Author: Marc Sanders

SOMETHING WICKED THIS WAY COMES (1983)

by Miguel E. Rodriguez

DIRECTOR: Jack Clayton
CAST: Jason Robards, Jonathan Pryce, Vidal Peterson, Shawn Carson, Royal Dano, Diane Ladd, Pam Grier(!)
MY RATING: 5/10
ROTTEN TOMATOMETER: 62%

PLOT: In a small American town, a diabolical circus and its demonic proprietor grant wishes to the townsfolk…for a price.


Something Wicked This Way Comes answers the question: What would the Disney version of Needful Things (1993) look like?  Instead of the Devil opening a curio shop in the middle of town, we get a malevolent carnival impresario, Mr. Dark, and his devilish carnival that promises delights beyond your wildest dreams.  But beware, for the price of having your wish granted comes straight out of The Twilight Zone.

And no wonder, the screenplay was written by Ray Bradbury, based on his novel.  Too bad the movie fell victim to studio interference, resulting in jarring tonal shifts, some awkward edits, and two re-shot scenes where the two child stars are clearly a year older and a year taller than they appear elsewhere in the film.

The movie starts out as feel-good Americana, right out of Normal Rockwell: a small midwestern town in what looks like the late 19-teens or early ‘20s, complete with a town square, a general store with the obligatory cigar-store Indian out front, and a friendly bartender with one arm and one leg.  We are introduced to Will and Jim, our two child protagonists, and Will’s father, Charles (Jason Robards), who looked to old to have an 11-year-old son in 1968, let alone 1983, but whatever.

So, there’s that part of the movie, where it looks like it’s going to be a gentle fantasy like Field of Dreams (1989) or something, with the background score to match…but then really weird things start happening.  A local eccentric vanishes after seeing a ghostly woman inside a funeral parlor.  Mister Dark’s Pandemonium Carnival opens just outside of town.  We watch as the local miser takes a ride on the Ferris Wheel with a beautiful woman…but she’s the only one who gets off the ride at the end.  The disabled bartender sees a marvelous reflection in the House of Mirrors and walks in…but never comes out.  Our two heroes, Will and Jim, witness something incredible when they peek under the big top at a broken-down carousel that only runs in reverse…

And so on.  I’ve seen umpteen versions of this story, and so have you.  It can be done well, but it takes a singular vision.  Watching this movie felt like someone spliced two films together and hoped no one would notice.  First of all, who in their right minds casts Pam Grier as a non-speaking character called The Dust Witch?  Granted, she’s a looker, but you don’t cast Pam Grier in a movie just because she’s beautiful.  You gotta give her something to do besides seduce men and stare menacingly, which, granted, she does better than most, but what a waste!  I wanted to hear her vow to bring the powers of darkness down upon your village in a fiery rage, or something, I dunno, anything.

But that’s a side point compared to the horrors awaiting our heroes.  In a scene right out of your nightmares, our two heroes are faced with an army of tarantulas in their bedrooms in the middle of the night.  So many tarantulas, in fact, that in one horrifying moment, you can see the bedsheets moving from the sheer numbers of arachnids under the covers.  (This was one of those re-shot scenes where the kids are a year older.)  Much later in the film, Mr. Dark grips someone’s hand so hard that we see the victim’s hand literally splitting open – in a VERY brief shot, mind you, but there is no question of what has happened, as the victim wears a bandage on that hand for the rest of the movie.

What is this horrific material doing in a Disney movie, for crying out loud?  Something Wicked This Way Comes arrived during a transitional period for Disney, when they were testing the waters with more adult-themed fare – The Watcher in the Woods had been released a few years earlier, and Touchstone Pictures was on the brink of breaking out with Splash (1984).  But when it came to this weird hybrid family/horror movie, they got a little gun shy.

According to the invaluable IMDb, after a poorly-received test screening, Disney execs delayed the film’s release for a year so the film could be re-edited, an opening narration could be added, additional scenes could be shot and old ones replaced, and an entirely new score could be composed by maestro James Horner.  In their attempts to make the movie more family-friendly, they were the embodiment of the axiom “too many cooks in the kitchen.”  On an early laserdisc commentary, Ray Bradbury stated that much of his original intention for the film was destroyed as a result of these after-market edits.

There is a really, REALLY good movie trapped inside the existing version of Something Wicked This Way Comes.  Watch the movie, and you can see that really good version peeking through here and there (it feels like there was a LOT more that could’ve been done with Jonathan Pryce’s rendition of Mr. Dark).  As it is now, the movie is little more than an object lesson on why so many directors dream of getting “final cut” in their contract…so something like THIS doesn’t happen.

A TIME FOR SUNSET

By Marc S. Sanders

Tom Calloway’s A Time For Sunset is a well-crafted film with shadowy, haunting cinematography and some decent edits.  Unfortunately, it travels towards its conclusion on a repetitive Groundhog Day trajectory.  Regrettably, the deliberate slow burn does not work.

A cell phone rings.  It’s answered.  A few lines are exchanged and then there is the hang up.  Five seconds later, the phone rings again and the same routine occurs, between the same two people. This pattern occupies the ninety-minute running time of this film. Sometimes the same questions are asked. The conversations seem similar to what I’ve already encountered, and I asked myself if we’ve covered this already. Out of nowhere someone gets shot right between the eyes, but I am so numb to this lethargic routine that I can’t even become alert to see what could happen next.  After all, the phone is going to ring again for a couple of lines to be said before the next hang up, followed by another call.

Don Worley is John, a seasoned assassin, who checks into a downtown hotel room with a set of golf clubs.  He calls his wife and daughter to say hello while he begins to assemble his sniper rifle.  Just after he disconnects with them, “No Caller ID” (Nicholaus Weindel) rings and John realizes that while he awaits his assigned target to appear on the street below, John has also become a target.  Each time this caller phones, he seems to share more information about John’s current circumstance thereby putting him in danger along with his wife and daughter.  Now it’s one assassin against another, but John is clearly at a disadvantage because he is unable to pinpoint from where this caller is watching him.

With Thomas L Callaway directing, A Time For Sunset monopolizes its camera work on actor Don Worley who is up for the one-man challenge.  Intermittently, other figures on the hotel floor disrupt the phone conversation to lend to John’s contained paranoia such as a bellhop, a couple of rowdy kids, a manager and an angry mother.  One person arrives to up the stakes with a cleverly rigged bomb and my mind immediately went to the third act of Jan DeBont’s Speed.  These all feel like brief episodes though with not enough oomph to break the monotony.

The pace of the film moves very slowly because it focuses too often on a guy talking into his cell phone or the accompanying earpiece. So, the thrill of this thriller is mostly absent.  Don Worley might be portraying this expert assassin with a measure of calm and cool sensibility during a high-pressure circumstance.  However, his tone hardly changes as the stakes are getting higher.  I never saw the desperation unfold, even as the film was wrapping up.  John hardly breaks a sweat.  Joel Schumacher’s Phone Booth was another picture that came to mind.  Colin Farrell’s everyday man seemed to respond to the fear that is sorely lacking in Callaway’s film.

I liked the idea of this bottled up storyline.  It has the potential to be compelling. A lot can be generated when someone must work against an unknown entity within a small setting.  The original Saw, for example.  Yet, even with a ticking time bomb front and center, plus the intrusion of a red pointer beam from a sniper scope, the direction does not build any suspense here. 

Despite what the introductory scene appears to spell out for John’s fate, I really didn’t care what would become of the poor fellow.

THE EXORCIST (1973)

By Marc S. Sanders

Perhaps it is my Jewish upbringing or the fact that I’m not a spiritual person anymore, but what many consider to be the scariest movie of all time really does not alarm me that much.  William Friedkin’s The Exorcist is a superb demonstration in horror though.  Disturbing? Yes.  Unsettling? That’s an understatement.  Scary? A little bit. 

It’s not so much the threat of a random demon or the possibility of Satan on earth that chills me.  It’s this poor, sweet girl who has been unfairly taken advantage of that makes me shudder. 

William Peter Blatty adapted his best-selling novel into his Oscar winning screenplay and it succeeds so well because amidst all of the terror, there’s an education to be had.  Do any of us truly know or have witnessed someone who has been demonically possessed by an entity of pure evil?  I’ll be the first to come clean and say no.  Therefore, I’m intrigued as Friedkin’s film proceeds to observe how the decision to exorcise a demon from the shell of a pre-teen girl arrives.  Nevertheless, to me it is all fantasy.  I might just hold more faith in the Jedi practice of the Force than I do in the ideas of holy water, devilish idols or even what can befall you by flippantly using the name of Christ in vain.

Famous film star Chris MacNeil (Ellen Burstyn) is on location in Georgetown shooting her latest picture.  She resides in a furnished home with her twelve-year-old daughter Regan (Linda Blair), along with an assistant and a butler servant.  Regan is a fun-loving kid and adored by her mom.  Strange behaviors begin happening and all too quickly, the daughter is beyond control with patterns of activity that are anything but recognizable.  I can’t even describe most of the imagery.  I could never do it justice.

Doctors are quick to attribute Regan’s afflictions to a lesion resting on the cerebellum of her brain.  Yet, extreme procedures and x-rays show no medical disruption or disturbances.  I recall Friedkin’s director cut from 2000 inserted the questionable practice of dosing the girl with Prozac.  Before the supernatural is ever considered, the merits of science and medicine must be explored.  

Nevertheless, it is unbelievably bold how this personification puppeteers young Regan with vile actions of vomiting, uttering the ugliest vocabulary and committing terrible bodily harm and atrocities with a crucifix.  Blatty could have drawn the line with the slaps and punches Regan delivers to the doctors and her own mother.  The point would have been clear.  Yet only something that has to be tangibly real with no question of a joke or side humor, has to go this far.  It’s often sickening and demoralizing to the worst degree, but reality never compromises.  The drivers of this fiction wish to move this as far away from what’s not valid. It’s evident how convincing all the footage is within the film.

Following the mysterious death of Chris’ film director, along with an unheard-of recommendation from a physician, the idea of committing an exorcism to release whatever’s possessing the girl is suggested.  The problem is there is no expert on the subject of exorcism.  It seems absurd, and the Catholic Church is never quick to endorse the procession.  

During the first hour of the picture, a second story covers the personal conflict of Father Karras (Jason Miller).  One of his first scenes shows him arriving home to his ailing mother and removing his collar.  It’s a visual sign that the minister is questioning his own faith as he undoes his garb.  Karras may be a priest, but he also specializes in the study of psychology for his parishioners.  As he encounters Regan in her bedroom, he’s gradually assured that he is speaking with the demon who knows too much about himself.

A third story, which actually opens Friedkin’s film, occurs in Iraq where Father Merrin (Max von Sydow) is excavating through an archeological dig.  He doesn’t have much to say but his stoic expression tells us that his discovery of a medallion buried in the rubble, along with particular statue, spell dread.  It’s no accident that Friedkin places this scene often against the backdrop of a sun sparked, blood red sky.  

Eventually, all three stories intersect within the coven of Regan’s upstairs bedroom, where this demon taunts, cackles, teases and defies the power of the Bible and the Catholic faith.  This third act is impossible to take your eyes off.  Every second of imagery builds upon the power of the supernatural from moving furniture that charges forward like monsters on the attack, to ceilings and doors that split open.  The bed rumbles.  Demonic imagery appears out of the cold darkness.  It’s such a well-crafted sequence of events that is completely atmospheric.  

On what I believe is only my second viewing of the film, there are few things I noticed.  Chris is not a religious character.  So, when she evokes frustration, first at her ex-husband over the phone, and then at doctors and priests who lack explanations, she’s apt to shout “For Christ’s sake,” or “Jesus Christ.”  Variations of the word fuck is also adjacent to this dialogue.  Chris’ language could be a close second to the abhorrent verbiage coming from her monstrous daughter.  Blatty and Friedkin seem to imply how the son of God and the potential of Satan are so easily taken for granted.  Chris may be corrupted, but it is the innocent, young Regan who is trifled with.  There is nary a thing more disturbing in film than watching a child in peril.

Friedkin’s direction with Father Karras is consistently interesting as well.  Often, he positions his camera on a ground floor or at least pointed up to a level above to witness Karras’ ascents.  His faith is clearly shaken.  So, all he can do is rise and rise again, closer to a heaven that may still be welcoming.  Karras climbs flights of stairs or walks up sidewalk hills, to approach a vile intruder seeking to disrupt the purity of angelic youth.  

Only after I watched the film did I read that Linda Blair’s unforgettable performance was not the only contributing factor to Regan’s demonic possession.  Oscar winner Mercedes McCambridge who originally was not credited, supplied the scratchy, tormented and taunting voice of the demon.  It’s an unbelievable embodiment of a powerful villain.  Linda Blair was Oscar nominated for this role, but because she did not entirely own the performance, she likely lost to another child actor, Tatum O’Neil (Paper Moon).  The craft of Blair’s makeup all the way to her changes in eyes is a gut punch to the psyche.  Regardless, this is one of the most uncompromising and effective child performances I’ve ever seen in a film.

Max von Sydow donned aging makeup on his youthful forty-four-year-old complexion, and he looks straight out of another famous role from later in his career (Minority Report).  Richard Pryor and Saturday Night Live did a hilarious spoof on The Exorcist and for this nonbeliever I related to Pryor’s antics.  Yet, Max von Sydow takes what could have looked like utter silliness and convinces me that the ritual of exorcism is incredibly trying and exhaustively repetitive accompanied with the robes he dons to the holy scripture he reads from.  Merrin specifically instructs Karras not to directly respond to the demon.  Don’t even talk to it.  Merrin sticks to that practice.  Karras, the younger and less experienced sidekick, is drawn into the monster’s personal jibes.

Despite my position on religion and faith, I do not frown on what others value.  People find solace in their perceptions of God, the biblical stories, and the figures who teach. Religion often bestows a fulfilling life cycle.  Religion offers comforts through pain, loss, love and hope.  That’s okay. Everyone must follow their own path towards salvation. I tend to turn towards my personal psyche which I speak to daily.  

I watched The Exorcist off of a 4K streaming print found on HBO MAX, and the picture is positively striking.  Aside from dated fashions and cars of the early 1970s, the picture looks incredibly modern.  The themes of the film remain strong.  Hardly anything has ever matched the horror of The Exorcist.

I value everything in The Exorcist that Father Karras and Father Merrin heed to.  I believe in this story wholeheartedly.  Friedkin and Blatty, plus the cast enhance the authentication of demonic possession and how it operates.  This work of fiction, which Blatty claims to have been inspired by from an account of possession of a young boy during the 1940s, is a thousand percent genuine.  Within the moment and inside the confines of this picture this demon lives by overtaking young Regan.

How much did I believe it? Before bed last night, I made sure my little night light was on and I never walked into a dark room.   Every single light in the whole house was practically turned on.  

It’s not about the fear of God or the Devil.  It’s the fear I had for young Regan.

TRON: ARES (2025)

by Miguel E. Rodriguez

DIRECTOR: Joachim Rønning
CAST: Jared Leto, Greta Lee, Jeff Bridges, Evan Peters, Jodie Turner-Smith, Gillian Anderson
MY RATING: 8/10
ROTTEN TOMATOMETER: 56%

PLOT: A highly sophisticated AI program goes rogue against its programmers to defend a scientist who may hold the key to something called “permanence.”


For those who are not fans of the original Tron (1982) or its high-tech sequel Tron: Legacy (2010), let’s clear the air right away: Tron: Ares is not likely to convert you.  Period.  I see you and I understand you.  No hard feelings.  Heck, I’m a fan of both movies, and I heard the terrible advance buzz for Ares and saw the low ratings on Rotten Tomatoes and IMDb and thought, well, the franchise had a good run.  If it’s gonna suck, it might as well suck on the biggest screen I can find, in Dolby 3D, sixth-row center, to make the most of that Nine Inch Nails soundtrack/score and the slick CGI.

And…I gotta be honest.  Tron: Ares surprised me.  Admittedly, my opinion may be slightly influenced by the Dolby sound system that turned the synth- and bass-heavy score into a near-religious experience.  But Ares seems to have learned from the mistakes of its predecessors (earlier builds?), even going back to the original film.

First, the story is not nearly as cluttered as Tron: Legacy.  The first sequel threw in metaphysical content about spontaneously generated AI programs (the so-called ISOs), long conversations about the responsibilities of a creator/father to his creation/children, and duplicitous club owners (yep), and so on.  Tron: Ares, by comparison, is as straightforward as they come.  A MacGuffin is established early, as are the ground rules for how and why computer programs can exist as tangible entities in the real world, the bad guys are clearly identified (not all of them are in red), and once the pieces are set in motion, the movie only pauses the action when absolutely necessary.  It’s not Shakespeare, but it’s efficient.

Second, Tron: Ares makes a significant departure by moving the story between the “grid” and the real world multiple times.  The first two films, as you may remember, started with an expositional prologue in the real world, after which the hero is zapped into the grid for most of the rest of the film.  Ares starts in the grid, moves to the real world, gets its human hero into the grid, gets her AND Ares back out, then goes back into the grid again, and so on.  It introduced a rhythm that was missing from the first two films, and it broke up the visual palette so that neither one became boring.  Pretty slick.

Third…and this is something I just wrote about Brian Blessed’s character in Flash Gordon (1980)…Tron: Ares reintroduces an element from the first film that was virtually absent from the second film: a sense of fun.  It doesn’t introduce a wise-ass Kevin Flynn character or anything like that, but Jared Leto as Ares is given some genuinely funny dialogue that brought some much-needed laughs to the film.  Particularly when it comes to his preference for ‘80s synth-pop with catchy hooks.  Note: I’m not claiming it’s a laugh riot.  But the humor is very welcome when it arrives.

Another big factor in this movie’s favor is the huge Easter Egg that has not even been hinted at in the trailers, and thank God for that.  No, I’m not talking about the presence of Jeff Bridges, smart guy.  It’s so big (in my opinion) that the less said about it the better.  But I’m here to tell you, I haven’t geeked out that much in a movie theater since Ready Player One (2018).  Moving on…

And the score…!  I learned that Disney apparently insisted that the score be credited to “Nine Inch Nails” instead of “Trent Reznor and Atticus Ross.”  Good choice.  Their booming bass and synthesized soundscapes are the equal to the other two films in every way, if not superior.  (And I LOVED the Daft Punk music from Legacy.)  There’s even a song or two with vocals from Reznor!  What?!  Not content with nostalgia bombing us with random easter eggs from 40 years ago, Ares throws in a musical bomb from 30 years ago.  And it really, really fits the story.  Hand to God.

Overall, there is a nostalgic sheen to Tron: Ares that made it feel like I was watching a souped-up version of a really good ‘80s film.  That might be the highest praise I can give it.

If you’re a sucker for well-crafted nostalgia, you could do a lot worse than picking up a ticket for this movie before it gets pushed out of the cineplex by the Wicked sequel, if not sooner.  Bad buzz?  Whatever.  I had a good time.

THE MIST

By Marc S. Sanders

I’m tough to satisfy when it comes to monster movies.  Too often they all look the same, or they behave with similar instincts and motives.  There’s a new dinosaur movie coming out this year where they apparently stalk a military unit.  So!  I’ve seen seven Jurassic Parks.  About the only monster that still gets under my skin are the acid pumping, knives for teeth xenomorphs of the Alien franchise.  Everything else is been there, done that, and this includes the insect like pests found within the mist of Steven King’s The Mist, directed by Frank Darabont.  Fortunately, there’s a better and much more engaging attraction to this eat ‘em up blood fest.

Within another small fictional town in Stephen King’s version of Maine, a dark and stormy night kills the power within the area.  The next morning large fallen trees appear to have damaged the homes of David Drayton and Brent Norton (Thomas Jane, Andre Braugher).  Phones and power remain out, but a curious cloud of mist grows over the lakeside area.  

The gentlemen decide to go into town for supplies with David’s son Billy (Nathan Gamble) in tow.  The checkout line of the supermarket is crowded with tourists and residents when a similar mist envelopes the building and clouds up the expansive front window of the shop.  An elderly man runs through the parking with a bloody nose and urges the shoppers to lock the doors because there are things within this unwelcome mist that are terrifying and bloodthirsty.  I’ll spoil this for you. The old coot is right.  The creepy crawlies are thirsty for blood and hungry for flesh.

You’ve seen much of what Darabont’s screenplay adapts from King’s novella in similar iterations of horror.  The wheel is not reinvented here and though an explanation of this mist and the organisms it conceals is spelled out, nothing is jaw dropping.  Seems similar to how King’s The Stand opened.  The cast of this B movie is what needs to be talked about.

Sure, there are doubters of things terrorizing the community just before the blood is spilled.  Some characters make hard decisions despite the urging of others not to leave the store.  Yet, when these flesh eaters become evident, then the end of days gospel of Mrs. Carmody (Marcia Gay Harden) permeates through the populace of the supermarket.  That’s when The Mist grows a brain to demonstrate the power of fear, threat, and especially influence.  The disturbing Mrs. Carmody exaggerates the purpose of this phenomenon with select biblical scripture both documented and I believe conjured on the fly by her.  Now I am reminiscing back to tenth grade English when I studied Lord Of The Flies.  A tribe forced to live together will ultimately divide.

Darabont so wisely reads a collection of different walks of life forced to either work together or work against each other, both sides with desperate means to survive.  William Sadler is a dimwit mechanic who goes through three different modes of purpose during the film.  He starts with a tough guy mentality, then on to timid fear and regret, and lastly, he’s reawakened to echo the call of Marcia Gay Harden’s religious zealot.   Truly insightful because I often wonder how any person can so easily succumb to the influential beliefs of someone else.  I mean you would have to be dense to allow that to alter your mindset, right? Well Stephen King and Frank Darabont remind me that there’s more dense people on this planet than wise.  A dread of cabin fever only exacerbates to succumb to what someone will tell you. Therefore, let’s observe how the morons respond to the dominant personality.

The action for the sake of jump scares and expected horror does not disappoint too much.  There’s screaming. There’s lots of blood. There’s lots of running too, and monsters and webs and teeth and claws.  A sneak away trip to the pharmacy next door is neat centerpiece, but you’ve seen stuff like this so many times before. Frances Sternhagen gets the opportunity to use a makeshift, bug zapping, flame thrower that made me laugh and cheer.  

The jump scares are not very effective, though.  One bug thuds against the window pane. Otherwise, there’s monster stuff to absorb like tentacles, claws, teeth and webbing. I don’t go for slasher flicks and endless bloodletting gore like most movie makers of this genre attempt to achieve.  Too much blood is boring and a sign of a lack of story.

I was invested in uncovering why this all started.  I was taken with how a small group of people quickly engages in a mob mentality because their individual desperations refuse to satisfy. What instincts will undo people when hope dwindles and your companions turn on you?  Darabont presents some effective moments for these questions. However, once the exposition was out of the way, I didn’t care who lived or died.  My concern was knowing how whoever survives gets out of this dilemma.

The answers come and there is an unexpected ending tacked on by Darabont that is not recounted in King’s work.  Trust me when I say I’ll never forget the conclusion of The Mist.  Same as I’ll never forget the ending to The Sopranos.  That’s not necessarily a compliment though because I think Frank Darabont was only adding unnecessary insult to injury. He resorts to using a terrible psychological epidemic for one last twist of his gleeful, mischievous knife in my back.  I am not spoiling anything for you dear reader, but James Cameron went this route during a sequence in Aliens and it made much more sense, while offering convincing justification.

While you might like the chills and thrills of The Mist, be warned that it’s the ending that’ll leave you angered for days and nights thereafter. I had a furious urge to throw my popcorn at the screen.  

Popcorn can be found on aisle 5 by the way.  Bug spray on aisle 9.

FLASH GORDON (1980)

by Miguel E. Rodriguez

DIRECTOR: Mike Hodges
CAST: Sam J. Jones, Melody Anderson, Max von Sydow, Topol, Timothy Dalton, Brian Blessed
MY RATING: 2/10
ROTTEN TOMATOMETER: 83% Certified Fresh

PLOT: A hotshot quarterback for the New York Jets, an aviophobic travel agent, and a borderline-mad scientist try to save the Earth from the evil cosmic emperor Ming the Merciless.


I could try to intellectualize myself into analytical knots to explain why Flash Gordon is not a good film, but that’s not really in question, even to its fans.  Aficionados readily affirm its badness, its cheesiness, its willingness to go so far over the top it’s on its way up the other side.  That’s WHY they like it.  “I enjoy it for what it is,” a fan told me recently.

Well, after watching it for a third time, mildly against my will, I can easily say that I know and understand what Flash Gordon is, but I still can’t find it in myself to enjoy it the way so many others do.  I remember being amazed by it when I was 10 or 11, but that was a very long time ago, and watching it now gives me no more enjoyment than what I might get from eating a stick of Fruit Stripe® chewing gum.  I get a burst of flavor when I hear the iconic Queen score and/or theme song, but the rest is like chewing on a wad of overdone steak. That this movie came from the same director as the gritty Get Carter (1971) is flabbergasting.

Do I really need to summarize the story?  No.  I’m sure anyone who’s taking the time to read this has already seen the movie, so I’ll just assume we all know how cheesy the plot is.  I was informed by a fellow Cinemaniac that what we see on film is all taken from the first, and only, draft of the screenplay.  Brother, I believe it.

The only thing worse than the so-called dialogue is the quality of the so-called visual effects.  Now, I’m prepared to forgive low-quality VFX from older films when there’s a story I can care about, but when Flash Gordon’s filmmakers ask the audience to suspend their disbelief when a supposedly distant city is being bombarded by what looks like Roman candles, or any number of equally absurd VFX shots…I can’t do it.  I laugh, and not in a “I’m-having-fun” kind of way.

Before you ask, yes, there ARE bad movies that are SO bad that I actually recommend them to people simply BECAUSE of their badness.  Birdemic: Shock and Terror (2010), for example, which features a scene where the heroes are being attacked by a huge number of Windows Clip-Art.  Or the uber-terrible Troll 2 (1990), which gives new meaning to the word I just made up, “corn-ography.”  However, some films either cross an invisible line or fall short of it, I don’t know which, and are so bad that I can’t enjoy or recommend them.  For example, the infamous The Room (2003), which was such an unpleasant viewing experience that I didn’t even enjoy the movie about its making, The Disaster Artist (2017).

That’s where Flash Gordon sits for me.  It’s terribly cheesy and campy, but it’s either not cheesy enough, or it’s TOO cheesy, for me to enjoy myself while watching it.  There may be a cerebral, intellectual way for me to try to parse the reaction I have to it, but if there is, I can’t think of it.

I will say that I thoroughly enjoyed watching one actor out of the entire cast, who seemed to be having way more fun than was needed or expected.  No, not Max von Sydow, whose sneering turn as Ming the Merciless is a master-class in remaining professional in the face of lunacy.  (Timothy Dalton deserves kudos for doing the same as the stoic Prince Barin.)  No, I’m referring to Brian Blessed as Prince Vultan, whose screeching battle cry will forever be stored in my memory banks: “Hawkmen…DIIIIIIIIVE!!!”  Examine his performance next time you watch the movie.  Look at his face, his eyes, the canyon of his mouth when he laughs.  There is a sparkle of delight that, to me, reveals someone who has realized the only way to stop himself from firing his agent is to go completely, full-blown, bull-moose gonzo.  Everyone else is playing it straight, or attempting to.  Brian Blessed is the only one who seems to be having any fun.  What a different movie this might have been if EVERYONE had taken his cue.  Alas.

To the fans of this film, I don’t apologize for my point of view, but I do admit to a tiny, VERY tiny, twinge of regret that I can’t see past its shortcomings enough to enjoy it the way its fan base does.  For me, it’s two hours of tedium enlivened only occasionally by a random chuckle or a smile when Queen’s music makes an appearance.  And by Brian Blessed’s manic smile.  DIIIIIIIIIVE!!!

[editor’s note: this review appears only by special request from the author’s best friend.  You’re welcome, Marc.]

MISERY

By Marc S. Sanders

The worst thing that could have happened to Paul Sheldon is that Annie Wilkes saved his life.

Rob Reiner breaks away from innocent romantic comedy to deliver a violently cruel kind of intimacy. He directs his second Stephen King adaptation, Misery.  (His first was based off King’s novella The Body, which became Stand By Me.)  With next to no prior record with horror or disturbing psychosis, Reiner achieves greatness with this film.  Much like Martin Scorsese, he focuses quite a bit on props that offer no dialogue but say so much.  A cigarette, a match, a champagne flute, a bottle, a beat-up briefcase, a clunky Ford Mustang, along with a gun, a two by four block of wood, a portable grill, a knife, a syringe, a sledgehammer, and a porcelain penguin.  Barry Sonnenfeld is the cinematographer offering brilliant clarities of color for mundane and endless discomfort.

Before leaving his mountainous Colorado cabin, Paul has smoked his cigarette and savored his glass of 1982 Dom Perignon.  He has just completed a new manuscript; a big departure from his best-selling series of novels focusing on his beloved heroine Misery Chastain.  Lady Misery is not how Paul wants to be entirely defined as an author.  

Unfortunately, on his way back down the snowy mountain, he veers off the road and lands upside down in his Mustang, buried within a blizzard.  A hulking figure carries him back to a peaceful, isolated cabin in the woods.  When he awakens two days later, he meets Annie who has already begun to nurse him back to health following two very damaged legs and a popped shoulder blade.  By his grogginess, he might have had a concussion too.  Lucky for Paul because apparently, he cannot reach a hospital or get a call out to his family or literary agent (Lauren Bacall) due to the harsh weather conditions.

It’s also convenient that Annie is quite the fan of Paul’s work, particularly his series of Misery novels.  She has a maternal bedside manner, but oddly enough she becomes irascible at any given moment.  After honoring Annie’s request to read his untitled manuscript, Paul realizes that might have been a mistake.  Annie can easily get unhinged to say the least, and that temper…

Paul Sheldon is portrayed by James Caan, and he was one name on a long list of leading actors considered for the role including Warren Beatty, Robert Redford, Harrison Ford, Robert DeNiro, and Jack Nicholson.  Any one of these guys could have done the part.  However, I can now only see James Caan.  He beautifully plays stationary vulnerability as he’s anchored to a bed for most of the film.  Ironically, for a writing master of words, Caan’s dialogue is not even half of the script that belongs to his counterpart.

Kathy Bates was deservedly awarded the Oscar and a slew of accolades for her role as Annie Wilkes.  This role put Bates on the map.  Her portrayal is timed so authentically with changes in tempo from childlike enthusiasm to demented rage that she only makes Stephen King seem like that much better of an author than he already was at the time.  Actually, I’d argue that before Misery hit theaters, the Stephen King factory of film adaptations was churning out subpar products like Cujo, Firestarter, Christine, and his own film that he directed Maximum Overdrive.  Misery elevated the author’s brand back to when it was celebrated with Brian DePalma’s Carrie and Stanley Kubrick’s unforgettable interpretation of The Shining.

I believe what helps is that of all the varieties of horror the author was delivering, Misery did not hinge on the supernatural.  Annie Wilkes is a very real embodiment of capable terror and disturbing psychological handicap.  Kathy Bates effectively demonstrates byproducts of schizophrenia and obsessive, compulsive disorders.  Living alone in the woods with the subconsciousness of an author speaking to her through the pages of his fictional hardcover novels only feeds the beast that she’s become. 

I’m not a big fan of Stephen King’s works.  Often, I find his material of gore stretches too hard for shock value, and hardly ever achieving insightful originality.  To the best of my recollection, I’ve only read Misery, The Stand and It.  That’s enough for me.  I read that as he was writing Misery, he was emoting his alcoholic demons that left him obsessively challenged.  Annie Wilkes developed into that tangible, physical fiend.  This story takes a far step away from the macabre world that built his literary empire.

Rob Reiner does not go for any kind of novel inventions with his film.  He’s simply telling a story with the tools provided by celebrated screenwriter William Goldman (The Princess Bride, Butch Cassidy & The Sundance Kid, All The President’s Men) and his wise adjustments from King’s piece.  Goldman and Reiner wisely cut out a lot of King’s gory schlock.  (That foot scene, for example.  Either way?  YEESH!!!) Smart move, because Annie Wilkes is such force of power personified by the hulking physicality (by choice of Reiner’s lens) and range of Annie Wilkes.  Even though Kathy Bates is short, she is a hulking menace here. Kathy Bates is doing stage work in front of a camera.  I’d argue her performance inspired the idea of eventually converting Misery into a Broadway play that featured Laurie Metcalf and Bruce Willis in the roles.  I wish I could have seen that. 

Goldman wisely allows the picture to move on with another perspective in the form of two characters that were not part of King’s story.  A perfect casting of Richard Farnsworth and Frances Sternhagen as the local sheriff and wife advance the curiosity of Paul’s absence from the world.  They speak for the surrounding areas that don’t reveal what is beneath the blankets of snow where few clues remain, and not even a missing 1965 Ford Mustang can show itself.  They’re funny, quirky, and unusual, almost like a combination of Jessica Fletcher or Miss Marple seeking to resolve the mystery.

Props like a gun and a knife along with visuals like uncontrollable fires and fight scenes are nothing new.  However, it’s when these scenarios are paired with Kathy Bates to victimize a small, weakened James Caan that these items become well filmed properties of Rob Reiner.  So again, I focus on the inanimate objects of Misery because Reiner lends a lot of footage to all of these working pieces.  This revolver suddenly has dialogue of its own through one of Annie’s personalities.  The knife works like a guard dog for Paul.  The aluminum can of lighter fluid sadistically squirts itself to tickle or tease an extreme point for Annie.

The cigarette and champagne flute emote those small, cheating, harmless vice escapes from commitment that awards Paul. 

The sledgehammer puts its foot down.

The match plays both sides of the duality during different points of the film.

Misery is that film that works with a small cast, but with a wide population of environment, in a snug, confined space.  I describe the picture this way because like Annie Wilkes, this exploration in psychological terror operates without fair balance.  When an animal cannot control and subdue its instincts, there’s no telling what to expect, and an unpredictable Annie Wilkes might be one of the scariest personifications any one of us could ever encounter.

THE MUMMY (1932)

by Miguel E. Rodriguez

DIRECTOR: Karl Freund
CAST: Boris Karloff, Zita Johann, David Manners, Arthur Byron
MY RATING: 7/10
ROTTEN TOMATOMETER: 89% Certified Fresh

PLOT: A resurrected Egyptian mummy searches Cairo for the girl he believes to be his long-lost princess from ancient Egypt.


The story of The Mummy is good enough to warrant a mostly positive review from me, even though the storytelling itself lacks zing.  Clocking in it a brisk 73 minutes, my girlfriend called it “the longest 73 minutes ever.”  She has a point.  There are long stretches with no dialogue, and while some of those passages are thick with atmosphere, they tend to bring the film’s momentum to a screeching halt.

However, the underlying plot was still interesting enough to keep my attention during those doldrums.  We learn in the opening scenes that a British archaeologist, Sir Joseph Whemple, dug up the sarcophagus of an Egyptian priest named Imhotep, in Cairo in 1921, along with a sealed box bearing a warning and a curse on whomever opens it.  Naturally, the warning is dismissed, the box is opened, and in a genuinely creepy, chilling scene, the cloth-wrapped mummy in the background comes to life.  In a neat bit of trickery, we never, ever see the mummy itself after it spontaneously revives.  We only see its hand as it reaches into the frame and the reaction from Whemple’s poor assistant who goes insane on the spot.  That is admirable restraint.

Ten years later, Whemple’s son, Frank, returns to Cairo in his father’s footsteps.  He is introduced in typical early-Hollywood fashion with a shot highlighting his strong profile as he looks eagerly into the distance.  I mention this detail because, as it happened, both Penni and I thought the exactly same thing in our heads: “And who is THIS handsome fellow?”  It’s corny, but it’s how things were done back then, what are you gonna do.

Frank meets a tall, gaunt stranger calling himself Ardath Bey, which as everyone knows is an anagram of “Death by Ra”, so talk about a spoiler alert.  Ardath is, of course, the resurrected corpse of Imhotep from ten years ago, played by the legendary Boris Karloff.  We eventually learn that Imhotep is attempting to resurrect his princess who succumbed to illness thousands of years ago, and whose reincarnated spirit, coincidentally, may reside in the body of the young socialite Helen Grosvenor, vacationing in Cairo this very night, wouldn’t ya know.

That’s the plot in a nutshell.  Imhotep casts various spells and chants various chants and Helen is inexplicably drawn to the mysterious Ardath Bey, and Frank and his father try to unravel everything before poor Helen is killed in a ritual sacrifice.  The story feels admittedly trite, but I tried to imagine what contemporary audiences must have felt when seeing this movie for the very first time, nearly a hundred years ago now.  We don’t get the anticipated scenes of a shuffling, moaning mummy “chasing” its victims in a deserted pyramid.  Instead, Imhotep does most of his damage remotely, via a magical pool of water that works like a CCTV camera.  Maybe that was more disturbing to people, that this malevolent force doesn’t even have to be near his victims to hurt or even kill them.  Come to think of it, that IS a little more disturbing.

I won’t say The Mummy is chock-a-block full of thrills and chills.  It’s not King Kong (1933).  But there is plenty of atmosphere to satisfy the average movie fan; there’s even a “surprise” ending that I did NOT see coming.  But that’s all you’ll get from me.  Mum(my)’s the word.

EAST OF EDEN (1955)

by special guest Ronnie Clements

“A special, re-written review of my favourite Jimmy film, to mark the 70th anniversary of his death on September 30, 1955. Forget Rebel, this is James Dean’s defining performance!”


East of Eden is unmistakably a product of 1950’s cinema, steeped in the era’s stylistic restraint and tonal sincerity. But that’s not a flaw, it’s a virtue. The film unfolds with a deliberate pace, anchored by a thoughtful script, evocative cinematography and deeply felt performances. There are no dazzling effects or adrenaline-fueled sequences here. Instead, the piece leans into emotional truth.

Despite its vintage aesthetic, complete with a sweeping overture and classic framing, the themes of East of Eden remain timeless. Set in 1917, it explores the fractures of a family in turmoil and a young man’s aching search for identity, love and belonging. These struggles resonate just as powerfully today.

Adapted from John Steinbeck’s novel and directed by Elia Kazan, the story takes place in Monterey, California. At its heart is Cal Trask (James Dean), a brooding, impulsive and emotionally raw young man, desperate for the approval of his stern father, Adam (Raymond Massey). His brother Aron (Richard Davalos) and Aron’s girlfriend Abra (Julie Harris) form the emotional triangle that complicates Cal’s journey. As buried truths surface, the drama deepens with quiet intensity.

Kazan’s direction is masterful. His use of framing and camera angles, especially in intimate scenes, reveals a deep understanding of character psychology. You feel the tension, the longing, the isolation … all through the lens.

This film holds a special place in cinematic history as Dean’s first major role, preceding Rebel Without a Cause and Giant. Tragically, he wouldn’t live to see either of those released. But here, in East of Eden, he is alive and electric. Every gesture, every glance, every awkward pause speaks volumes. This isn’t just a performance, it’s a revelation. Forget Rebel. Forget Giant. East of Eden is Dean at his most vulnerable, most human, most unforgettable!

Raymond Massey delivers a chilling portrayal of the emotionally distant father. The real-life tension between Massey and Dean (Massey’s rigid traditionalism clashing with Dean’s improvisational method acting) only enriches their on-screen dynamic. Kazan, ever the tactician, allowed that friction to simmer, knowing it would serve the story.

The supporting cast is equally compelling. Richard Davalos brings quiet strength to Aron. Jo Van Fleet is haunting as Cal’s estranged mother. And Julie Harris, caught between three emotionally volatile men, brings grace and complexity to Abra.

Revisiting East of Eden is always a bitter-sweet experience for me. Dean’s tragic death in a car accident not long afterwards casts a long shadow. Watching him as Cal Trask, so alive, so raw, makes you ache for the roles he never got to play. But through this film Jimmy becomes immortal!

Cal Trask lives!

42nd STREET (1933)

by Miguel E. Rodriguez

DIRECTOR: Lloyd Bacon (with choreo by Busby Berkeley)
CAST: Warner Baxter, Bebe Daniels, George Brent, Ruby Keeler, Una Merkel, Ginger Rogers, Dick Powell
MY RATING: 9/10
ROTTEN TOMATOMETER: 92% Fresh

PLOT: The unglamorous side of life on Broadway is laid bare in this unexpectedly enthralling musical from Hollywood’s golden years.


I’ll admit it: I was a victim of my own expectations.

For decades, I assumed that Lloyd Bacon and Busby Berkeley’s 42nd Street was your standard Hollywood fluff musical from an era when the genre had been beaten nearly to death, filled with wall-to-wall corny songs and even cornier story lines.  I was aware of the famous line from the film: “Sawyer, you’re going out a youngster, but you’ve got to come back a star!”  I was certain I knew everything I needed to know about the movie right there.  Unknown chorus girl gets a lucky break, becomes a star, a little song, a little dance, happy endings for everyone.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: I love it when I’m wrong.  42nd Street defied all of my expectations, and even when it felt like it was caving to the genre, it did it so exuberantly that I caved into it myself.

The story is ancient: A Broadway show is holding auditions at an unnamed theater on New York’s famed 42nd Street.  A rookie actress, Peggy Sawyer (Ruby Keeler), is one of scores of hopefuls at the cattle call, among them seasoned veterans Lorraine Fleming (Una Merkel) and Ann Lowell, played by Ginger Rogers the same year she was first paired with Fred Astaire in Flying Down to Rio…a legend in the making.  The show’s director, Julian Marsh (Warner Baxter), is a taskmaster who wants this show, “Pretty Lady”, to be his final masterpiece before he retires on advice from his doctors.  Then there’s Dorothy Brock (Bebe Daniels), the diva whose sugar daddy ensures she will get the plum role; Pat Denning (George Brent), Dorothy’s penniless paramour; and Billy Lawler (Dick Powell), the show’s “juvenile”, aka “mangenue”, who takes a shine to Peggy Sawyer when she interrupts him in his underwear in the dressing room.  Long story.

So, all the stock characters are here for a plot that was probably old even before the introduction of sound.  But 42nd Street subverted my assumptions by doing several things.

First, it is definitely NOT wall-to-wall with song and dance.  In fact, before we hit the final tune-filled 15 minutes, only one full number is performed.  Everything else is rehearsals, endless rehearsals with masses of dancers in their practice clothes or solo singers at the piano.  The backgrounds of the main characters are fleshed out in several scenes outside the theater, but the filmmakers were smart enough to keep those scenes to a minimum.  The real drama is on the stage, where it belongs.

(I loved those rehearsal scenes.  As an amateur actor in community theater myself, I had all sorts of flashbacks to my first shows as an ensemble member of big shows like The Music Man and Camelot, going through endless repetitions of musical numbers or just SEGMENTS of musical numbers until the director was satisfied.  I particularly loved one number being rehearsed on stage while the camera showed most of the cast and crew watching from the wings.  Pitch perfect.)

Second, the screenplay was not as cornball as the plot summary makes it sound.  I expected kitsch, but instead I got unexpected drama and grittiness, interspersed with comic relief and some outstanding zingers.  (“It must have been tough on your mother, not having any children.”)  Peggy Sawyer, the rookie, faints during rehearsal; Julian, after first making sure she’s not dead, yells at the stagehands to remove her from the stage so rehearsals can continue.  And they do.  When Julian learns of Dorothy Brock’s affair with Pat Denning, an affair which could jeopardize her participation in the show, he reaches out to an unsavory connection who agrees to rough Pat up as a warning.  Granted, this is all handled with a light touch, but this is serious business.  Putting a “hit” on someone?  Would a Broadway director ever actually do such a thing?  (Spoiler alert: probably.)

Third, by easing off the musical numbers until the last reel, 42nd Street positively had me eager for a full-blown song and dance.  And, brother, does it deliver.  The mythical Busby Berkeley pulls out all the stops for three sensational numbers that begin within the confines of a Broadway stage, and then magically “open up” into a cinematic tour de force.  I especially enjoyed the number where Ruby Keeler is clearly doing a complicated tap dance for real, but the best of the three is the film’s namesake, “42nd Street”, which is basically a travelogue of NYC, and which contains wild mood swings and some show-stopping choreography.  Watch for the moment when a young woman escapes a bad situation in her tenement apartment by running to the 3rd floor fire escape and then leaping to the street below.  I’m sure there were safety measures in place just out of camera range, like Harold Lloyd dangling from that clock, but in the moment, it genuinely looks like the cameras captured an actress leaping to her death.  Not to mention the sequence where the chorus transforms into the NYC skyline.  (In fact, I’d say the movie’s worth watching just for that final dance sequence…it’s astonishing.)

Fourth, the very end of the film took me totally by surprise.  At the risk of spoiling it, I’ll say that it takes place after I thought the movie WOULD end, and that it perfectly captures the combination of emotions that go through a stage director’s mind and soul after a show goes up and is an apparent success.  It’s another moment that felt absolutely real, with no overcooked dialogue or mugging.

It’s said that, before the release of 42nd Street, the movie musical was dead in the water.  Too many musicals had come before it, musicals that overdid the song and dance or had a half-baked story, etc.  Not only did 42nd Street singlehandedly revive the genre for decades to come, it also apparently saved Warner Bros. Studios from bankruptcy.  As someone who is not a particularly huge fan of older movie musicals, I wholeheartedly recommend this movie to anyone who is like me and has put off watching it because you think you already know everything about it you need to know.  I’m here to tell you: you probably don’t.  (And I especially recommend it to theatre aficionados who are familiar with the stage musical “42nd Street”, which pads the running time with dozens of additional songs, most of which were taken from Gold Diggers of 1933 [1933].)