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Tomb of Dracula (1972) #33
Artists Gene Colan and Tom Palmer have done some stunning issues of Tomb of Dracula, but this issue’s their best (so far). They’ve got the horror—the A plot is Quincy Harker watching a decomposing Dracula die on the carpet—they’ve got the time Dracula broke Harker’s back, so a flashback to an opera. There’s a political thriller sequence; there’s Dracula being regally evil, there’s Dracula as a bat in the winter, and there’s even a British pub scene. Plus, an epilogue (apparently) for Taj, and then checking on Rachel to make sure she’s alive.Rachel is alive—despite the vampire brides doing unspeakable things to her, but really they could’ve just been reading her The Feminine Mystique. Writer Marv Wolfman’s got plotting and pacing problems galore, both in the overall arc of the series but also in these last couple of issues. Luckily, there’s the great art to get it through. And the Harker and Dracula showdown has an exceptionally mean (and appropriate) finale. The problems all come in the epilogue.
After a one-page farewell (perhaps) to Taj, Wolfman checks in on Dracula in the last twenty minutes since he’s left Harker’s, does a two-page mugging to establish the British Parliament has been taken over by evil vampires (evil meaning not-Dracula’s goons), has a lengthy exposition from Dracula about the secret foe who’s wearing him from afar (it’s not a surprise, since Dracula’s only ever had one secret adversary in Tomb), and then does a cliffhanger. It’s the front part of one comic, and then another rushed to fit into the latter third of pages.
But the art holds, even through Wolfman’s sad revelation of the secret villain and Quincy’s tough personal decisions following the Dracula fight. Wolfman’s spinning his wheels a little, but the book’s fine as long as Colan and Palmer deliver such glorious issues.
Just a little thin at times, no matter how many plots Wolfman tries to stack.
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The Princess Bride (1987, Rob Reiner)
I’m undecided on how to discuss The Princess Bride’s second act. It’s a misstep but an intentional one. Instead of being the story of reunited lovers Robin Wright and Cary Elwes, the film becomes an action comedy for Mandy Patinkin and Andre the Giant, which is fine; they’re great. But the film entirely ignores Wright’s experience, with her scenes instead being from her antagonists’ perspective. Meanwhile, Elwes becomes a rag doll. Having not read the William Goldman source novel—Goldman adapted it himself—I don’t know if it was always the plot.
Again, it works out fairly well because Patinkin and Andre the Giant are wonderful. Patinkin’s performance is phenomenal; Bride’s got four great performances—Patinkin, Christopher Guest, Wallace Shawn, and Chris Sarandon—though in descending weight. Patinkin’s got a tragic backstory, while Guest is an affected-less sadist with funny lines. Shawn’s got affect and funny lines, but he’s also got the least to do in the main cast. Finally, Sarandon’s a Disney cartoon villain—the good-looking, bad one—come to life without the aid of CG, just presence, delivery, and costuming.
Princess Bride’s got great costuming all around—Phyllis Dalton does terrific work. Bride’s a swashbuckler: an odd mix of movie serial tropes, which it ably disassembles through the first half only to reassemble in the second. There’s just no room for the ostensible heroes in the reconfiguration. However, Wright’s just helpless in a locked room. She’s way too ultimate a damsel.
But in the first act, with the masked pirate (doing a classic Hollywood riff) chasing after Wright and her kidnappers, Bride is sublime. The kidnappers are Shawn, Patinkin, and Andre the Giant. Shawn wants to start a war between two countries; Wright’s about to be the princess of one, and he’ll kill her and frame the other. Patinkin and Andre the Giant are troubled by the plan (Shawn didn’t tell them about the killing), but they never have to make a decision on it. The pirate—presumably after the princess—interrupts their plan long before.
Now, Bride has a framing device. Sick kid Fred Savage wants to play video games, but grandfather Peter Falk wants to read him a book instead. It’s a family tradition, making the book in the movie from the 1920s (as I try to couch the plotting problems). Falk’s very cute as the grandfather, and Savage could be more cloying, but he’s still way more cloying than he ought to be. And then there’s the whole male entitlement thing.
The frame occasionally breaks up the actual story, with Savage bored or scared, or worried. Or disgusted at the kissing, which—admittedly—isn’t a weird reaction to your grandfather telling you about lusty kisses.
Elwes was Wright’s first love, who went off to sea five years before. Wright got news he’d been killed by pirates and, so, when prince Sarandon came knocking, looking for a commoner to promote to royalty, she said sure. Shawn’s trying to prevent such a union, but he didn’t expect someone else coming for Wright.
After three boss fights, the pursuer reaches Wright and reveals what’s happened to Elwes, just in time for Wright and Elwes to do a runner from Sarandon and Guest. Elwes and Wright have a charming reuniting adventure sequence, hinting at the potential for a road movie, as they’re now on the run from multiple parties.
But then it becomes Sarandon and Wright’s wedding preparation story. Sure, he’s forcing her to get married while torturing Elwes in a secret lair, but it’s also just the bridging section of the film. They need to get Patinkin and Andre the Giant somehow back in to save the day and encounter other big-name cameos.
The ending’s way too rushed, both the fairytale and the frame. Bride is done on a budget and singularly charming, so it can get away with a lot. Sometimes director Reiner, cinematographer Adrian Biddle, and editor Robert Leighton can make the limitations work for them. For example, the first act’s action sequences always have some obvious budgetary constraints. Still, it works—they’re doing a swashbuckler, complete with Mark Knopfler’s score, which makes numerous nods to action sequence music tropes.
They just aren’t doing a swashbuckler by the end, which makes the fairytale’s finish awkward. It’s too quick, especially for Elwes and Wright, whose romance never regains the spotlight after losing it in the second act. Then the frame finish relies on Savage before realizing Falk’s the real star. It’s muddled.
So when the end credits come up playing over scenes from the movie—good scenes, sometimes out of order to showcase their likability—it’s an apparent attempt at a save. And it works all right.
Technically, Bride’s best in the first half. Leighton’s action editing—and Reiner’s action directing—is more impressive than their medievally-tinged light action comedy in the remainder. Biddle’s photography’s excellent throughout, but he’s got very little to do in the second half. Lots of scenes take place indoors with bland lighting.
And Knopfler’s score. It’s got a pretty theme, a lot of self-awareness, but is lacking. Especially when Reiner wants the score to carry a scene, which happens a lot in the second half and makes no sense since the score’s better in the first.
Still. It’s delightful, with some phenomenal performances, and when Goldman’s not ignoring his female protagonist and whatnot, the writing’s on.
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On the Riviera (1951, Walter Lang)
On the Riviera ends abruptly. The film promises an amping-up of its mistaken identity, only to immediately chuck it and do another musical number. It’s a solid musical number, but the film was on the rise with the comedy. It was about to get really good. The ending features a double scene for star Danny Kaye—he plays two parts, an entertainer and a maverick pilot—there ought to be some pay-off. Instead, it’s just over. And not ambitiously over; director Lang and Kaye have been giving Riviera a lot; I was expecting some kind of set piece meeting for the two Kayes.
Nope.
Thank the Hayes Code.
At least the final number’s good. Most of Kaye’s numbers in the film are good, though the “Popo the Puppet” number (which went on to be one of Kaye’s career hits, written by his wife, Sylvia Fine) is very strange. Riviera is about stage performer Kaye trying to make it… on the Riviera. He’s American, he does impressions, he sings and dances, but boss Sig Roman just plain doesn’t like his act. Kaye works with girlfriend Corinne Calvet (though I don’t think she’s ever actually in one of the routines). Kaye’s career plot is about this act he creates during the film, and it causes a sensation, which leads to television work.
Because the movie’s about making it on TV.
In France. But Hollywood France, where everyone speaks English.
Lang directs the handful of TV sequences a little too well. They’re framed for TV (there’s TV boxing even), and the numbers are reasonably budgeted and TV-appropriate, but they’re just a little too competent. They’re a little too professional. It’s great for some of the other numbers, but “Popo” is Kaye as a life-size puppet being flung around while he sings about being capable only if someone else controls him. While dressed in a powder blue Napoleon outfit.
It’s just weird. And it’s long. And it’s unclear why the French public watching the broadcast would want to see it.
But then, I wouldn’t have thought it’d go on to be a big hit.
The other songs—also written by Fine—are, well, fine. I mean, the title song’s a bit bland given the eventual plot, but the first act of Riviera is about showcasing all the location photography Fox had available for the Riviera. Once the actors show up—occasionally with some great rear projection composites—they’re in studio. Even for the exteriors, which sometimes leads to unfortunate backdrops.
The film’s first act, with Calvet and Kaye having money troubles—then more troubles with Ruman’s threat of firing—is slow. They watch the news about pilot Kaye successfully flying around the world, which entertainer Kaye turns into a show number. It’s an incredible number, and there’s no way Kaye should be having trouble getting gigs.
The number’s all about pilot Kaye being a hit with the ladies, all around the world, which pilot Kaye thinks is a hoot, though his wife, played by Gene Tierney, does not. Unfortunately, the success of the performance comes with bad news for pilot Kaye—investor Jean Murat is going to try to bankrupt Kaye, Marcel Dalio, and Henri Letondal for their IP instead of paying for it. Unbeknownst to pilot Kaye, Tierney invites Murat to a party. Unbeknownst to entertainer Kaye, pilot Kaye invites Calvet to the same party. Pilot Kaye’s extramarital pursuits are just part of the package; there’s no hiding, which would be difficult, say, if entertainer Kaye found himself impersonating pilot Kaye and didn’t know all the women throwing themselves at him.
Pilot Kaye has to secure other funding, thinking they can cancel the party; except when Dalio and Letondal find out Tierney has invited Murat, they have to pretend Kaye’s still in town. Enter entertainer Kaye, who’s ready to try his stage act in real-life, leading to an engaging, often very funny comedy of mistaken identity errors. Dalio and Letondal take over most of the second act and are great. Tierney’s playing the straight woman part, but she gets some material eventually. Kaye’s better as the French pilot than the American entertainer, which is good for the movie (and Tierney) but not great for Calvet. Calvet’s apparently just around because she’s actually French.
It’s a good comedy with an excellent pace. The third act crashes, but it’s not the movie’s fault. It’s a bummer because they were finally at a spot where Kaye would have to act opposite himself, with entertainer Kaye getting some character development. Potentially. Also, he and Tierney getting to do a comedy scene together. It’d have been nice for Tierney to have a hijinks scene.
Anyway, pretty good—oh, and gorgeous color photography from Leon Shamroy.
This post is part of the Danny Kaye Blogathon hosted by Erica of Poppity Talks Classic Film.

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Absolution (2022) #4
As I finished reading this issue of Absolution, I realized—despite artist Mike Deodato Jr.’s photo-referencing—the comic hasn’t established who they’re pitching with the lead role. When the creators muse about the adaptation, who’s playing Nina?Because she’s got some character development this issue—she’s got a love interest in Ann, the street doctor who saved her butt last issue when she got duped by a target. But she’s also on a mission with this issue’s target—a child molester who keeps getting away. As a villain, he’s only slightly different than last issue’s villain, except this guy doesn’t get two issues of setup. But he does get to outsmart Nina, which is basically what all the bad guys (all men) do in Absolution. Of course, they’re smarter than her, but she’s stronger than them, so she wins.
Or she has friends, while they just have goons.
She also starts interacting with the viewers in a more obvious way than ever before, pausing a real-life conversation to reply to a tweet. It’s immediately obvious writer Peter Milligan should’ve been doing them the whole time—it really would’ve helped with the last issue’s setup, too—but it’s also too late at this point. It seems unlikely, as does Nina getting tricked immediately after the last time.
The beginning of the issue makes a surprisingly strong case for Absolution as a procedural. Nina hunts some guy down but still doesn’t get a high enough score; she then Lonely Man hoofs it to the next issue. It’s surprisingly strong partially because, by the end of the issue, it’s clear Milligan only had enough story for four issues and drug the story out to five.
It’s an okay comic. Deodato doesn’t have Nina’s walk down, which only matters now when she’s doing lots of daytime walking, but it’s definitely something he should have done this far into the book. There’s some good, compelling thriller writing from Milligan.
But starting a character development arc in the penultimate issue after shrugging it off when there was actual time? Absolution’s landing roughly.
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War Story: Nightingale (2002)
As a Garth Ennis war comic, I’m not sure Nightingale is the best War Story. As a War Story, it’s the best comic. Ennis’s script gets out of the way and lets David Lloyd’s art do its terrible magic. Because Nightingale is a nightmare, not just because it takes place on rough, cold waters in World War II, giving Lloyd all sorts of opportunities for literal stomach-churning art of the water. Ennis also digs in on it with the script, the words making the imagery all the more unsettling.To get the clarification out of the way—it’s either the best or second best War Story (so far). Ennis’s script is so straightforward it’s almost loose. This story’s narrator is the first officer of a British warship, the Nightingale. She’s on convoy protection duty, and, until now, the ship’s had extraordinary luck. We know the luck will run out because the story opens with the ship at the bottom of the sea, the first officer narrating from beyond the grave.
Now, it’s never a horror comic. There’s never the slightest supernatural hint, but Lloyd’s dark, turgid panels create this disquieting effect, even as the first officer may be narrating a dream, not reality. Ennis doesn’t imply any hopefulness exactly, just potential for a metaphoric sinking. When the first officer returns home on leave, he has a nightmare, for instance. There’s a particularly phenomenal sequence of panels showing downed ship after downed ship cluttering the ocean floor. It is a nightmare, one Lloyd and Ennis do a stunning job conveying.
Things start going wrong for the ship when they’re ordered to abandon the commercial freighters during a mission. The admiralty has heard a German super-ship is out of port, and the protocol is scattering the convoy will make it harder on the Germans. Except that plan just leads to the Germans picking off the freighters and their civilian crews as the Nightingale’s crew just listens to the distress calls.
The crew then becomes convinced they’re cursed for their dereliction of duty despite it being ordered (and double-ordered) from on high.
Ennis keeps the script very simple; he’s got far more unexplained jargon than usual, with the first officer’s narration at times hurried and erratic. The memories are too rapid, the narration in a race to keep up with Lloyd’s panels as they flash forward; beautiful pacing in the panels, just breathtaking work from Lloyd. He’s the reason Nightingale’s so spectacular; another artist, same script, it’d have been successful, though nowhere near as much. Lloyd’s rough, queasy art makes Ennis’s—not in a bad way—obvious narrative hit harder and, frankly, more viciously. Nightingale’s not mean exactly, but it’s definitely hostile.
And absolutely first-rate war comics. It’s easily the most formally ambitious of the War Story issues, making its success even more accomplished.