces but still impresses with what they do pull off on-site. Fake ghost-investigating scientists (played by Ghostbusters co-writers) Dan Aykroyd and Harold Ramis play second and third fiddle to lead Bill Murray; they’re the true believers, Murray’s just in it to manipulate coeds. Just when they see their first real ghost, the university has had enough and boots them.

This turn of events could lead to the worst in Murray’s character, but instead, the movie skips along, hurrying to put the trio in business as New York City’s first (albeit entirely unlicensed) professional ghost hunters. The second act starts with their first potential customer, professional classical musician Sigourney Weaver. She’s got a valid cause for concern (the movie shows her haunted apartment, which also gives Weaver a great scene opposite in-camera effects, which the film provides a number of its cast). Except Murray tries to get some action instead of taking her seriously, and she’s out of the plot for a bit.

Weaver will be—from a particular point of view—literally a girlfriend in a refrigerator, but the film smartly keeps her in play during the second act as the Ghostbusters start getting actual business. The media coverage will transition to Weaver, along with her neighbor, Rick Moranis. Eventually, it’ll all come together in hilarious and scintillating ways. And scintillatingly hilarious ways. Those ways might be the funniest. Oh, and with occasional major effects sequences. Moranis and Weaver end up doing the most work in the film.

The ghost-busting business booms so much the trio brings on Ernie Hudson as their first busting employee (they’ve got a secretary, played by Annie Potts, who seems to know she will be unappreciated for her turn but still kills it). Hudson brings the soul to the team, being the only one who professes a belief in God. Ramis and Murray never really talk about it, but it’s obvious Ramis is a science atheist, and Murray’s a libertarian atheist. Meanwhile, Aykroyd’s a go-along-to-get-along all religions have a kernel of truth guy. The third act brings in all the religious stereotypes, which includes blowing their outfits around in ghosts of wind (and implying the Catholics are corrupt in some way, but also seemingly happy about it). But the God question? No comment.

Gods, to be sure, are real, however. Gods and ghosts.

However, the film also skirts the undead aspect of ghosts. There are some definitely human-looking ones, but they’re mostly just ghostly (and slimy) creatures, which is all fine. Edlund does a phenomenal job with the ghosts; the film’s always got the right tone in the paranormal encounters.

Performances-wise, Moranis is probably the best for his range, followed by Weaver for her seriousness, playfulness, and willingness to play a hair band video vixen. Murray’s an engaging asshole, especially once the celebrity aspect comes in. Since Ghostbusters takes place in the real world, there’s a lengthy, sometimes salient subplot about their notoriety. It’ll put them on the radar of EPA pencil pusher William Atherton, who thinks the Ghostbusters are poisoning the air with hallucinogens and saving people from the ghosts they’ve convinced them are real. Given the initial suggestion, Murray’s a sexual predator….

Anyway.

Murray gets reformed really quickly in his courtship of Weaver. He’s never too creepy around her (because she’s a grown woman and not a coed, apparently), but he ends up downright cute.

Akyroyd’s incredibly likable but kind of barely in the movie. He gets a couple big moments, but none really in the second act. The second act has a lot for Ramis, not Akyroyd. Hudson… well, theses will be written about the film’s hostile indifference to Hudson. He gets some material, even some jokes, but he always gets the fastest cuts away.

Speaking of the cuts… editors Sheldon Kahn and David E. Blewitt do just as singular work as the more obviously superlative work from cinematographer László Kovács, Edlund, and Bernstein. Reitman’s not slouching in his direction either. But back to that cutting, Kahn and Blewitt do this thing where they’ll cut just as the next setup begins, usually a comedy scene, and instead of seeing it play out, it becomes this implication for the viewer to mull as the next scene begins. It’s excellent work.

In terms of narrative, the smartest thing about Ghostbusters is that celebrity angle. Akyroyd and Ramis know how to give the audience directions to Willful Way, and seeing their two bashful characters embrace the spotlight is a really cute, absolutely passive subplot. The third act’s got some really functional plotting, but it can’t overshadow the sometimes outstanding story moves.

Ghostbusters is pretty darn awesome. It’s great-looking, well-acted, and a lot of fun.

I really hope they don’t try to turn it into a franchise and screw it up somehow.

The Karate Kid (1984, John G. Avildsen)

The Karate Kid runs out of movie before it runs out of story. The film’s been steadily improving on its way to the third act, culminating in a showdown between Jersey transplant (to L.A.) Ralph Macchio and his bully, William Zabka. There’s a lot of angst to the rivalry; they first tussled when “alpha” Zabka caught Macchio flirting with his ex-girlfriend, Elisabeth Shue, but then it also turns out Zabka’s a rich kid, and Macchio’s not. The film’s first act is Zabka and his goons escalating their bullying—it’s assault real quick—before Macchio enlists the aid of his own karate expert, Pat Morita.

Actually, Morita saves Macchio when Zabka and his pals are trying to beat him to a pulp. Morita tries to handle it maturely, going with Macchio to confront Zabka’s teacher, only to discover he’s getting all the violence and aggression from that teacher, played by Martin Kove.

Zabka, Kove, and the rest of the goons are phantasmic villains in the second act (Morita says they’ll have a showdown at the local karate tournament, so no one can beat on Macchio until then), giving Macchio time to learn karate. And also have a rich girl, poor boy romance with Shue, which has its own foils before working just in time. It’s all right, though; Macchio and Shue—neither teenagers, both playing teenagers—are cute together, and Shue manages to imply a lot more character than Kid provides her.

Kid doesn’t provide anyone much character, really. Morita gets the most backstory. After spending the first half of the movie sometimes dispensing comic wisdom to Macchio, the film reveals his tragic history. However, it does mean Morita pretty much sat around for forty years waiting to play mentor to a random kid. It’s effective, however, because Macchio and Morita have great chemistry. It’s kind of the only good thing director Avildsen does in the film, which starts in a hurry and somehow manages to finish even faster, but the Macchio and Morita friendship is outstanding. Thanks to their on-screen rapport, not the writing of it. Robert Mark Kamen’s script doesn’t do character development. For the majority of the cast, they don’t even get character.

For instance, Macchio’s mother, Randee Heller, moved the two out to California so she could get a job at a computer start-up. Apparently, she ends up managing a restaurant without ever starting the computer job, but it doesn’t matter because she stops being in the movie for the second act. She shows up three-quarters of the way through the tournament in the third act, seemingly just so Macchio can act tough to her when injured. I’m pretty sure she doesn’t even watch him compete.

Similarly, Macchio doesn’t have much of a character arc either, despite making an “only in the movies” best friend, learning karate, and dating Shue. The film takes place over three months; the first act speeds through that first month, then the next two comprise the second and third acts (there’s an inexplicable opening title card telling us it’s September, a device the film never employs again). Even though the film’s got its editing problems, it’s reasonably impressive how quickly they move things along at the beginning. When Macchio and Morita finally start their karate training plot, it feels like an entirely different movie (their friendship starts before the karate).

Acting-wise, Shue’s the easy best and only because she occasionally does something subtle. Macchio and Morita are likable, both flexing in broad roles, but they’re never really good. The script gives Macchio way too many mugging for the camera bits. Kove and Zabka are hiss-ready villains with no real depth, though at least they try a little with Zabka. But more because he’s a rich kid like Shue.

Good photography from James Crabe; it carries a lot of water for Avildsen’s bland direction. A competent but uninspired score from Bill Conti doesn’t help things, but it’s better than the pop soundtrack, which provides only one good montage backing (Young Hearts by Commuter). The rest of the songs are very trite eighties stuff.

The last finale’s a hurried, truncated mess, but Karate Kid could be a whole lot worse. Macchio and Morita more than make up for the rest of the film’s bumps, but they can’t help with the finish. Mainly because they’re not in it enough.

The Element of Crime (1984, Lars von Trier)

During The Element of Crime, it never seems like the mystery will be particularly compelling. The film and the detective’s investigation are compelling, but the mystery itself seems rather pat. A serial killer has been targeting young girls selling lotto tickets, earning the moniker the “Lotto Murderer,” and the police are stumped. So they bring in Michael Elphick to take over. Elphick has been living in Cairo for over a dozen years, exiled from Europe. The film starts back in Cairo with a therapist, Ahmed El Shenawi, hypnotizing Elphick to get him to remember what happened.

Only El Shenawi isn’t hypnotizing Elphick exactly; he’s hypnotizing the audience. After a handful of murky shots of Cairo, director von Trier starts the film proper with a second-person point-of-view. It’s mesmerizing. Element of Crime will mesmerize often, but the second-person stuff is von Trier’s most significant swing, if only because everything else has some foundation when he does it.

It takes a few more minutes to meet Elphick—he starts narrating before he appears on screen. Elphick’s narration and diegetic dialogue are sometimes indistinguishable, creating incredible, sometimes startling effects—and we get to see some of future Europe. It’s flooded, and everyone just lives sometimes in three feet of standing water. It’s all nonpotable, so everyone’s a bit of a drunk. von Trier doesn’t have many establishing shots in the film. Sometimes he’ll focus on one aspect of the scenery, but there aren’t any skylines. The film takes place entirely at night and is all in a yellow or greenish tint. Occasionally, there are other color breakthroughs, usually blue, but it’s primarily high contrast yellow or green action surrounded by infinite darkness. In that darkness is the rest of civilization, struggling to continue, left up to the audience’s imagination. It’s incredibly ambitious and a formidable accomplishment.

Elphick’s first stop is his old mentor, Esmond Knight, who taught Elphick everything there is to know about criminal investigations. He taught many detectives, though, even wrote a book called The Element of Crime. It’s a reasonably thick book—we see a couple copies in the film—but the central concept is physically occupying the space of the villain to experience what they experienced and potentially find clues through one’s impersonated reactions. But before Elphick starts retracing the killer’s footsteps, he’s got to get yelled at by the asshole police chief. Jerold Wells plays the chief, who knew Elphick in the old days and was his subordinate. But now Wells is the boss, and there’s no time for that hippy-dippy Element of Crime stuff.

The first act is Elphick getting situated back in Europe and getting some sense of the case from Knight, who had some kind of breakdown as a result of the investigation; Elphick’s only there a few hours before the next victim turns up, which gives the film a sense of immediate danger. Especially since someone is lurking around Knight’s house and then following Elphick.

The mystery figure will continue into the second act as Elphick starts retracing the killer’s steps and soon takes on a sidekick in prostitute Me Me Lai. She’s part of his first stop, then she tags along for a change of scenery and ends up being an invaluable asset in the investigation.

Everything will be revealed in the third act, but only answers to the questions Elphick asks. The mystery he’s investigating is one thread, the mystery the film’s creating through the investigation is another. The film probably has the answers—at least some of them—if you wanted to go through it and pick it apart, but it wouldn’t change the effect because the conclusion is the same. Evil is commonplace, whether it’s the Lotto Murderer or Wells. Especially in this crumbling, sunken world, fecund with violence and death. It’s a helpless, hopeless world. Elphick’s very interesting in how he works against hopelessness. He’s undeniably mired in it, but he really wants to be above it.

It’s a very, very full hour and forty minutes, with exceptional use of narration combined with an excellent performance from Elphick. Knight, Wells, and Lai are all fantastic too. There are a dozen or so other characters, but most are just stops along the way in Elphick’s investigation. Despite the darkness and narration, Element of Crime isn’t a noir or even a riff on one. Instead, the thorough investigation makes it feel a lot more classical, down to the undiscovered urban environment surrounding the narrative.

von Trier’s direction is superlative. He and his crew—cinematographer Tom Elling, editor Tómas Gislason, production designer Peter Høimark, composer Bo Holten—do remarkable work. The film’s even more impressive taking the multiple languages at play in its creation—von Trier and co-writer Niels Vørsel lucked out with translators William Quarshie and Stephen Wakelam. The script’s superb.

Crime’s a singular motion picture, both as a mystery-thriller and as a piece of work.

Beverly Hills Cop (1984, Martin Brest)

Beverly Hills Cop opens with a montage of Detroit street scenes. Kids playing, people talking, walking, Black and white. It’s beautifully cut—even at its most tediously cop action movie procedural, the editing is always glorious (though there’s lots of technical magnificence in Cop—and is well-done enough you even forgive the film for Glenn Frey’s The Heat is On. The thing about really tightly chosen soundtracks is when a song doesn’t fit the characters, and Glenn Frey is definitely not what Eddie Murphy’s Detroit super-cop puts on the stereo hi-fi. It’s okay enough. And the montage is excellent.

But it’s nothing compared to the first action sequence, which has a cigarette smuggler wreaking havoc in a stolen truck on the streets of Detroit, all the cops in pursuit, Murphy swinging around the back of the trailer, The Pointer Sisters’ “Neutron Dance” blaring, every shot cut perfectly to the music. It’s mesmerizing. And director Brest makes sure to show off Murphy’s reaction shots. After that opening scene with the cops arriving to set off the truck chase, the entire movie is pretty much watching Murphy figure out the story. Brest just sets the camera on him and waits for Murphy to lead the scene to its finish with his deliveries and expressions. So when Lisa Eilbacher is just staring at him on the job, waiting for him to find the next clue, it makes perfect sense. He’d be just as transfixing to the people around him.

Brest directs Cop with a spotlight on Murphy, leveraging Bruce Surtees’s very grim and gritty photography (even for an action movie) and Murphy’s ability to make the comedy work. Because everyone’s Murphy’s sidekick in a series of sketches. Well, until the third act. And it’s sluggish through the second act when Murphy teams up with Beverly Hills cops and buzzkills John Ashton and Judge Reinhold. The movie takes a while to really loose Ashton and Reinhold as a comedy duo—they’ve got a whole slapstick number at one point, with Harold Faltermeyer’s scorekeeping the energy up until they’re able to take it through unfunny into a good gag. And the last one before the big action finale.

It’s a decent big action finale, with Murphy able to deliver the thriller goods while Ashton and Reinhold take over the comedy. There are a lot of reasons Beverly Hills Cop could never get made today, not least of which being if a bunch of white guys with assault weapons are shooting at a Black man (even one with two white friends) on their Beverly Hills estate… would the cops even show up? Cop ages rather strangely. Starting with none of the white cops just shooting Murphy when they don’t recognize him. It’s uncomfortably optimistic.

But there’s also the Beverly Hills angle. Cop’s able to treat it as an absurd foreign land, where every car is a Mercedes, every person white but polite, and the cops tattle on each other for infractions. It leads to a lot of funny scenes. Murphy, Brest, and Cop can get quite a bit of material from it. The big changeover in tone comes after the strip club scene, which isn’t the worst eighties action movie strip club scene, but it’s still utterly pointless. Cop doesn’t have female characters—Eilbacher’s art gallery director is only female because they wouldn’t have been able to sell a straight male art gallery director. She and Murphy don’t have any romantic chemistry; they’re just old friends. The first act of Cop is very much about old friends. And it’s definitely not about girls. If you look in the end credits, it’s Eilbacher then fifteen guys (and only one Black guy) before you get to the next female character. Murphy spends the entire time in the strip club flirting with the waitress, and there’s not even a reaction shot. Cop’s about boys.

To be incredibly fair to it and what they pull off: Beverly Hills Cop takes place over four days, three of them consecutive, and there’s only dull moment is trying to figure out if Bronson Pinchot is intentionally stalling the scene. Brest and the editors time everyone else in the movie with Murphy, but Pinchot against him, and it’s almost like a dig to make Pinchot more unlikable. Like maybe he was actually too likable, and they screwed it up for a laugh. But the laugh is he’s foreign and an art gallery clerk.

Paul Reiser does better in his bit part as Murphy’s Detroit sidekick, but he’s really just there to dump exposition and set up jokes.

The best supporting performance is probably Ronny Cox as the Beverly Hills captain. He’s got the least to do in terms of action but the most character while doing it. Then probably Steven Berkoff’s off-putting but successful villain. Then Eilbacher holds her own against everyone and helps maintain Murphy’s energy even when he’s in Beverly Hills. Ashton and Reinhold are both good, likable, funny. Reinhold’s got a couple long comedy bits, but they eventually pay off enough. Brest doesn’t care to showcase anyone else. He just wants to watch Murphy, which makes sense because Murphy’s almost indescribably good. Nonpareil. It’s a profoundly successful showcase (and very unfortunate he and Brest never teamed up again); Beverly Hills Cop is no crappy blue Chevy Nova; it’s the perfect star-making vehicle.

The great technicals just make it better. Cop’s unimaginable looking different from Surtees’s contrast heavy but still muted photography or playing differently than how Arthur Coburn and Billy Weber cut it. Not to mention the Faltermeyer score. Or the often great soundtrack (Patti LaBelle contributes the two other big songs, not Frey).

And Brest’s direction is excellent. The film’s a singular success.

C.H.U.D. (1984, Douglas Cheek)

The only name I recognized during C.H.U.D.’s opening titles—after the more obvious names in the cast—was casting director Bonnie Timmermann. Timmermann’s an A tier casting director; C.H.U.D. is a B movie with a lower A movie cast (I mean, John Heard and Daniel Stern are both capable of fine work and they would’ve been at near career highs at the time of this one). But it doesn’t seem to know it’s got a better cast than the material, which isn’t a surprise as the script is bad and the directing is bad. Also bad is the cinematography, by Peter Stein, though it’s not like director Cheek would’ve known what to do with better photography. C.H.U.D. manages to be shot on location in New York City, but look like it was shot in Toronto with some second unit establishing work done in New York. And then the sewer stuff is obviously sets and lots of them, but quantity over quality.

So it’s mostly director Cheek’s fault. Sure, Parnell Hall’s script has terrible dialogue, silly characters, contradictory exposition, and an absence of suspense but it still contains those elements. Better direction could’ve at least fixed the lack of suspense and made the silly characters amusing. But Cheek really doesn’t seem to know what he’s doing at all. He sabotages his actors, usually with these terrible two shots, which doesn’t help de facto lead Christopher Curry (as a police captain whose wife has gone missing in the rash of recent disappearances). Curry’s… not great and seems out of his depth in a lead role, but at least he’s not hamming it up like Daniel Stern or sleepwalking like John Heard.

Heard’s a fashion photographer who wants to do important work, like photographing people experiencing homelessness but not for journalism’s sake, rather… his own self-aggrandizement? It’s confused and an example of the contradictory exposition. Though it seems like Heard’s decisions are mostly for girlfriend (or wife, it’s unclear) Kim Greist, who’s a callous fashion model and wants him to be famous for the serious photography while still doing all her photo shoots too. The film opens with Heard (who’s top-billed). He’s there to establish the people living underground in the old tunnels—so, C.H.U.D.’s extravagant underground tunnels and giant spaces don’t seem to have anything to do with the sewer or the subway. The film doesn’t acknowledge there are working tunnels under the city. It’s very weird. And inevitable. I spent at least ten minutes waiting for the big underground reveal scene as Curry and Stern—more on them in a moment—either find the legion of scientists doing secret work or at least a good shot of the subterranean mutants’ lair. But no. Same sets as before.

Heard doesn’t do much in the second act; he comes back for the third, but second is Stern and Curry. Less Heard (and Greist, who gives an exceptionally flat performance) isn’t a bad thing. Though Stern and Curry aren’t a good thing.

So Stern is a street preacher who runs a soup kitchen. He and Curry have history; Curry busted him for something five years before, which he drops as exposition. Curry’s too busy memorizing old cases to react to his wife being missing and presumed… eaten. Pretty soon Stern is able to convince Curry there’s something going on and so then they try to fight city hall only for city hall (a regretful looking Eddie Jones, who seems to understand the state of the production better than any other cast member) to tell him absurdly corrupt government official George Martin is in charge. Martin becomes the film’s heavy, which is… not why you want to watch a movie about underground mutants attacking the surface world.

The underground mutants don’t actually look bad either. They’re budget constrained but they might be effective if Cheek could direct. Some of it is definitely Stein’s photography. It’s like he’s trying to showcase the rubber in the costume instead of obscure it.

Lots of familiar faces in the supporting cast—including John Goodman at one point—but most of them are bad. Sam McMurray’s a beat cop who doesn’t care about the people dying, especially if they’re living on the street (or under it). He’s bad. Graham Beckel’s in it for a scene or two. He’s not good, but he’s not bad. Cordis Heard (sister of John) is really bad in a small part as one of Curry’s cops, but it’s obviously Cheek’s direction. C.H.U.D. would be instructional if only any of Cheek’s directorial decisions made sense because then future generations would know what not to do except they’re so weird and obviously not working, they seem hard to classify.

Ruth Maleczech and Bill Raymond are a pair of older siblings living underground who Heard knows; they’re both way too good for the movie, like they thought they were guest-starring on a good TV show or something. J.C. Quinn plays a freelance reporter trying to crack the story, which mostly consists of bad expository scenes with John Heard. He’s not good. But seems like he should be. Then isn’t.

Outside how Timmermann conned a set of solid, working actors into appearing in what should be a low budget exploitation film but isn’t, there’s nothing to C.H.U.D.. A C.H.U.D. is a dud pun doesn’t even work because there’s nothing to suggest it ever could work.

0/4ⓏⒺⓇⓄ

CREDITS

Directed by Douglas Cheek; screenplay by Parnell Hall, based on a story by Shepard Abbott; director of photography, Peter Stein; edited by Claire Simpson; music by David A. Hughes; production designer, William Bilowit; costume designer, Jennifer Lax; produced by Andrew Bonime; released by New World Pictures.

Starring John Heard (George Cooper), Daniel Stern (A.J. Shepherd), Christopher Curry (Captain Bosch), Kim Greist (Lauren Daniels), George Martin (Wilson), J.C. Quinn (Murphy), Ruth Maleczech (Mrs. Monroe), Bill Raymond (Victor), Graham Beckel (Val), Cordis Heard (Officer Sanderson), Sam McMurray (Officer Crespi), and Eddie Jones (Chief O’Brien).

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

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

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

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

It’s weird. Flashbeagle is very weird.

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

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

Love and Rockets (1982) #9

Love and rockets09

Jaime opens Mechanics this issue with an eight-panel retelling of the story so far. At least the most relevant parts. They’re little panels too. Top half of the page. It’s beautifully done.

Turns out the flashback panels are Race’s thoughts as he’s recovering. He’s survived the blast, no one knows about Maggie and Rena Titañon. The story–ten pages this time–is split between the rest of the cast (Hopey, Penny, Race) and Maggie and Rena. They’re in the sewers, trying to get out to sea. It lets Jaime do a lot of work with black. He’s been doing big panels with a lot of silhouettes and shadows lately, but here he gets to do almost a whole strip of them.

Plus there’s a tie-in to Rocky and Fumble. Maggie and Rena use a Fumble-head as a flashlight. First official crossover, I think. Derek Cinema gets mentioned in Mechanics and one of Mario’s strips, but a Fumble-head is the first visual crossover.

Then Beto’s got the Palomar conclusion. He makes it sad, funny, dangerous, funny, and sad. And then sweet, while still being sad. The (now grown) boys head into the hills to find their missing pal, who’s run off after attacking his wife and child. There’s character development in two flashbacks–Beto does for comedy in both, but differently. The first time it’s a funny flashback. The second time it’s this concerning foreshadowing, played for visual humor.

The story of Jesús–the missing guy–has two nice bookends. Then Beto postscripts with Carmen and Heraclio. Now, Carmen still hasn’t gotten a full story to herself, but in the one page–she doesn’t appear in the rest of this chapter–she becomes the emphasis of the whole thing. The action just leads to Carmen’s reaction to it all.

It’s nice, but it’d be nicer for her to have her own story one of these issues. Beto’s only established her as Mrs. Heraclio. She’s got personality but nothing going on.

Then it’s a Rocky and Fumble, where Rocky runs away. She and Fumble do it up Mark Twain style, on the river. This strip started in space–like a “Jetsons” thing–and it’s just gotten more and more grounded. The strip’s full of humor and emotion. Growing pains emotion for Rocky and her parents, which she can’t really verbalize and they don’t want to verbalize.

Plus Fumble’s adorable.

And Jaime’s art is beautiful. Again he’s playing with the blacks, so much of it is silhouette. Some rather neat composition too. Even planet-bound, Jaime enjoys doing the comedic action with Rocky and Fumble.

So it’s another good issue. Beto’s playing with his narrative, Jaime’s playing with his art. Seems to be par for the course at this point.

Love and Rockets (1982) #8

Love and rockets08

Jaime gets a few more pages on Mechanics this issue and it changes the reading experience a bit. He has time to dawdle. This installment brings Rena Titañon in–it’s been a while since her last appearance (in present or flashback)–but also has time to give Hopey a whole subplot. And a whole other implied subplot because Izzy had an accident at Hopey’s apartment, a serious enough one to put Izzy in the hospital. Even though it doesn’t get explained.

There’s also enough room for Jaime to explore the band. At least, the bandmates gossiping about Hopey, Maggie, and whatever else. Jaime introduces some too obvious to be serious foreshadowing with the bandmates scenes too. It kind of works, kind of doesn’t. Similarly, Dot the reporter kind of works here and kind of doesn’t, as her seduction of Race (away from Maggie).

Then there’s the action finale, which Jaime executes beautifully.

Jaime’s not exactly stretching with the extra pages but he’s definitely exuberantly reaching. Again, he’s letting Mechanics get away from Maggie, which means more action maybe, but also less focus.

Then Beto has two Palomar stories.

The first one, The Laughing Sun, brings in the tween boys from the first Palomar story. They’re not tweens anymore, it’s ten years after that story (the first time–I think–there’s been an exact duration given). One of them attacks his wife and child, the rest reunite to track him down. Beto’s got all sorts of nods to the original story–or does he, because maybe it’s just how Palomar is going to progress. In temporal fluidity. But they feel like nods. With flashback, he can foreshadow past events for effect. And fun. Sometimes he just seems to be doing it for fun, which is nice because it’s a heavy story. And it cliffhangs because everything resolutionary is next issue.

And Beto’s second story is under the Heartbreak Soup Theater banner, On Isidro’s Beach. It’s a Luba story, more specifically, it’s a Luba’s daughter daughter Lupe story. She’s the second oldest (I think) and obsessed with Les Misérables (the book). And she’s a great protagonist for the story. Or the most pages of it. Because it goes back to Luba for the last three pages when the heaviness arrives. The sadness of life stuff.

Beto still gets in some good jokes, including a great finishing one.

It’s a strange issue. The stories don’t feel balanced, like Jaime’s going too long and Beto’s getting shorted. But not exactly because Beto’s pace on his stories is so good. They’re just breezy reads. Kind of too breezy. While Mechanics is full and good but clunky. But not exactly because Jaime can still get it to flow smoothly, full and clunky or not.

Love and Rockets (1982) #7

Love and rockets07

Love and Rockets #7 opens with Mechanics and with this haunting image of Maggie in front of the sea, looking out of the page, quietly crying. The action immediately cuts away; Hopey and Penny (with a new haircut, colored like a skunk, and looking nothing like Penny) read a letter from Maggie recounting her latest Mechanic adventure. There’s Rand Race, of course, but also creepy rich guy hiring them to work on robots. Jaime amps up the strange–lots and lots of strange–before closing on the Race, Maggie, and Dot the reporter love triangle.

Jaime mixes romance comic angles and comic strip pacing. It’s a breezy read, light adventure comedy. Jaime’s art gets it through the somewhat shallow depth. Race ain’t that interesting. At least, not yet.

Then it’s Act of Contrition, Part Three from Beto, which is breezy and sort of light and sort of comedy, but it’s still incredibly dramatic. Beto splits the ten pages between Archie and the Palomar residents. Actually, the point of view sort of progresses, because how Archie gets back with Luba is what it’s all about. Only there’s a lot going on. So it’s sort of about how Archie gets integrated into Palomar-proper.

It’s a nice chapter; Beto enjoys showcasing the humanity of the characters here. Even when they’re problematic people, he keeps digging.

The next story is Locos. Not Locas, Locos. Speedy gets his own story, though he’s really just telling his friend all about Izzy. Izzy, who really is Izzy Ruebens, who Jaime used as a pseudonym for the first Mechanics story and then gave her own story. As a mystery writer (so was I right about guessing it or did I just not remember this confirmation consciously). Nothing about nun stuff though. There was an Izzy Ruebens, a nun, narrator page once.

It’s a strange story because it offers another take on Izzy, who Jaime usually uses for comic relief opposite Maggie and Hopey. It casts her as this sad, haunted person, who Izzy doesn’t exactly come across when she gets her own pages. It’s rather interesting how Jaime’s expanding the Locas “universe.”

He also uses Spanish to English translations at the bottom of each page; it’s similar, but different, from what Beto did on the first Heartbreak Soup story. Beto, of course, was doing Spanish proper noun pronunciations. You’d think Chelo sounded like cello but no. Or I would’ve anyway.

Speaking of Beto and Heartbreak Soup, the final story in the issue is The Whispering Tree. It’s another sidequel (to the main Palomar tale, Contrition) with Luba’s kids having a little adventure. Three pages. For laughs. Even though Jaime’s the one with the exploration of comic strip narrative principles, Beto can do it too. It’s a funny strip, lots of exaggerated action, a great–thoughtful too–punchline.

It’s a good issue. Light, happy, and good.