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Kill or Be Killed (2016) #19
Based on the end reveal and what it means for the series-long narration… well, Kill or Be Killed, specifically writer Ed Brubaker’s work on it, goes from disappointing, tedious, and grating to pitiable. He’s even commented on the narration device to the reader before—when this arc started—so promising it’s not something lousy and then it being something worse than lousy….
If this were a script Brubaker had written at twenty and drawered for a couple decades, it’d make so much more sense.
Anyway.
Besides the sad ending, it’s a temporarily exciting issue–Die Hard in a Mental Hospital—but mostly an annoyingly tepid one. Brubaker and artist Sean Phillips, who’ve been doing talking heads scenes for years, entirely fumble this issue’s. Intrepid police detective Lily Sharpe is visiting vigilante Dylan in his mental hospital, and they’re going to talk about right and wrong. It’s a Punisher scene, probably a Punisher scene Brubaker’s written (or at least watched on “Daredevil”), and it’s terrible. Worse, Brubaker tries to soften the reader to Dylan’s perspective with a pointless two-page rambling about climate change and how it’s not liberals versus conservatives; it’s not rich versus rich. Sorry about your colorist, Ed, but we can quickly start with liberals versus conservatives. Especially since it’s less “rich” than capitalism, but he (or Dylan) doesn’t make that observation either.
Such a waste of pages. Though the opening sequence feels like Phillips only wanted to do so much art and no more, including the issue being set during a snow storm, so Phillips doesn’t have to draw the whiteout.
Kill or Be Killed is on me; I made this decision. But, wow, I did not need to know how lost Brubaker got on this book. I also didn’t need to see Phillips’s art continue its descent on it; just bring someone else in, like, wow.
One last disappointment then done forever. Unless they actually get a movie this time.
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Prey (2022, Dan Trachtenberg)
Prey is roughly thirty years late. It’s a Predator prequel with ties to the existing franchise (mainly the second one), but it’s a conceptual no-brainer and one they’ve been doing in the Predator licensed comics for decades. The movies established the Predators had been to Earth before, so why not show one of their earlier encounters? Of course, obviously, anthology series never work; studio reticence makes sense. It’s still a no-brainer.
The film takes place in the eighteenth century on the Northern Great Plains. A Comanche tribe happens across a visiting Predator and, thanks to the ingenuity of a (shouldn’t have been) unexpected hero, survives to tell the tale. And tie into the future continuity.
Amber Midthunder is the unexpected hero, though she’s only the unexpected hero to the tribe. Especially once big brother Dakota Beavers rather shittily reveals he’s been cribbing off Midthunder’s notes their whole lives and taking credit for the synthesis. Her brains, his brawn; well, specifically his male brawn. Midthunder’s a capable hunter, but she’s still a girl. Can’t give the girls too much to do; who else will get up early and go gather.
Beavers leads the tribe’s war party; about a half dozen other red shirts who don’t even care Midthunder knows how to track or treat wounds. Girls, icky bad. Beavers appreciates her contributions, occasionally letting his confidence buck cultural constraints, but he still treats her like competition, not a comrade. Prey could’ve used another six or seven minutes on their relationship, especially how their presumably deceased father figures in. Michelle Thrush plays their mom, but they don’t have any family scenes together, just Thrush and Midthunder, then Midthunder and Beavers, then Thrush observing Beavers’s successes as a hunter from a distance. There’d have been time for it (and not just because the end credits are a shocking eight and a half minutes, Prey desperate to get away from the ninety-minute mark like it’s a nineties action movie).
Even underdeveloped, Midthunder’s a strong enough lead—and Beavers is fine enough support—to keep Prey going through its first and second acts. The third act, when the film becomes the inevitable, rushed series of original Predator homages, is pretty good but never adds up for Midthunder. The problem with doing character development in a Predator movie is the formula doesn’t actually need any, and director Trachtenberg and screenwriter Patrick Aison stick very much to the formula.
They just put another movie at the beginning of it.
Trachtenberg’s direction is always okay and sometimes inspired. Unfortunately, none of those inspired moments come in the third act. Despite four (or six, depending on how you count) precursor Predator movies, Trachtenberg’s got no fresh ideas for his homage sequence. It’s almost like they shouldn’t have done it. But still, always okay, sometimes inspired, never bad.
Lovely cinematography from Jeff Cutter, good music by Sarah Schachner, solid editing from Claudia Castello and Angela M. Catanzaro. Prey has a bunch of pastoral sequences, establishing Midthunder and her faithful dog (alternately the star and not the star of the show), but Trachtenberg hurries through them. At the film’s beginning, I was expecting Prey to go long with its Malick moments. But it doesn’t go anywhere near long enough with them.
Quibbles aside, Prey’s done more for the franchise than anything in decades. Hopefully, Disney’s better making movies about invisible alien monsters killing (mostly deserving) humans than Fox. They sure seem up to the task after this one.
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Dracula Lives (1973) #9
Until the last story, which might be the least impressive entry in an issue of unimpressive entries… I think the most successful art, overall, in the issue is Ernie Chan’s one-pager. It opens the issue, with a Tony Isabella script, all about the various ways of killing vampires. It’s amusing and practical; statements it’s difficult to make about the rest of the issue.
The first story’s the most disappointing, just because it continues Doug Moench’s okay “Dracula vs. the NYPD” story from the previous issue. This time Frank Robbins is penciling with Frank Springer inking. It’s a cartoony style, with disappointing character work. Not sure if it’s Robbins or Springer, but the people look lousy. Neither good nor bad is Dracula, who’s more inhuman. The story involves Dracula tracking down the guy who looted his castle and having to figure out how to get his wares back.
Meanwhile, the cop whose wife Dracula killed last issue is out to get him. His fellow cops believe his story of a vampire forcing the guy to kill his own wife, which tracks. Imagine what police accountability was like in the seventies.
Interestingly, Dracula’s still a somewhat mythic figure, with the lady who buys his stuff at auction (seriously, hasn’t another Tomb story used this bit) wishing he were real. Well, she finds out.
For a panel, it seems like the Franks are at least enthusiastic about good girl art but then not really.
The disappointing art sets the tone for the rest of the issue, with the most personally disappointing coming up next. It’s another Moench story (there are four features, one movie review, and a letters page, yet another change of regular content), with art by twenty-one-year-old Paul Gulacy and inks by Mike Esposito. It’s about Dracula versus some other vampire; this other vampire’s terrorizing a European village, which pisses Dracula off because it means no easy feeding there.
I’d love to say baby Paul Gulacy has the chops.
He does not. He’s got better panels and worse panels, and you can see proto-Gulacy at work (even the almond eyes), but you can’t really see how good he’ll get from this one.
The story’s got a strange finish, kind of jokey. What’s more bizarre is the other two stories have the same kind of finish.
They have a different writer, though—Gerry Conway.
His first story has Alfredo Alcala art. Alcala’s a better inker than penciller and inker. His faces are flat in the wrong places, and his figures are strange. His backgrounds are fantastic. The story’s about a young couple; the evil girl convinces the boy to rob a jewelry store for her.
Meanwhile, Dracula’s around. Their paths cross. Unlike the Moench story, this one begins and ends with light humor. It’s a weird tone, especially with the art. The whole issue just feels off.
The last story—the only one where the art’s more successful than that Chan one-pager—is about a mysterious figure in a top hat hunting Dracula. Sonny Trinidad does the art. The art’s good. The story’s terrible. Conway takes a big swing with it and completely misses. So again, the issue feels off, especially with usually sturdy (on Lives anyway) Conway fumbling both his stories. Moench’s got more art problems, so it’s hard to say. But Conway’s stories go wrong because of the writing.
The movie review—by Gerry Boudreau—covers the Hammer Dracula film, The Scars of Dracula. Boudreau hates it, though with less personality than Moench or Isabella had in their previous reviews.
No Bram Stoker’s Dracula adaptation here.
Unfortunately—and unexpectedly—I’m back to wondering if Lives is worth it again.
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The Orville (2017) s03e10 – Future Unknown
“The Orville” has had great episodes and middling episodes this season; there haven’t been any bad episodes, and there haven’t been any just good episodes. It’s entirely fantastic, or it’s relatively bland (for “Orville,” so still well-written, acted, directed, just not a zowee).
This season finale—and current series finale—is a wowee zowee; directed by and script credited to creator and top-billed Seth MacFarlane, it does a phenomenal job of wrapping up the season’s outstanding story arcs (which in turn are the show’s outstanding story arcs). In addition, there are a few returning guest stars—Victor Garber’s got a brief scene towards the beginning of the episode; he’s the only admiral who comes back for the finale. One is a big surprise for a quick hello, and the other gets the episode’s second plot.
While the title, Future Unknown, kept having me waiting for Q to show up and whisk MacFarlane off to the past and the future to see what went wrong with the Enterprise after Picard retired, it’s not an homage to any “Trek.” It’s “Orville” being “Orville,” bringing back Giorgia Whigham from the first season. She lived on the planet where people up and down voted each other as a societal thing; it was one of “Orville”’s great early episodes. Now she’s sick of living on such a crappy planet when there’s a bright universe out there, so she calls up Orville and asks for asylum.
First officer Adrianne Palicki–in my dreams, they’re setting her up for the center seat in a sequel series where MacFarlane zooms it in most of the season like one of the admirals—takes it upon herself to acclimate Whigham to the “future.” In doing so, Palicki gives the audience a more thorough history lesson of the future than the show usually allows. Whigham’s the perfect stand-in for the audience while also being a great character. She also looks surprisingly similar to Season Three regular Anne Winters; so much so I had to look them up.
But the main plot once again involves killer alien robot Mark Jackson and his lady love, the ship’s doctor, Penny Johnson Jerald. After witnessing Peter Macon’s vow renewal ceremony with mate Chad L. Coleman (a tremendous, unique sequence), Jackson decides it’s time he and Jerald tie the knot, only she’s not sure she wants to marry a killer alien robot. Then Jackson’s bros tell him maybe he should play the field a bit before settling down.
It’s a wonderful, romantic, touching episode. MacFarlane’s shown exceptional, probably inimitable range this season as a director, and Unknown’s no different. Great performances from everyone, particularly (of course) Jerald, Jackson, Palicki, Macon, Scott Grimes, J. Lee, and Whigham. Coleman’s got some great comic moments. The only crew members without significant arcs are MacFarlane and Jessica Szohr. Maybe next time for Szohr.
Everyone involved has made something exceptional with “The Orville,” “New Horizons,” and old; it’s supercalifragilisticexpialidocious.
Though I am wondering if the dress whites are supposed to be so ugly, like a nod to Star Trek: The Motion Picture.
Regardless….
Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious.
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The Hoodlum Saint (1946, Norman Taurog)
The Hoodlum Saint is a surprisingly long ninety-four minutes, though since it takes place over eleven years (at least), I suppose some plodding is to be expected. There’s plenty not to be expected about Hoodlum Saint, starting with the time period. It begins in 1919, with a fifty-four-year-old William Powell returning from the Great War to discover, well, son, if it was up to me….
He was a newspaperman, which for a bit seems like Saint is going to be a newspaper picture. It’s not.
Once he doesn’t get his job back—an uncredited Will Wright plays the editor, establishing Saint’s going to reunite Powell with a half dozen (at least) MGM or Thin Man costars—but once he doesn’t get his job back, we find out Powell’s friends with the local hoods. The film starts in Baltimore. James Gleason, Rags Ragland, Frank McHugh, and Slim Summerville play the hoods. Gleason’s the boss and has something of a story arc (directly related to the title, no less), while the rest are just comic relief. McHugh disappears for a large portion of the second act… then Ragland disappears for a large part of the third act. They’re all fine. Nothing wrong with Saint is any of the actors’ faults.
So then it seems like it’s going to be some kind of crime picture; Powell heads with the hoods down to the local Catholic Church, where he tells off the priest; he’s in it for number one now. Only then it’s this strange business comedy where Powell enlists the hoods’ help in… getting him into a wedding party so he can hobnob with the wealthy and beg a job off one.
Except before he can meet a rich guy, he meets Esther Williams. He’s crashing the party and kisses her to throw off suspicion. Williams is twenty-five. Not in the movie; they never discuss the pronounced age difference, but Powell’s at least supposed to be in his thirties, possibly forties, given how they old age make-up him by the end. It’s so obvious you think they’re going to comment on it.
They never comment on it. It’s also not going to be a romantic comedy about coworkers—Williams works at the paper where Powell gets a job after meeting her. He’s really just interested in it so he can go off and become a millionaire in New York City. That ambition works out for Powell, except the hoods all come along because Baltimore’s no fun without him (bailing them out of jail); Williams stays. Their relationship is so chaste at this point, it’s not even for sure she’s the romantic interest.
In New York City, Powell catches the eye of the even more inappropriately aged Angela Lansbury; she’s a club singer. Lansbury’s twenty-one. I guess she also ages a decade throughout, though she disappears for long stretches because Powell’s love interests aren’t crucial to the main plot. The main plot—at what must be halfway through the movie because Powell’s already a wealthy businessman—involves St. Dismas, the Good Thief from the crucifixion, who is, you guessed it, the hoodlum’s Saint. Powell wants to prank Gleason instead of just bailing him out, so he has the other hoods pretend they’ve been converted, then Lansbury’s going to bail him out with the name Dismas.
Gleason will become a changed man over the next few years, dedicating himself to charity work.
And then the stock market. Because by 1929, double millionaire Powell convinces all the working stiffs to play the stock market. Also, he’s given up on Williams, who couldn’t wait forever for him.
So, the stock market crash will cause Powell severe emotional distress, and it’s going to get him into the third act, where Hoodlum Saint becomes an “atheist sees the light” movie. With Hays Code constraints.
It’s a very, very weird movie. And never anywhere near as good as it ought to be with the cast. While Powell and Williams can banter, both comedically and dramatically, director Taurog’s shockingly bad at directing their scenes. Hoodlum Saint ought to be easy studio fodder; instead, it’s clunky and meandering. The parts are too thin, but the acting’s universally solid. Powell, Williams, Gleason, Lansbury. The script—from James Hill and Frank Wead—does them no favors.
Terrible, silly music from Nathaniel Shilkret (like slide whistle sounds) does a lot of damage, but Ray June’s photography is good. Unfortunately, Ferris Webster’s editing is not, but it appears to be more lack of good footage from Taurog.
Hoodlum Saint is a tedious movie with an excellent cast reduced to middling performances thanks to the script and direction.
This post is part of the Third Esther Williams Blogathon hosted by Michaela of Love Letters to Old Hollywood.
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