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What’s Love Got to Do with It (1993, Brian Gibson)
Not counting the ill-advised, if still not wholly unwelcome epilogue, What’s Love Got to Do with It ends about ten years before the film came out. Love’s a biopic of Tina Turner (played by Angela Bassett except for the adorable then rending prologue), almost entirely focusing on her time with Ike Turner (Laurence Fishburne). Just present action, Love covers twenty-five-ish years.
Most of the time is spent in the fifties and sixties, as locally successful musician Fishburne makes it big when Bassett becomes his singer. Bassett’s a country girl moved to the big city (St. Louis), reuniting with the mother who abandoned her (Jenifer Lewis, whose disappearance is another of the film’s problems) and big sister Phyllis Yvonne Stickney. Who also disappears. Lots of disappearing characters in Love.
There are very few bad performances in Love. They’re uniformly white men too. First, Rob LaBelle shows up as Phil Spector, and he’s risibly godawful, then James Reyne is even worse as comeback Tina’s manager. On the one hand, the movie’s biggest problem is not tracking Bassett post-divorce and into her significant eighties success (forty-something Black woman recreating her career and stardom). On the other, Reyne’s so terrible. I don’t know if the movie could’ve sustained him.
They would have had to do some really good performance scenes.
The best things about Love are Bassett, Fishburne, and the musical performance scenes. Bassett’s got a fabulous stage presence (and lip-synching). But the music rarely matters. Love is the Tina Turner story (as of 1992) and, at that time, it still involved (at least in the public consciousness) Ike, which turns Love into a movie about a manipulated and groomed young woman (a characterization Turner disputed) suffering for twenty-some years before showing up the dangerous loser sociopath she’d kept famous.
Except part of the Tina Turner story is she’s badass. Once Bassett gets to the badass stage—even if it’s badass Buddhist (something else the film’s got a peculiar handle on, Tina’s spirituality)—the movie’s not just over; it’s so over, it brings in the real Turner for a musical number, a jiggle, and a wink. Besides knowing Bassett and Fishburne were great in the movie, one of the only other things I knew was Turner gets to finish out the movie, effectively erasing Bassett from the film’s memory. It’s a complicated situation, to be sure, and it probably could’ve been done well, but definitely not by director Gibson.
Gibson’s exceptionally bland. There’s no aspect of the film he appears interested in, which is strange since there are so many possibilities. It’s set during the Golden Age of Rock ‘n Roll (for a while). Gibson’s not interested. It’s about the transition into the Sixties. Gibson’s not interested.
Technically, the best scenes are the musical numbers. They’re where editor Stuart H. Pappé does his best cutting. Pappé occasionally will have bad cuts in other scenes (mainly towards the front), but the musical numbers are great. Even if the film doesn’t really tie them to the narrative. Love will do things like fold three years into three sequential scenes with nothing about the passage of time, so it’s not surprising the musical sequences are disconnected. Love buries the lede on Fishburne being physically abusive to Bassett for added dramatic emphasis, which is one heck of a move but also not surprising.
Like I said, the movie’s half as long as it ought to be—Bassett thriving away from Fishburne ought to be the story—but given what they do with the few scenes in that era (and the casting), it might not actually help the film. Not with the same creatives behind the camera, anyway.
Jamie Anderson’s cinematography is usually Touchstone Bland, but he does have a few really well-lighted scenes. Good production design from Stephen Altman and costumes from Ruth E. Carter. Stanley Clarke’s score is indescribably horrendous. Just a different score might be enough to pull Love up.
Vanessa Bell Calloway (as Bassett’s only friend) and Lewis are the best supporting performances. No one in Bassett and Fishburne’s entourage is bad (Chi McBride, Khandi Alexander, and Penny Johnson Jerald have the most significant parts), but they’re playing caricatures.
Even with its Touchstone-y constraints, Love ought to be better. Bassett, Fishburne, and Turner deserve it. Not Ike Turner, though. He was a piece of shit (and the scenes Fishburne had the producers add to “humanize” abusive Ike make him more obviously a sociopathic predator, so Fishburne being outstanding isn’t not problematic). Turner herself made some very astute observations about the film’s framing of Bassett as a victim (which a better second half would’ve helped, though it seems like it’s foundational).
So, very unfortunately, Love’s a mixed bag. Great acting—Bassett’s mesmerizing—can’t make up for an alternately vapid and bland (albeit not incompetent—except that score) production.
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Do a Powerbomb (2022) #7
Creator Daniel Warren Johnson’s art on this last issue of Do a Powerbomb is fantastic, some of the best action art. In the series and beyond. Johnson really ups the ante with the final wrestling match, which has newly reunited (sort of) father and daughter wrestling team Cobrasun and Lona fighting God. God’s a big wrestling fan and a brutal opponent. Johnson does nothing with God as a character, which is fine. He’s in the middle of the biggest possible cop-out for a story—is Do a Powerbomb supposed to be a retelling of a Greek myth, maybe—so it’s nice he doesn’t stop for another big cop-out.Sadly, despite the best-in-class artwork—so damn good—the comic itself is beyond disappointing. Johnson managed to turn his compelling, textured narrative into something he can resolve with platitudes. And there aren’t any surprises in the issue (other than how good the art gets); Johnson forecasted the whole conclusion a few issues ago.
Johnson’s banal, tepid conclusion hurts the series overall—maybe not as badly in a single sit reading the collection versus delay between issues—but it’s still exceptionally lazy stuff.
Powerbomb can’t be a disappointment overall—not with that art, not with Johnson so boldly forecasting the book’s trip into trite starting a couple of issues ago.
I never thought, starting the book, there’d be so little to talk about when it was over.
I guess it’s technically my favorite Christian comic book, but it’s not like there are a lot of candidates.
I love that art, though–shame about the writing.
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Side Effects (2022)
Side Effects feels like a series of public service announcements strung together. It doesn’t feel like mandatory public service announcements, which is something, but earnest only gets you so far. In the case of Side Effects, there’s nothing past so far. It’s a competent graphic novel about college freshman Hannah experiencing a mental health crisis while meeting a girl who also experiences mental health crises.What are these crises? Where do they come from?
None of your business.
Writer Ted Anderson gets to accessible through blandness. Besides the story being about a bunch of primarily queer young women, everything in the book has been watered down. Even their conversations have been watered down. Hannah’s shrink comes off as less personable than ChatGPT while still being undeniably supportive.
The “hook” of Side Effects is Hannah getting a bunch of Dial H-For-Hero superpowers, except it depends on what kind of medication she’s taking. Now the real way to do the comic would be to talk about how the medications make her feel different, maybe tie the powers into those changes—or even the adverse side effects of the actual drug. But Anderson’s not willing to go there with Hannah (or any of the other characters). Side Effects is from an indie press, but one with a very corporate approach to storytelling.
So the heart and soul have to come from artist Tara O’Connor. And O’Connor does okay. She’s better with expressions than composition, but she keeps the book moving, which helps a bunch since it’s really long and nothing really happens to Hannah. She has misadventures because of her powers (which sometimes only she can see). She even helps a fellow student in some very serious trouble (and very responsibly told), but she’s got no character. So maybe starting the book with her getting to college and cutting to her first panic attack without even introducing the supporting cast (or establishing it wasn’t happening immediately upon arrival) wasn’t the way to go.
With several asterisks—Side Effects is for teen readers (it says “Young Adult” after all) and is priced for library shelves—it’s okay. It’s average for the genre. The only thing to make it stand out is its lack of insight and passion. Of course, well-meaning corporate product is better than not-well-meaning corporate product, but it’s tough to get excited about it either way. If publishers Seismic Press (an imprint of Aftershock) really wanted to do good, couldn’t they have released a thirty-two-pager on Free Comic Book Day?
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Silo (2023) s01e05 – The Janitor’s Boy
“Silo” threads a tiny eye of the needle and manages to kill off yet another character, fully introduce the conspiracy behind their murder, introduce two potential patsies and one killer, resolve that murder arc, and do an action sequence. All with a script credit show creator Graham Yost, who hasn’t had his name on the good episodes to this point. Maybe it’s director David Semel once again delivering the goods.
He also appears to have told the cast to knock it off with the silly accents. Rebecca Ferguson doesn’t get many lines—she’s the terse film noir detective only in a Western, only in a sci-fi—but when she does have them, the down deep accent is missing. It’s far more obvious when Harriet Walter shows up and barely has that weird eighties kids’ fantasy movie accent thing going. “Silo”’s been excelling despite a lot, but it’d be awesome if the accent thing got sorted.
This episode has new sheriff Ferguson (on her second or third day on the job, at most) investigating another homicide before the last body’s even cold. She’s got to work with her new deputy, played by Chinaza Uche. He was supposed to be the new sheriff if secret police agent Common got his way, and Common is the one who gives Uche the job, taking advantage of Ferguson not knowing the rules. It’s possible Uche and Ferguson are going to become amusing buddy cops, but so far, it’s not even implied.
Because even though we’re now halfway through the season, “Silo” still hasn’t established what the norm’s going to be. This episode ends with Ferguson starting the second act of the season (“Silo”’s on a delay since the first two episodes featured protagonists who die in their episode), and it’s entirely possible they could introduce a new supporting cast for the rest of the season.
But this episode—which does have to trick the audience to succeed (Yost’s going to Yost)—is still a major success. “Silo” can be about its bullshit but still excel. Ferguson’s got a swift murder investigation to run, which involves Common conspiring against her—but how far—and Tim Robbins being fun and kooky as the mayor (as opposed to low-key sexist). We also meet the Judge, played by an apparently uncredited Tanya Moodie, who is not the stunt cast I was expecting but is quite good. In her nothing scene.
Based on how the investigation wraps up, it’s unclear whether she’ll be important going forward. It’s wild how “Silo” mixes narrative shenanigans with prestige streaming so well. Maybe it helps the narrative shenanigans are from the source material (“Silo” has yet to Westworld, for instance); the approach does let the audience in on some secrets, but they’re not great secrets. It’s not even character development since the show’s managed to kill off almost every major character it’s introduced. And Ferguson barely knows most of the victims (if at all).
And they’re making it work, which is delightful.
“Silo”’s on pretty dang solid footing now.
I wonder who dies next week?
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Tomb of Dracula (1972) #36
This issue’s a wonderful showcase for how seemingly nothing can go right for Tomb of Dracula, but thanks to the creators—even as writer Marv Wolfman crafts a silly tale, he’s still got the right artists with Gene Colan and Tom Palmer to give the issue a pulse. The cover promises Dracula’s coming to the United States. The issue delivers, with some caveats. First and foremost, the issue ends with Dracula at the airport. There are some hints at what’s next, but Wolfman’s padding.It’s also a bad Dracula issue. He’s ostensibly losing his shit because Doctor Sun—now stationed in Boston—is sucking away the Count’s vampiric life force and whatnot, but it leads to Dracula going on a murderous rampage at London Heathrow. In the ticket line. He’s mad his flight’s delayed. Wolfman sets the whole thing up like Airport UK, then lets Dracula kill off the cast. Then he hijacks a fighter jet so Colan and Palmer can do a fighter jet comic for six pages. It’s weird and poorly concocted. Like, if Dracula’s really losing his shit, do that story. Don’t do Dracula in familiar modern settings just for filler.
Then there’s also the weird framing. Rachel, Quincy, and Inspector Chelm (who doesn’t get a single line, I don’t think) are getting a briefing from Dr. Scott. I think they’re in the UK still, but it’s also not worth the detail. Rachel and Quincy bitch about Dr. Scott taking too long to get to the point–i.e., he can’t stop expositing—and he tells them, no, he’s going to exposit as much as he damn well pleases, and now he’s going to do it twice as much. So he’s knowingly blathering.
And he’s super-sexist to Rachel. Like, so sexist Wolfman’s using it as a disparaging characteristic (as opposed to the series’s regular levels of sexism leveled at Rachel). But Dr. Scott alternates between calling Rachel “Dr. Van Helsing” and “Ms. Van Helsing,” and the latter is bolded because he goes from calling her doctor to not. Because he’s a dick. Maybe it’s all typos from Wolfman, and letterer Joe Rosen just thought it was something better.
But it’s kind of wild. And goes nowhere.
Dracula gets to the United States, come back next issue—an actual joke Rachel makes at Dr. Scott’s expense. The issue’s way too self-aware about being filler. All the characters should just remark on how gorgeous everything looks so we know the comic’s acknowledging Colan and Palmer doing transcendent work is the real draw for the comic. It could be Tomb of Cthulhu and just as revelatory.
There’s also a bit with Frank and Brother Voodoo in Brazil. Frank has tracked down his treacherous, murderous best friend, only to find the dude’s lambed it, leaving his lady friend to take the heat. So Frank starts threatening to slap her around—which the lady comments on—before Brother Voodoo gets the issue on track.
Tomb of Dracula’s a weird book. Even for the seventies. Everyone in it is a combination of dope and dickhead, with Dracula usually the least offensive. Such gorgeous art, though.