Category: 1996

The Watermelon Woman (1996, Cheryl Dunye)

The Watermelon Woman is the story of video store clerk slash filmmaker Cheryl Dunye making a film about a 1930s Black female actor known only as “The Watermelon Woman.” At least initially. Dunye, in character, will spend the film discovering more and more about her subject, culminating in a documentary short. Surrounding Dunye dans le personnage’s professional aspirations are her friends and lovers. Dunye’s best friend is fellow video store clerk and videography business partner Valarie Walker.

Walker’s the film’s comic relief (until she’s not). Woman is split between Dunye’s documentary footage in the film, shot on video; she and Walker’s professional videography outings, shot on video; the dramatic narrative, shot on 16mm; flashback film footage to 1930s movies, played on video; and occasional still photographs, sometimes on film, sometimes part of the video documentary, maybe sometimes just on video without being part of the documentary. Woman’s an editing masterclass. Dunye en tant que réalisateur and editor Annie Taylor do some sublime cutting, which isn’t always easy since Woman’s scenes all end in fade out. Dunye and Taylor will drop whole subplots in the fade-out, adding another layer. Woman’s about Dunye, the character, making the documentary, and the video stuff in Woman is footage from that documentary, but assembled—presumably—with agency by Dunye (the character). In the film made by Dunye, the writer and director. It plays incredibly naturally, down to Dunye just enjoying having the camera for the weekend and having fun.

And that natural feel also works in the reverse; when Dunye, the character, gets to the third act, she’s cagey about everything except her final product (which we don’t see her assemble). As well as Woman being the general story of her and Walker being two Black lesbian best buds in Philadelphia in the mid-1990s, with their dating and professional woes, it’s this particular, intentionally unexplored romantic drama about Dunye and Guinevere Turner. Turner’s a hip, upper-class WASP, who Walker can’t stand. Things just get worse when Dunye starts involving new video store clerk Shelley Olivier in their videography business; Walker really doesn’t like Olivier, and it’s when Walker stops being comic relief and instead Woman becomes this uncomfortable friendship drama, except Dunye (the filmmaker) doesn’t show much once Dunye (the character) strikes research gold.

Only then the research doesn’t reveal what Dunye (the character) expected, which plays out not in narrative drama but through videography narration.

Woman’s indie budget, but Dunye makes it work for the film instead of against it. The cost-saving measures (16mm only for controllable shots, video for the rest) and the occasional scene where they could’ve used another take (or ADR) add to Woman’s pulsing grip on reality. Because the film’s fiction. Dunye, the director, wanted to make a documentary about forgotten Black female actors of the 1930s and discovered they’d been forgotten. So she created the history for the film, with Zoe Leonard creating the period photographs while Dunye, Alexandra Juhasz, and Douglas McKeown made the old films. Woman’s from the better universe where women made independent movies in the 1930s and then made it to Hollywood. Just white women, so better comes with caveats.

Juhasz plays the 1930s director in photos and film clips, which strikes a chord with Dunye (the character). Except Juhasz is a white woman director involved with her Black female star (Lisa Marie Bronson), while Dunye is the Black woman director involved with a white girl (Turner). Dunye dans le personnage’s relationship with the material changes orbits during the film multiple times, often in reaction to events shown in the “uncut” footage from the documentary shoots.

It’s sublime narrative weaving.

With fades to and from black transitioning every scene, Dunye (often thanks to Walker) gets some great mic drop moments, and there are numerous good, encapsulated scenes. There are some definite standouts, but watching Camille Paglia say interracial dating didn’t exist in the thirties because Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner? was in the sixties….

It’s hilarious. And one assumes Dunye just asked Paglia to play the bit like she’s a male film professor.

Technically, Woman’s outstanding. In addition to that wondrous cutting, Michelle Crenshaw’s photography is fantastic. The 16mm sequences are exquisite. Really good score from Paul Shapiro.

Watermelon Woman’s awesome.

American Gothic (1995) s01e11 – Rebirth

Rebirth’s a swing and a miss for American Gothic, even though it was an episode I’d been looking forward to seeing again, even though it’s directed by James “The Muppet Movie” Frawley. It also features garbage human being Danny Masterson as a teenage bad boy who helps Lucas Black against the normie teens bullying Black for… having had his entire family murdered. I didn’t recognize Masterson at that point (or at all, I needed the credits), but the mid-nineties white boy dreadlocks are a look.

Masterson needs some cash to get out of town, leading to sheriff Gary Cole harassing him. At least until Sarah Paulson figures out how to return from the dead: she needs to borrow someone else’s spirit. In this case, Paige Turco’s visiting pregnant friend, played by Amy Steel, is just what the proverbial doctor ordered.

I remembered the episode as being some complex character arc for Paulson, who only recovered her full faculties after her death, so she’s never gotten to be alive in this way before. Certainly not with all the grown men leering at her, which she doesn’t notice and, thankfully, doesn’t go anywhere. But her Rebirth gives Cole an idea for palling up to Black. All Cole’s got to do is turn Black against Paulson, which isn’t hard because Paulson’s hanging out with Masterson instead of brother Black. Even though she knows he’s super-lonely without her.

It’s also not a good brother-and-sister arc. It’s not immaterial, but it’s close.

Victor Bumbalo and Robert Palm get the writing credit, and it’s similarly nothing notable. Not in any good ways, especially in how lightly Black (and Paulson to some degree) take Cole raping their mother approximately nine months before Black was born—witnessing the event mentally traumatized Paulson for life. They’ve got no time to discuss it, not when Black can mope about Paulson hanging out with Masterson. He’s got a point—remove the real-life stuff, and there are still the dreadlocks and Masterson’s terrible Southern accent—but there’s also a severe lack of character development.

Is it worse than the scene where Turco makes light of Steel’s two previous miscarriages as she worries about her baby? I mean, no? Rebirth passes Bechdel in the worst ways.

American Gothic (1995) s01e10 – The Beast Within

The Beast Within starts with guest star Jeff Perry looking at his watch, and the date is very clearly 9/25, but it’s episode ten (in the ostensibly official—enough—post-cancellation viewing order), and there’s no way episode ten is airing the last week of September. It only matters because last episode ended with at-one-time protagonist Jake Weber seemingly leaving the show. Or not leaving the show. Or leaving the show.

Weber’s here this episode, but it’s a very “Must See TV” type of “American Gothic.” Show creator Shaun Cassidy gets the writing credit, which has AWOL Marine Perry taking Gary Cole hostage along with Weber, Paige Turco, and Lucas Black in the hospital. So, basically, “American Gothic” Die Hard for deputy Nick Searcy (who’s got the added family drama as Perry’s his brother). But for Cole, Weber, Turco, and Black, it’s “American Gothic” Speed because a bomb will go off if Perry loses consciousness.

It’s half a Searcy character development episode and half successful “Sweeps Week” television. Not quite real-time, but there are constant references to the clock because there’s a countdown too. Cassidy’s script has it all done somewhat stagily without ever coming off stagy, just incredibly precise and controlled. It’s the most successful “Gothic” just in terms of execution, especially since Cassidy still manages to frame it as a (slight) mythology episode—Black starts the episode having a dream about Cole and Perry, which later proves relevant. But only for Black’s overall character development, which is an outstanding choice. And it gives Black some great material.

The best performance in the episode’s Searcy, though Perry’s a close second, and it’s also a good episode for Turco. The hostage situation and potentially relying on Cole shakes her up. Cole and Black are great, of course, and Weber’s got a little. Not a lot, certainly not what’d you expect after he just decided to come back to work after not wandering literal purgatory. But a little. Maybe Within is in the right place in viewing order.

Director Michael Lange does better staging the community theater Die Hard (I mean it in a nice way) than with the pseudo-real-time countdowns. He knows how to focus on the actors and their performances, not so much the connective tissue. Like, whoever convinced them to go with booming clock ticks to amp up the tension very obviously should’ve been ignored. Or they should’ve called it For Whom the Bells Toll.

But other than the mid-nineties style choices, it’s a phenomenal episode. Cassidy and company take it as accessible and potent as possible… and the network aired it in the post-cancellation summer burn-off.

Thanks, CBS.

American Gothic (1995) s01e09 – To Hell and Back

To Hell and Back aired out of order; way out of order. It was one of the infamous summer burn-off episodes, airing about nine months later than it should have. No one tried to kill serialized seasonal narratives like the networks.

The episode’s all about Jake Weber, starting with a flashback to when he killed his wife and daughter in a car accident. He was drunk. The show’s been teasing the details since the pilot, but now it’s the anniversary, and he’s got a very similar case going on in the present day. Town-drunk Robert C. Treveiler went out after a party—a hospital fundraiser, no less—and got in a wreck. He walked away; wife Laura Robbins wasn’t so lucky; plus, she and Weber had a star-crossed meet cute at the fundraiser, so it’s even worse. Weber then starts imagining his wife (played by Andi Carnick) in her place, the added stress pushing him towards drinking.

Sheriff Gary Cole—perhaps demonically aware of Weber’s, well, particular demons—does whatever he can to make things more difficult for Weber. When Weber’s off trying to suss through his shitty day-and-a-half at the local blues club, Brenda Bakke puts the moves on him. Or something approximating them. It’s never clear why Bakke’s tempting him, but then Weber leaves and finds Cole waiting for a bottle and a deal.

Sleep-deprived Weber seems very aware Cole’s got something supernatural (and evil) going on; will he give in?

And here’s the funny thing—it doesn’t matter. I mean, it does matter, and Weber’s got a significant character development and reveal arc going on, but the way they leave things… it doesn’t matter. Either Weber’s leaving, or he’s staying. The finish, which emphasizes his character arc, doesn’t resolve it.

Good thing the network pushed the episode out of order so far. It’d be terrible to know what was happening with the show’s first protagonist.

The B plot involves Lucas Black spying on weird old neighbor William Morgan Sheppard and his cousin, Paige Turco, getting upset he’s becoming such a gossip. It’s an excellent arc for Black, though it duplicates another episode’s arc… meaning he didn’t learn anything the last time. I think it also involved his friends, Evan Rachel Wood and Christopher Fennell, teasing him into some behavior.

Excellent script—credit to Judi Ann Mason and Robert Palm—with barely okay even for 1995 TV drama direction courtesy Oz Scott. Scott at least gives the actors time but still manages to work against them with some of the gimmicks.

Even with Scott fumbling, the episode is successful, a testament to the writers and, especially, the actors. It’s a terrific showcase for Weber while also giving Bakke and Black decent spotlights. Turco and Cole—despite having a lot to do—are just supporting their plots’ protagonists.

Outstanding stuff.

From Dusk Till Dawn (1996, Robert Rodriguez)

From Dusk Till Dawn doesn’t have any great performances; it has a bunch of decent ones, a couple good ones, thankless ones, middling ones, bad ones, maybe problematic ones, but no great ones. And it could use a great performance because the script’s full of scenery-chewing dialogue courtesy second-billed Quentin Tarantino.

Tarantino writes a movie he’d want to see, but also one where it’s clear he’s the center of attention. So when it comes time for Salma Hayek’s dance number in the grandiosely sleazy biker bar and strip club where most of the movie takes place, Tarantino’s the one who gets the table dance. He’s the one who gets to suck on some girl’s foot. And he wants everyone watching to know he’s that guy.

His character is a rapist and murderer who has just broken his brother out of jail. George Clooney plays the brother. Genes are funny. Clooney’s the cool, collected professional thief who talks in soulful monologue, listens to people, and only kills civilians when absolutely necessary. He also gets shitfaced when he’s upset and makes terrible decisions, which tracks since he keeps Tarantino alive even though Tarantino’s a monster.

None of that backstory is important to From Dusk Till Dawn. There’s a lot of talking about it because there’s a lot of talking in the movie's first hour, but none of it matters. Once the batshit hits the fan—oh, the sleazy biker strip bar is actually a vampire den—Clooney becomes just another member of the ensemble. He spent the first act and a half of the movie keeping the plot and Tarantino on point, though in the latter case, just cleaning up after the raping and murdering.

Clooney’s one of the decent performances. Unfortunately, he doesn’t have the personality for the dialogue without better direction on his performance, and director Rodriguez’s got zero interest in directing performances. He also gets bored with all the talking; not a good combination.

Clooney and Tarantino need to get into Mexico; all the cops in Texas are looking for them. The film mostly shows it via a TV newscast where the liberal local Texas news media tracks a tally on how many Rangers the brothers kill. John Saxon and Kelly Preston cameo on the TV news; Saxon’s okay, Preston’s terrible. It’s a tedious bit, and she makes it worse.

There’s also a liquor store hold-up where the brothers watch Michael Parks and John Hawkes have a lengthy Tarantino scene. Parks is real good, and Hawkes is pretty good, but the scene’s a draggy way to start. Once it becomes clear Clooney’s actually Tarantino’s sidekick, Dawn loses a bunch of immediate potential; it’s all about Tarantino’s whims.

To get into Mexico, Clooney decides they need to kidnap Harvey Keitel and his teenage kids and ride across the border in their RV. Keitel’s a former minister; his wife died a horrific death, and he’s lost his faith. Juliette Lewis and Ernest Liu play the kids. Liu’s adopted. Clooney and Tarantino make fun of him for being Asian. They also talk a lot of shit about Mexican people. On the one hand, you can kind of see them doing Clooney against type, only it’s not exactly (he just talks trash, he doesn’t act it). On the other, it’s just Tarantino in-virtue signaling because he’s an asshole.

Anyway.

Lewis is good. Liu’s fine. Keitel’s good. Keitel’s got a silly part in an eventually gory movie, and when the time comes for him to step up, it’s mostly just to pass the baton over to Lewis, which is kind of cool. The movie takes little note of it (based on the script structure, it is, actually, because she’s a girl), but she’s the protagonist, and it carries. Rodriguez’s got a little more interest in Keitel and the family.

When the action gets to the vampire bar, there are more supporting cast members to play it out. Hayek’s got an incredibly thankless part, but Fred Williamson and Tom Savini do all right. Especially Savini. Danny Trejo’s oddly bad as the bartender, and then Cheech Marin tries really hard in three different parts. Sadly the bit is it’s Cheech cameoing in three different parts. The amusement factor runs out when the first one drags on, and the film never re-ups.

Rodriguez is more enthusiastic about the gory, slimy, bloody vampire action, so it’s disappointing when it turns out Tarantino’s got no story for it. After moving all the pieces into position, the script craps out.

Good production design from Cecilia Montiel, even if Rodriguez and cinematographer Guillermo Navarro rush over it. When he’s not cutting together one of Tarantino’s ego trips, Rodriguez's editing is good.

Dawn’s okay—Keitel can carry the thing after it’s clear Clooney can’t, with Lewis able to keep it afloat when she needs to take over, too—but it’s utterly desperate to cool; and it’s barely, rarely chilly.

New Love (1996) #2

It’s a very religious issue. Creator Gilbert Hernandez does four saint pin-ups, each with a text paragraph describing their lives and sainthood. Beto calls the series “A Gallery of Humanitarians and Beloved Martyrs” and leans so heavily into it, the angry atheist protagonist of the final feature story is a big surprise. The pin-ups are the issue’s only recurring element, and they set some of the mood, which Beto further explicates with the final pin-up’s saint and story placement.

But while there’s religiosity at play—including in the story about some prehistoric humans (well, with some caveats)—Beto also includes some secular humanitarians. The first strip of the issue is about the iron lung; in a nine-panel grid (minus one for the title), Beto establishes the medical need for the device, how it works, problems in its development, and then the eventual success. It’s history comics in a page. Very impressive stuff and more successful than the later “Beto’s Notes” version of Moby Dick, which is a fine strip, but the iron lung strip is didactic; the Moby Dick one is instead a neat trick.

The issue has three feature stories.

First, there’s another “Letters from Venus,” which has Venus learning more about her parents—and how other people, specifically Aunt Fritz, see them. There’s also a nice “growing up” anecdote in there, albeit one with a lot more family drama than it’d be if Venus’s mom weren’t a Love and Rockets character.

It also takes place just after life on Mars has been discovered, something Venus muses about in her thought balloons as she roams around a festival where everyone’s in a costume. It’ll be interesting to see if Beto’s including that otherworldly detail as a throwaway or if it’ll actually figure into the strip going forward.

Beto does an eight-panel, two-by-four layout on most pages. He’s got fantastic pacing, and Venus is a great narrator. The art does require a lot of attention. Beto’s got no time for stragglers, with the big twist being a tiny movement in one of the panels.

It’s quite good.

And in no way prepares for the next story, the prehistoric human one. Specifically prehistoric men. Except they know about things like brain chemistry—without understanding it, they just know about it—and their world is full of strange creatures, like giant teddy bears and model airplane-shaped birds. Two guys are jealous of another’s fishing and hunting prowess; they also aren’t thrilled with him because he’s from another tribe.

The story’s thoughtfully paced and somewhat gruesome. There’s religiosity to it, although just at the base level. As a parable, it’s excellent.

The last story is where all the built-up religion comes out. The story is set in a toy land, where a jack in the box and his music box ballerina argue about his bad mood. The jack in the box, Bolo Cereal, is sick of racist, misogynist Republicans who claim they’re Christian without following any of Christ’s teachings. So wind-up ballerina girlfriend Fléchette suggests they go to church and see if it makes Bolo feel any better.

It does not and leads to a tragic, then mildly baffling, conclusion. The art’s fantastic on the story, but the art’s fantastic on the entire issue. There’s such a wide range of settings—modern-day California, prehistoric whatever, toy land—with Beto telling each story a different way, it ends up just being a showcase of Beto’s varied talents.

The Venus story could’ve been longer—but only because Venus is such a good protagonist—otherwise, there’s nothing to gripe about. New Love #2 is great comics.

New Love (1996) #1

New love 1

I was unclear about a couple things when I started New Love. First, I thought it would be Gilbert and Jaime Hernandez splitting like the old days, but it’s just Beto.

Which tracks. Beto was more about the Love than Rockets.

Then I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to remember the main character from the first story from somewhere else. She’s an opera singer who, after leaving the opera, finds herself pulled over in a park by a walking owl creature. They have sex, and the owl creature transforms into a human, and the singer becomes an owl creature. Since I just read Beto’s porno comic, Birdland, it really didn’t come off too weird. Other than not being sure if I should remember the lead character from somewhere else.

It’s a good little strip—not really a story—with Beto doing a lot of stylized, art deco-ish art.

Then there’s an actual three-panel comic strip about Frida Kahlo and Diego Rivera. It’s funny and dirty and reminds of Beto’s excellent Frida biography from Love and Rockets: Volume One.

The issue’s got two main stories, one Luba Family—focusing on her tweenage niece, Venus (daughter of Petra, who appeared in Birdland and it also threw me)—and one Palomar. Or at least Palomar Extended Universe; it’s never explicitly Palomar, but it’s got the vibe.

Beto structures Venus’s story as a letter to her cousin, recounting an experience involving her mom, Aunt Fritz, a record store, and a gay porno comic. It’s only six pages, but it’s chockfull of dialogue establishing Venus as a protagonist to be reckoned with. She’s got an adoring best friend, Yoshio; they’re too cool for school—the scene with Fritz has them hanging out in a coffee shop, smoking cloves and drinking de-caf.

Eventually, it turns into this really touching story about Venus and Petra, with a lot of humor and profound embarrassment at one’s parent along the way. It’s a good one; no matter what else Beto did in the issue, the Venus story is enough to make New Love #1 a success.

Since it’s Beto, however, the second feature story—which is longer but has a lot less dialogue and a lot more mood—is also excellent. A femme fatale arrives in a rural, Palomar-y town and immediately captivates a local man, who happens to have a hunchback, an overbearing mother, and who communicates with a supernatural force living in a tree.

Beto plots it like a fairy tale, with the unnamed hunchbacked man consulting the force to accomplish various tasks, usually to garner favor with the femme fatale. The lead never speaks. His mom yells at him, the children mock him, the femme fatale’s rude to him—and the spirit talks a lot.

It’s a tidy little fable, very noir-ish, with occasional hints at tenderness. Not as good as the Venus story, but very good comics.

Then there’s a short (but not three-panel) strip crossing Fritz over with the opera singer. It’s got a great punchline.

New Love’s off to a fine start. Of course, it’d be surprising if it weren’t.

Whoa, Nellie! (1996) #3

Whoa Nellie, #03

Leave it to Jaime Hernandez to get me tearing up for a wrestling story.

But he’s got a great finale reveal, which ties the series together as well as echoes back to Love and Rockets Prime. Even after deliberating establishing reveals are going to be a thing in the issue, the last one comes as a perfect surprise. Jaime plays around with time a bit here. He’ll have a person going to talk to someone, they’re there immediately having the conversation, but time has passed in between. It’s all about what’s happening off-page, between the panels.

And, of course, the wrestling. There’s a whole lot of wrestling this issue, starting with the second half of Xochitl’s first fight as Texas champion. It does not go well, and it turns out her rise to the championship was just a way for the wrestling organization to give their pick a suitable venue for the win. Worse, everyone knows about it except Xo and Gina. It’s a coming of age story for Gina, her first real glimpse into the sadness of experience.

There are some great scenes for Xo and Gina. Jaime also gives Vicki an emotional life chapter closing scene; he writes the hell out of it. He draws it beautifully as well, but the writing acknowledges the gravity of the character. Vicki’s been an almost literal superhero in Love and Rockets. Jaime does it well.

The comic’s serious, but Jaime uses foreground and background action to maintain humor throughout. The way the wrestling open works—how Jaime dissects the impact of a fight scene in a comic, how the presentation controls how it’s read; it’s an outstanding, masterful comic book. It also just happens to be pretty funny, emotionally impactful, and just wild, wonderful women’s wrestling.

The issue ends with a wrestling exhibition, where Jaime gleefully introduces multiple wrestlers before they start pairing off to fight. There’s a ring commentator—catchphrase, Whoa, Nellie!—who handles all the exposition, which Jaime writes really well. He finds the character’s voice immediately. Then he works up this momentum of the announcer’s fight narration, against the actual fight, against the contextual information the reader might not have. It’s exceptionally well done.

Whoa, Nellie! is not the comic I was expecting. But it’s very much exactly what I needed.

Whoa, Nellie! (1996) #2

Whoa Nellie2

While I wasn’t “worried” about Whoa, Nellie! last issue, I was concerned creator Jaime Hernandez didn’t have enough story, just the impulse to do a bunch of women’s wrestling art. After this issue, two of three, I’m very sad there’s not a fourth because Jaime gets the story going, and it’s good. He also brings back Maggie from Love and Rockets to support the issue but still acknowledges she’s still a protagonist. I could make a comparison to a television spin-off, but it’d distract from what Jaime actually does with Maggie here.

The issue opens with backstory on Xochitl and Gina (finally). Xochitl was Gina’s babysitter, approximately ten years before Nellie! (and Rockets, because Gina being seventeen or eighteen puts a spin on things from that series too). They were great pals, and burgeoning artist Gina drew the duo as superheroes. Then one day, Xochitl wants to watch Aunt Vicki on the TV, and Gina gets a look at real-life lady superheroes. From there, Gina gets the idea they can be a wrestling team someday and sticks with it through to being a teenager, when they head off to Vicki’s training gym, where they become supporting cast in last big Maggie, well, Perla, story in Love and Rockets: Volume One.

So Jaime gives all the contextualizing he needs to give. They’re a team; they’re lady superheroes; nothing can break them up.

Except their first tag-team fight is a disaster, they get their butts kicked. Xochitl goes home to her family, Gina goes to high school, the mundane instead of the dreamed fantastic.

Maggie (Perla) is visiting Aunt Vicki, who tells her the whole family history of wrestling—which, again, informs Love and Rockets: Volume One to a degree—and how Perla was supposed to be the next great wrestler. That destiny allows Jaime to do a page and a half Maggie daydream a la Rockets; he’s doing character development on the star of his last series, who isn’t a regular in this series. It’s very holistic.

Because Vicki’s also got a character development arc. In fact, even though Gina and Xotichl have the action scenes—the wrestling—they’re not the focus. Vicki and Maggie sort of take over the comic, but all for Xotichl and Gina’s benefit. Maggie being there helps get Vicki to the character development precipice she’ll need to be in. If the comic’s going to be about Vicki’s expectations—or lack thereof—of Xotichl as the family wrestler successor.

Something Xochitl doesn’t know anything about.

It’s not a high drama comic. The wrestling’s pretty intense, but the combination family and vocational ambition drama—the stakes themselves aren’t high (yet), but the potential emotional repercussions for the characters is beaucoup. Jaime does a phenomenal job setting things up. I’ve got no doubt he can pull it off with just one more issue, but I still want more of this comic. It’s a delight. And has depth.

The Gina and Xotichl backstory stuff is phenomenal. Like, Gina’s lady superhero observation riffs on Jaime’s entire oeuvre to this point. It’s really cool how this series echoes back to Rockets. It’s not a spin-off. It’s… well, I guess it’s a Love and Rockets comic book like the cover says.

And, as usual, a darned good one.

Tin Cup (1996, Ron Shelton)

Tin Cup’s got very few problems. It’s just a romantic comedy about a ne’er-do-well golf pro who decides to improve himself to impress his rival’s girlfriend. There’s a little more nuance to it, but not much. Kevin Costner plays the hero, Rene Russo plays the love interest, Don Johnson plays the other guy. Because all the cast members are in their forties, Tin Cup has a little more sophisticated air. Costner’s old enough to have become a would-be golf sage. Russo’s got a grown-up backstory with a lot of implications. Johnson… well, Johnson’s sort of ageless. The part’s a caricature, but it’s caricature Johnson passively exudes, so every utterance is a revelation of asshole.

But he’s not a great villain. He’s too likable. The movie gets away with it thanks to the cast’s charm, but it does sort of reduce the dramatic impact of Costner’s wooing Russo. There are a couple places in Cup where they avoid a topic or skip a thing because otherwise, it’d get too heavy. If it ever gets too weighty, it’s time to move on. Costner’s got a lot of West Texas golf pro zen monologues about golf to make, and those are funny and successful because Costner turns on the sincerity for a gag. But if you actually have to think about him—he’s basically an immature, lovable jackass who gets by thanks to innate intelligence and being good-looking and charming like a movie star. Costner’s against type partly because most of it requires a scrub, not a movie star.

What’s strange is the film leans into being more comedic in the first act and then dumbs it in the second. The third act is a sports movie and a good one, albeit a low-stakes one. Director Shelton goes out of his way to showcase Russo’s comedic ability, only for her to not be in the movie enough in the second act for them to matter. Once the sports story starts, Russo’s demoted, but she also gets a lot less comedy. So when she’s with Cheech Marin—who plays Costner’s best friend, caddy, sidekick, and conscience—it’s fantastic because she gets to have fun.

It’s when she’s not Johnson’s girlfriend; it’s when she’s got agency.

But most of Tin Cup’s problems resolve themselves, and a couple become strengths. For better or worse, demoting Russo in the second act changes the impact of the third on Costner, making him a fuller character and giving the dramatic sports finish even more gravitas. Shelton’s got a problem with changing the tone for it; it gets more serious—real golfers are cameoing now—and almost all the jokes are gone. But it also makes the third act stand alone and special. Tin Cup’s an exquisitely produced film.

For the most part.

It has what I assume is a 1996 Top 40s Country-Western soundtrack. Shelton seems to try to cover for the pointless tracks with on-the-nose tracks (there are golf country songs), but the music doesn’t fit the characters. At times we’re supposed to think Kevin Costner is listening to these songs on his Walkman. Or at least the songs are playing, and Costner is inexplicably wearing a Walkman like he lost a bet to a guy at Sony, so maybe he’s listening to them? It seems more like he’d be listening to books on tape—for the character at his place in the movie, even if it were a golf book—but Costner gets zero self-improvement.

Tin Cup is about being so special at one thing, you never have to say you’re sorry for anything else.

Wow; sort of a metaphor for how the movie can still be good with that lousy soundtrack. William Ross does the score, and it’s okay—it really comes in for the sports finale, but then it’s basically just Hoosiers music—so I don’t know if he’d have brought enough personality. But the movie begs for a good score versus lousy songs.

Though there’s a Chris Isaak song where you realize Costner’s mooning over Russo isn’t as dramatic or romantic as the song, which then makes it too serious for a moment. It’s an interesting glimpse into the movie being done straight dramatic.

And the last song isn’t not catchy. The sex scene song, however, is grating. Though the sex scenes themselves are a little pointless. So, regular romantic comedy problems, but with a good cast and a fine production. And a terrible, worst kind of media conglomerate synergy soundtrack.

All the performances are good with asterisks. Russo’s excellent in the first act until she gets reduced to girlfriend in the second act. Johnson’s outstanding, but it’s a thin part. Costner’s successful, but it’s hard not to be successful when the movie’s about your character never actually being wrong and usually quite the opposite. He’s a little loose on the more comedic—Marin’s there to pick up the slack—but he’s got the sincerity. And when scenes do go wrong, it’s not Costner’s fault. It’s the soundtrack.

Tin Cup’s a mostly delightful nineties romantic comedy. One’s mileage may vary with the soundtrack—even if you like the songs, they’re pointless selections. Costner, Russo, Marin, and Johnson are a fine team. Linda Hart’s good as Costner’s ex.

It’s a good time.

This post is part of the Odd Or Even Blogathon hosted by Gill of Realweegiemidget Reviews and Rebecca from Taking Up Room.