Michael Hayes (1997) s01e14 – Imagine: Part 1

Well, it makes sense why the previous episode closed off two plot threads with big ol’ cop outs—“Michael Hayes” has got a new pair of drivers. This episode adds Michael S. Chernuchin (single writing credit on the episode) and Michael Pressman (director of the episode) as executive producers. Their big idea for what to do with the show is make it as sensational as possible, with David Caruso and company hunting down a Unabomber-esque suspect who the FBI has been hiding from the public for eight years because Waco.

We’ve also gone from Caruso just waiting for his permanent appointment to the unnamed but it’s Janet Reno boss in Washington out to get him. And Ruben Santiago-Hudson has become a fascist.

There’s nothing about the bombshells in Caruso’s life in the last episode, even though part of the case involves sibling loyalty and he doesn’t flinch at it. I suppose you can imagine Caruso added something to the performance because of the previous events but… there’s nothing in the script. Outside the characters, the show’s tabula rasa.

There are a bunch of guest stars—got to have persons of interest in a procedural (Caruso’s not running around with a gun at least, just personally investigating the crime and interviewing witnesses). Kevin Conway’s the reporter who helps Caruso leak the story and then becomes integral to the investigation because it’s Kevin Conway. Gail Strickland’s good as the woman who thinks her brother has become the bomber. Lisa Banes is an antagonist defense attorney who has history with Caruso and gets the best acting out of him. Chris Mulkey’s a weasely FBI agent. Harley Venton is the former CIA wetworks guy with all the answers whether Caruso wants to hear the truth or not.

Venton’s godawful and might be the first shark Fonz is jumping over after zooming towards the ramp. Mulkey’s part of the ramp.

None of the regular cast gets much to do since Caruso’s doing all the investigating and interviewing himself (after Santiago-Hudson gets done with a fine Richard Riehle). Rebecca Rigg maybe gets the most after Santiago-Hudson. Hillary Danner gets the least (i.e. she’s only in full group scenes). Peter Outerbridge in between Rigg and Danner.

Thanks to Chernuchin and Pressman, “Michael Hayes” feels like sensationalized CBS nonsense, which it’s kind of amazing they managed to avoid until now. At least Caruso’s not running around with a pistol taking shots at suspects but… who knows what will happen once the Fonz is over the next shark.

It’s also a two-parter so I suppose there’s the slim chance the new guys’ll save it in the landing.

Or the shark will eat them.

Michael Hayes (1997) s01e13 – Arise and Fall

Even with some big cop outs—so big it’s practically another soft reset of the series—it’s either the best or second best episode with show co-creator John Romano’s name in the writing credits. Most of the episode is a “day in the life” of the people working at the U.S. Attorney’s office; more of a few days in the life, but still. The episode’s got a nice scale to it.

Arise and Fall starts with David Caruso complaining about cockroaches to secretary Jodi Long, which ends up driving both B plots. There’s going to be some evidence mishandling, giving Ruben Santiago-Hudson something to do all episode, but also will provide another aspect to the Peter Outerbridge learns blue bloods can be problem employees too story arc. Outerbridge has just won a case with previously unseen because it’s a huge office attorney Brian McNamara (and Hillary Danner). They’re going to form a subplot group throughout the episode, starting with them opening up the series’s hang out restaurant for coffee after a night of celebrating.

Outerbridge hasn’t had a lot to do on the show and he handles this story arc quite well. Though the episode completely goes with “sexually harass a woman” to fuel her male colleagues’ character development trope. Women, regular cast or guest stars, are fairly disposable around here. Mary Ward even shows up for a couple scenes to establish something for back again David Cubitt to pick up later.

Caruso spends the first half of the episode dealing with the outstanding “girlfriend Helen Slater is possibly on the mob payroll” multi-episode arc, which has Arye Gross showing up for a two scenes as the investigator, which ends up being as many scenes as Slater gets. It’ll end up being one of the big cop outs.

The second half’s A plot—the episode’s fairly balanced so the only reason it’s the A plot is because it’s Caruso’s—is about Cubitt turning himself in and Caruso trying to work it all out.

Outside the opening cockroach conversation, most of Caruso’s scenes have him pensively, silently reacting to either news or giving news to someone. The episode takes its time with those moments, with director Richard J. Lewis letting Caruso find the meat in the scenes. It’s nice Lewis takes the time, especially since the only other distinctive aspect of his direction is how poorly he directs kid Jimmy Galeota. Like, the writing’s not great on Galeota (who’s emotional fodder for the Cubitt subplot, just like Ward) but still. They should’ve kept doing takes until they got something a little better.

It’s a mostly high mediocre episode (as it combats the first half cop out), with the second big cop out dragging it down at the end.

But, hey, maybe they’ll finally figure out what to do with the show next episode.

Michael Hayes (1997) s01e12 – Mob Mentality

An episode after I list Anne Kenney as one of the show’s reliable writers, she turns in this whiff of an episode. Obviously it’s not all her fault—there are multi-episode stories and Helen Slater’s guest star arc in play—but even taking those elements out… there’s a lot of problems. Actually, the Slater stuff—while disappointing—isn’t even the big problem (with the episode, the series’s momentum is another thing).

The big problem is the A plot trial, which has Rebecca Rigg and Hillary Danner trying Black man Perry Moore for inciting a fellow rioter to kill a couple Jewish guys; there’s a riot because it’s that story about the rabbi running over a little Black girl and driving away. There was a “Law & Order” about it too.

It’s very weird and hopefully was just as weird at the time, because the episode’s all about how white people are justifiably scared of Black people—specifically Ruben Santiago-Hudson—and how it turns out they’re justified. Also Black people aren’t at all interested in being truthful, so there’s another of Kenney’s big flexes. It’s the two white women—Rigg and Danner—who get the moral authority here, because even though he’s only around to observe and call them “ladies” in a seemingly unintentional but actual patronizing way, Caruso’s in Santiago-Hudson’s court. He too cares more about the dead Black girl, which Rigg and Danner are completely indifferent about.

The acting’s all fine. Nice John Capodice cameo as the judge. Jason Blicker is good as the Hassidic guy who survived the attack (his friend did not). Rigg’s good. She’s playing a bigot and everyone seems fine with it but whatever. She’s very believable at it. Santiago-Hudson has to absolve her of her bigotry at one point, which is a heck of a shitty scene. Additionally, Kenney doesn’t even have Rigg and Danner pass Bechdel?

The episode pays lip service to trying to responsibility navigate the “controversy” in the first few scenes, but it ends up being a bunch of whataboutery and specious equivalences. It’s a bummer.

Also a bummer is the court scene, where Rigg is facing off against guest star George Wyner as the defense attorney. Wyner always seems like he should be better. He’s fine—the episode’s got a bunch of good guest stars, including Richard Foronjy and Walter Olkewicz—but doesn’t get enough to do.

The cliffhanger from last episode doesn’t get addressed either; Caruso is too busy being obsessed about something else from last episode. It seemed like the show was going to do character development. Only instead it throws the character development in reverse in order to gin up some sensationalism.

It’s a bummer. The episode is a definite bummer. Especially since it brings up unconscious bias in the narrative; it’s a profoundly unaware script and puts Kenney on the bottom of the list of regular writers. Usually when the show’s tepid, it’s because it’s trying too hard to be macho, not literally being a Karen.

Good performance from Peter Outerbridge, who’s got a short but relevant subplot this episode after being office scenery for most of the series so far.

Six-String Samurai (1998, Lance Mungia)

Released in 1998, Six-String Samurai makes the big move of using a very familiar piece of music from the Pulp Fiction soundtrack (Misirlou, which is also the music on the Pulp Fiction trailer) during a big action sequence. It’s not a bold move, because Samurai hasn’t got any boldness. It even walks back being tough enough to kill kids, which turns out to be a major bummer later on; but it’s a big move. You lift from a popular movie you’re not directly referencing but you’re desperately hoping has gotten audiences ready to give your lesser effort a pass. I also wouldn’t call it a courageous move—director Mungia is awkwardly safe—but it’s not something you see every day. A movie “homaging” a four-year old film with a straight face. I mean, it works in spoofs… maybe they were hoping it’d go far for them in Samurai, which isn’t a spoof but has the ingredients to be one.

While the plotting is sort of good—Samurai isn’t (but always seems like) an adaptation of a wacky but good indie comic from the late eighties or early nineties—samurai rock and rollers, all sorts of different gangs—cavemen, a bowling team, musical guests the Red Elvises, a heavy metal death gang, some Soviets—a post-apocalyptic setting. Maybe British, commenting on the U.S. but not well, instead just going for whatever works in the moment. Mungia and lead Jeffrey Falcon wrote the script, which is mercenary for its occasional laughs; if it were a Muppet movie, it’d be amazing, which is kind of hard to explain but also not. If Six-String Samurai were a bunch of Muppets and a human kid, it’d be amazing. The dialogue’s for a Muppet movie. When the death metal gang starts talking to each other like it’s “Fraggle Rock,” you can see the missed opportunity.

But until the end, it seems like Samurai might make it to the finish line. Only it doesn’t, because it’s got a bad ending where it turns out Mungia isn’t just nodding to… get ready… Kurosawa, Leone, Coen, Tarantino, Rodriguez, Lucas (as in George), he’s also got a whole Wizard of Oz thing he wants to throw in for momentary effect. Again, not ornate or committed enough to be desperate, but pointless. Mungia’s desperate to homage.

So it’s kind of weird how well he directs about forty percent of the action scenes. While Mungia doesn’t make a good kung fu movie or a good Western, he does make one hell of a samurai epic. When Falcon’s out there slicing and dicing, it’s some great samurai cinema. Shame Mungia can’t shoot a sword duel, but it’s only one of so many shames. Some of the problem with the action is James Frisa’s editing. It’s one of those cases where Mungia does things wrong, Frisa does things wrong, then they enable each other on other things gone wrong. Samurai does a lot with slow motion to cover Mungia not actually being able to direct the action and it gets really tiresome. Compounding it… Frisa’s editing isn’t good. It’s a vicious circle and usually keeps Samurai from accomplishing anything. Save those samurai action scenes—and just the action parts, not the setup or wrap-up. Mungia fumbles those parts like normal.

Kristian Bernier’s photography is good throughout. Lots of wind in the film in the first, which works to great effect. Unfortunately, as the gale mellows, lead Falcon—playing Lone Wolf—accepts Cub Justin McGuire.

Though—and it’s weird because it came out before–Samurai has a much better story for Star Wars: Episode I than Star Wars: Episode I has for itself.

Anyway.

The problem with Samurai and what ultimately does it in is McGuire. It’s very hard to cast a good kid lead in an adventure movie for all ages, it’s harder to cast one for an R-rated action movie… there’s no shame in not getting it right. Sadly, Mungia and company get it not just a little wrong, they get it astoundingly, increasingly wrong. Though if they were really making the movie and thinking it was fine—which seems to make sense, given how not good Falcon’s line deliveries get (and appear dubbed much of the time—his stunts are great, he was a stuntman)–but to not see what McGuire’s doing to your movie….

It’s like having an adorable little puppy who’s so annoying you want to kick it.

But there is an odd sincerity to the McGuire character, the young orphan who needs protecting and ronin Falcon’s the only one available–but it’s still bad and it’s not a cloying addition. It’s the film’s biggest swing and the resulting miss is what breaks Samurai’s last string.

Maybe if Falcon were a great lead but he’s not even a good one. Samurai is impressive for its creators’ tenacity and ability to get investors, Falcon’s physical movement, the samurai action, and the photography. The rest… nope.

Sphere (1998, Barry Levinson)

Sphere is not a justifiable use of eighty million dollars. I don’t think you could justify spending a dollar to rent a copy to watch, much less eighty million of them to make the thing.

The big problem is the script. Whatever Kurt Wimmer (ominously credited with “adaptation”), Stephen Hauser, and Paul Attanasio did to adapt the Michael Crichton source novel does not a successful script make. It’s got ludicrous character development and bad pacing, and is artificially bewildering and exceptionally crappy to women, specifically Sharon Stone. But there’s so much to fix, so much to compensate for, director Levinson just gives up on even trying. Script’s a big problem but Levinson’s inability to crack any aspect of the project is the biggest. It’s not incompetently directed. It’s incompetently written, incompetently produced, but Levinson’s direction isn’t actually incompetent. It’s just vapid.

Vapid is the word for Levinson’s direction. He’s not interested in executing the film successfully, just executing it. At 134 minutes, it’s a bit of a chore to watch but I imagine it was even more of a chore to make with so little investment whatsoever. Amusingly lead Dustin Hoffman has a bit—apparently ad-libbed—where he explains to Samuel L. Jackson, before the government submarines them to the bottom of the Pacific Ocean to meet space aliens, Hoffman bullshitted a report about how he, Jackson, Stone, and physics whiz kid Liev Schreiber should be the ones to first contact with any space aliens. He used the money to pay for the downpayment on his house, making one wonder what everyone involved with Sphere did with their paychecks before turning in their bullshit….

Okay, that one is a little unfair. Schreiber busts his ass to show-off in a bad part. There’s also these weird optics about competitiveness between Jackson and Schreiber and it’s inexplicable why Schreiber’s got it out for Jackson. Jackson doesn’t like Schreiber because he thinks he’s obnoxious, which is fine—though Schreiber gets intentionally less obnoxious in the second act and it backfires. Schreiber’s a lot better being annoying and doing exposition dumps than not being as annoying and giving them. Of course, the second act stuff isn’t his fault exactly because the film needs its eggheads—Jackson’s a mathematician, Schreiber’s physics, Hoffman’s a psychologist, Stone’s a biochemist-to do all sorts of things you’re not sure they’d know how to do… like setting explosives, repairing underwater habitats, on the fly code-cracking—Stone’s basically a medic, they all know how to get into their underwater suits and go for solo strolls. On and on. Sphere’s got a very limited cast—seven people in a habitat next to a giant spaceship, crash landed 300 years ago, but you’d need a support crew of a dozen to get everything done in the movie you need to get done considering they’re a bunch of narcissistic academics.

But back to the Schreiber vs. Jackson thing—it feels like there are some optics. Jackson’s the Black guy in what turns into a horror movie. He’s got a predicted part in the film.

See, once they go inside the spaceship they find all sorts of weird things, including a giant gold ball and they all become obsessed with it. Except Schreiber and Man in Black boss of the mission Peter Coyote. Oh, if only Peter Coyote were good in the movie. I really think a good performance in that part would at least keep Sphere somewhat buoyant.

Because Coyote, Jackson, and Schreiber have the film’s most important parts. Hoffman’s a terrible leading man. His part seems inflated and Stone’s decreased, which is concerning. Sphere feels very poorly assembled. Stu Linder’s cuts are fine, but the pace of the film, the focus of the narrative impulse? Not good. Whatever Levinson needed to crack with Sphere in terms of characters, plotting, scares, science fictions, musics, whatever… he doesn’t. He’s got no more idea what to do with Sphere at the end than he does at the beginning.

Except to crap on Stone whenever possible. See, she was once Hoffman’s patient and so they had an affair. But he forgot to mention he was married, so he was lying to her while treating her medically. When she felt bad after their breakup and took a bunch of pills, sounds like Hoffman had her sent to electro-shock. Like, he’s a criminal. He shouldn’t just lose his license, he should be charged with something. It’s messed up.

But it’s not the subplot—the subplot is Stone is a crazy woman and no one should trust her, something Coyote rails about, Jackson rails about, Hoffman has an arc about. A vague, vague, vague arc but he definitely goes from thinking he can trust Stone in the beginning to thinking she’s psychotic by the end. With Coyote and Jackson at multiple times counseling Hoffman not to trust Stone because she’s a crazy woman.

It’s really icky.

And even more unfortunate because Stone’s really not good.

She’s got a crap part—such a crap part, just guys violently gaslighting her scene after scene—the writing’s terrible, whatever… and there’s still just something Stone doesn’t bring. Jackson’s got his part down, problematic as some of his scenes get when they think he’s Brett after Ripley let him back into the ship; he’s still got it down. When something goes wrong with Jackson’s performance, it’s the script. Schreiber’s working. Coyote and Hoffman, to differing success, just aim low in every scene and always hit that effectiveness. The least effort possible. Hoffman’s just wrong for it. You wish he weren’t wrong for it because it’d be cool if he could do it, but he can’t do it. Not with how the film’s set up, not with the bad writing, not with Hoffman’s maximum level of effort for this project.

Queen Latifah gets fifth billing and is in what ends up being the film’s best looking visual sequence. Adam Greenberg’s photography is boring, but it’s not his fault. Levinson refuses to give Sphere a visual style, horror, wonder, drama—the second act showdowns between Stone and Hoffman, better written and directed, are Bergman-esque—but it’s not a cheap looking film (save the late nineties CGI) and so it occasionally looks quite good. Latifah’s effect scene’s the one where they spend the time. Shame it’s early on and the film never tries to top it.

Because Levinson’s not trying to ape Kubrick. Worse he doesn’t even seem to acknowledge he should. A bunch of failed homage would make Sphere at least a little fun, instead of frequently upsetting. It’s a drain to watch characters start dying off during the haunted house portion of the film and no one care about it. It’s actually impossible to have less empathy for another character than the characters in Sphere have for one another. Multiple times people get informed of someone dying and the reaction not even warranting a shrug. The biggest question the film raises is, “Is the writing right now bad or lazy and how could you tell the difference?”

Of course, if Sphere were an inevitable fail, it might be fun. But there’s no reason, with a better script, with better direction, with someone else in for Peter Coyote because Coyote’s not showy enough for the part, the film couldn’t be a success. But Levinson’s not the one to do it. It’s clearly the wrong kind of dumb idea for him to fix.

This post is part of the Out To Sea Blogathon hosted by Debbie of Moon in Gemini.

Pierre Paolo (1998, Rachel Amodeo)

Pierre Paolo is a five minute short, set in a seaside Italian town. It opens with a simple, handwritten title card, then there’s a montage of the town set to classical music. The action rests on an old woman (Filomena Paletta) sitting on some stairs. Text appears across the bottom of the frame, explaining she’s thinking about her husband, the titular Pierre Paolo. When he appears, he’s a little boy on the beach, playing with a little girl (presumably the old woman on the stairs).

The action cuts to a younger version of the woman (director Amodeo) near the same, or similar stairs, in the town.

While the short raises some unaddressed questions—i.e. does it matter if the footage was all shot contemporaneously—the young boy is played by Pierre Paolo Pegnataro, the young girl by Govanna Saboureault, so is it old found footage or did Amodeo sort of create this nostalgia piece—the questions don’t have any affect on the effectiveness of the short. There are some limitations from the medium; clearly shot on film, it appears to be edited on video with that medium’s too static pauses. But it’s extremely well-edited, the music fits just right, and Amodeo’s composition is excellent.

It’s even better if she did go and stage kids playing on the beach in the thirties or forties or whatever. Those flashback sequences are lovely.

Pierre Paolo has its issues, but they’re from the video (the onscreen text is that always somewhat ugly nineties video editor generated text); Amodeo’s creative impulse is nicely executed. It’s a touching memory visualized. Or imagined. It’s nice work.

Twilight (1998, Robert Benton)

Unfortunate bit of trivia to start us off—Twilight is supposed to be called The Magic Hour, but just around the time of release, Magic Johnson’s high profile (and quickly cancelled) TV show had the same title and they changed the movie’s title. Titles are both important and not. They definitely establish a work’s intention—you may know nothing about something but once you see the title, you ostensibly know something. The problem with Twilight’s title change is two-fold. While, sure, Twilight is The Magic Hour as far as a time of day when Los Angeles looks particularly hot and haunting, but Twilight also carries with it some implications given the film’s all about being old and dying. Whereas The Magic Hour does not carry those similar implications.

So about a hundred and fifty words to say, you most likely know it as Twilight, but it will always be The Magic Hour to me.

Twilight opens with Paul Newman having a beer at a Mexican resort, then another. He’s on the trail of seventeen year-old Reese Witherspoon; she’s run away with inappropriate older boyfriend Liev Schreiber. We get a little of the Newman charm as he extricates Witherspoon from Schreiber, but things soon go wrong; Newman’s passive gender expectations get him shot.

Fast forward two years and Newman’s living above the garage of seventies Hollywood stars Gene Hackman and Susan Sarandon. Newman does odd jobs around the house, plays cards with Hackman, flirts with Sarandon, bickers with their daughter… Witherspoon. Hackman felt bad for wounded Newman and gave him a place to stay. Then Hackman got sick and they needed Newman around. The inciting action is Hackman asking Newman to run an errand… which may or may not have something to do with Hackman’s simultaneous news—his cancer is back and he’s not going to be doing anymore treatment, which is pissing off Sarandon.

What unfolds is a mess of dreams and nightmares. Newman’s got his own dreams and nightmares, but he’s wading through everyone else’s. There are the older folks’—retired ex-cops James Garner and M. Emmet Walsh, who’ve gone on to the private sector with differing results; Newman’s old cop partner, Stockard Channing, who’s got commonalities with the old ex-cops but very different dreams; Giancarlo Esposito’s Newman’s de facto old partner from private investigating days, still starstruck at the possible glamour of the profession. You’re in Hollywood, even if you avoid it, it’s a magical place where dreams come true. Even the obvious villains—Margo Martindale’s blackmailer, for instance, or Schreiber—are just mired in the cultural magical thinking. The script—by director Benton and Richard Russo—does an exceptional job layering in all that subtext. Essential in getting that subtext across is Piotr Sobocinski’s lush, deliberate photography, Elmer Bernstein’s lush, deliberate score, Carol Littleton’s lush, deliberate editing, and David Gropman’s… no, not lush and deliberate, but sharp yet functional production design. Twilight is very much about people in their chosen environments. The difference between locations speak volumes about the characters who live in them, who visit them, as well as the setting in general.

Because Twilight is exceptionally smart.

And should’ve gotten whatever title it wanted.

(The Magic Hour).

Anyway. Great performances. Benton and Russo’s script provides just the right amount of foundation, Benton’s direction stretches the canvas—all the mixed metaphors—and the actors then inhabit and expand. Should’ve gone with some kind of sculpture thing.

The best performance, just in terms of pure unadulterated success, is Martindale. She’s magnificent. But the most successful with the least is Esposito, who seems to be taking what ought to be a caricature and turning it into the film’s realest person. Witherspoon’s got some really good moments, ditto Schreiber. But it’s all about the older adults—though Newman, Hackman, and Garner are a decade and a half (at least) older than Sarandon. It’s all about the complicated relationships Newman’s forged with Hackman, Garner, and Sarandon; as the film progresses, we find out more and more about Newman before the opening mishap in Mexico. Twilight’s a Raymond Chandler story about seventies Hollywood done twenty years later with Hollywood stars playing type and against but also a character study. Kind of more a character story. It’s not really an L.A. movie only because Benton doesn’t dwell. He’s all about the locations, but showcasing the action occurring in them.

Because even though Benton does a great job with the supporting actors—Sarandon the most-it’s all about Newman. It’s not clear in the first scene—the Mexico flashback—because Newman’s got on sunglasses, but the film’s all about his performance. About how the events wear on him, how he reacts to them. Benton makes his cast sit in their emotional states—freezing them, just for a second or two—and shows how the pressure is crushing them. Not the pressure of their failures or successes, but the Hollywood dreams.

Again, should’ve been called The Magic Hour. Or something else entirely.

Hackman and Sarandon are both great. Garner’s got this wonderful flashy ex-cop turned studio security turned old codger part. He’s really enthusiastic about taking that extra reaction time. Hackman seems used to it, Sarandon’s different—but Garner’s visibly (albeit reservedly) jazzed; the performance does a lot to establish Garner’s place in the story, which is more often than not offscreen. Hackman and Sarandon, Garner, they’re places Newman visits. Sometimes for a long time, but he’s always a guest in those places. It’s very a Chandler-esque narrative.

Because Twilight is very much within the genre constraints of a mystery, which is the only thing wrong with it—Russo and Benton are careful never to strain said constraints too hard; they’re too respectful of genre. But what they do—what the film does—is magical enough.

Because it should’ve been called the damn Magic Hour.

This post is part of the James Garner Blogathon: He Thrilled in Them All hosted by Gill from Realweegiemidget Reviews.

Blade (1998, Stephen Norrington)

Back when the movie came out—on DVD, anyway—I tried watching Blade 1 a couple times. The first time I turned it off before I was twenty minutes in, which used to be a soft rule (give the movie twenty minutes, depending on runtime); I think I gave it until Stephen Dorff showed up, then had to stop. Stopping when you see Stephen Dorff is always a reasonable action. The second time I with a friend (because a Blade buddy might help me get through it?); we put it on, I promptly passed out. The funny thing about the latter attempt was I passed out before I had stopped it, though I think I woke up for some of the end… but maybe not. I didn’t know Blade had a bad Raiders of the Lost Ark rip for an ending.

The first failed attempt was during the controversial—amongst my film enthusiast friends—“you don’t stop a movie if you start it” period of nineties film snobbery. That period overlaps, possibly entirely, with the “sit through the end credits to show respect for the crew” period of nineties film snobbery. These periods weren’t me solo, in fact I picked up at least the latter from my film snob peers. The former seemed like common sense, but is, of course, the anthesis of common sense. The second failed Blade attempt—I mean, I was also blasted—was during in a different period; “why bother watching if you’re not learning anything from it.” That period didn’t just cover film, it was for all media ingestion. Why read a novel if it’s not going to teach you (specifically) anything applicable for your writing craft. That third period went the longest, well into when I started blogging about film here on “The Stop Button.” While I see that third period as an organic result of the first two, along with some seasoning from academe, my film snob pals never went for it. Somehow it was too far a leap.

And I’ve also given it the boot, slowly over time, as I discovered how I wanted to write about movies.

In some cases, it’s spending three hundred words talking about not watching the movie. And Blade is the perfect subject matter for that approach. Because Blade is not a good movie. I toyed with the idea, after all these years, of how crazy it would be to give Blade a star. But anything good about it is incidental. Director Norrington just couldn’t manage to make it terrible because he was distracted screwing something else up. The film also has a stunningly bad script from David S. Goyer. Between the godawful exposition (Kris Kristofferson gets a lot of it and can’t do any of it) and the quizzical plotting—when the Raiders of the Lost Ark thing takes over in the second half, along with the big second act surprise, Blade feels like a very different film. Sort of. It’s still ugly in all the ill-advised ways Norrington employs, like the harsh, high often contrast lighting (courtesy Theo van de Sande, who either’s responsible or not but I wouldn’t want to track his career either way) or the crappy CG. Blade is ostensibly super-gritty but only when it’s Wesley Snipes. The nineties emo vampire stuff is never super-gritty. Norrington’s understanding of super-gritty is occasional shaky cam and inept head room and letting editor Paul Rubell chop whole seconds of action out to make it seem speedy. Every once in a while, there will be a sequence—like Snipes with his samurai sword taking out an endless stream of vampires dressed like they’re Joker thugs from Batman ’89—and you can see exactly how Norrington could’ve done it well. Because pretty soon it would be done well. Blade anticipates the visual tone of future films but none of the future style or technical ingenuity. Because Norrington sucks.

Someone also got the idea to have Mark Isham score it like John Williams, which doesn’t make sense until the end when it’s Raiders; for a while the movie pretends it’s Terminator 2—Snipes and partner Kristofferson hanging out with on-the-run-from-the-vampires hematologist N'Bushe Wright in their clubhouse; those scenes are really weird with the Isham score. Goyer’s script isn’t derivative and is bad. Norrington’s direction isn’t ever not derivative and is bad. It’s incredibly interesting how the two collide.

Stuck in the middle are Snipes and Wright. Blade can’t help but give Wright a great role and Goyer and Norrington can’t help but try to destroy it. Norrington’s got some… toxic masculinity issues. Or maybe just rape culture ones. It’s a couple things, with Wright being on the receiving end later (courtesy “no way” ex-boyfriend Tim Guinee), but the first one is Norrington’s onscreen director title card. It’s a gross “really, dude?”

Wright comes out very sympathetic, but she’s a lot better at the urban vampire action than the pseudo-Raiders thing. Some of the problem with the Raiders thing is Norrington’s bad visual storytelling, some of it is Goyer not giving Wright enough to do; if any of it’s Wright’s fault, you basically can’t tell. Goyer and Norrington give their separate badnesses 110%. You can barely make-out the acting through it.

Well, except with Dorff, who’s hilariously bad, Donal Logue, who’s hilariously bad, Udo Kier, who’s hilariously bad but also very obviously just playing a caricature and not trying… every once in a while, you get the feeling Blade could’ve been a lot better if it just let itself camp out on the shitty vampires. Wesley Snipes killing a bunch of silly, shitty white vampires would be a fun movie. Especially if Norrington had long enough shots of Snipes kicking ass. Snipes gives his physical performance his all in Blade and Norrington picks up about twenty percent of it. Other times the camera will be focused on a pillar instead of Snipes doing a jump kick or whatnot. Norrington is a stunningly bad action director, even for bad action directors.

Other bad performances include Arly Jover, who at one point seems like she’s going to give a good performance but then doesn’t. Sanaa Latham is actually good, which takes a few moments to comprehend–unqualified good acting in Blade.

For Snipes, it’s a good lead role. Ish. There’s not a lot of heavy lifting, his occasional personable action hero insert shots are weird, but he gets through it. He and Wright have less chemistry than… I don’t know, Kristofferson and Wright or something. It’s unfortunate and another way the filmmakers fail Wright.

I’m a little curious how the Isham score stands on its own—at one point he’s got to add all the tension to an action sequence because Norrington can’t figure it out–but otherwise, Blade doesn’t have much one could learn from it. Outside the contextual trivia.

It’s nowhere near as bad (or good) as it could be, which is the biggest disappointment of all.

It’s eh.

Becker (1998) s01e07 – City Lights

Once again… I’m wondering how long it takes for “Becker” to start getting really good. I remember it being really good at some points. Like whole seasons.

This episode’s all about the streetlight outside Ted Danson’s apartment flickering and him trying to get it fixed. He’s not going to get the city to do anything because bureaucracy, am I right, and he can’t get his neighbors to help him because he’s been so terrible to them. Meanwhile, Shawnee Smith brings her dog to work; she and Hattie Winston get that very strange subplot. Though I guess it does give Winston more to do than sit around and react to Danson. She gets to walk around and react to Smith.

Second-billed Terry Farrell (and whatever billed Alex Désert) don’t show up five or so minutes in, long enough you forgot they were supposed to be in the show. Désert doesn’t get a subplot but Farrell gets a classical music concert one with Danson. It’s dropped in, not relating to Danson’s main plot.

If the subplots played the cast to their strengths, it might make sense. They don’t. Ostensibly Danson all riled up over city bureaucracy is a slam dunk but no. Russ Woody’s script lacks any of the charm Danson’s been finding in the character to this point.

Smith and Winston get different kind of comedy to do than usual but nothing like what they’re best at doing. Farrell’s just around, Désert’s less than around, the butt of jokes. It’s also unclear how the “Becker” timeline works because Désert seems unfamiliar with Danson’s relationship with Farrell’s (dead) father. The father owned the diner where Danson went so when Farrell takes it over, Danson keeps going. But apparently Désert wasn’t part of the diner… or Danson and the dead father were just terrible to him.

It could be either one, but where’s the show bible. Désert’s the worst-defined character; he needs all the consistency he can get.

It’s got to start getting better soon. Otherwise… I’m not sure I can make it.

Becker (1998) s01e06 – Man Plans, God Laughs

Writer Ian Gurvitz starts off with a bad joke at Alex Désert’s blind guy’s expense, which Désert doesn’t really essay very well either. Funny how the Becker (Ted Danson) rant was the most distinguishing thing in the first three episodes—at least recurring distinguishing thing—and now it’s tired and we’re only six episodes in. Who knew you actually needed content for rants.

Anyway, Gurvitz recovers somewhat with a rather touchy-feely episode about Danson palling up with patient John Slattery; they both like sports. Only Hattie Winston gets sick and she needs the day off, leaving Shawnee Smith to run things. Danson spends the day—or montage (at best, it’s mostly just good Smith moments)—worrying he’s not going to make it to a game with Slattery.

Meanwhile at the diner, Saverio Guerra plays a high school classmate of Terry Farrell’s who comes back to mock her for her station in life. See, she teased Guerra in high school and now he’s back to make her feel bad. It’s a weird subplot. Guerra’s funny. He’s a jerk, but he’s funny. Kind of bad when you have the diner, which has two regular cast members, and they needed to bring in a guest star to get some laughs. “Becker” has got such a weird split between the diner and the doctor’s office.

The end has some heartfelt stuff for Winston and Danson, which is fine. It’s a little saccharine but it gives them both different material than usual and they’re both great so… yay.