Alfred Hitchcock and the 54-minute intermission

We don't see intermissions in movies anymore -- your occasional throwback Quentin Tarantino movie notwithstanding -- because studios think we can suffer through the increasing lengths they're throwing at us. That's more true in some cases than in others. Plus there's the fact that it's just, like, old-fashioned, ya know?

Back in the day, when you were working your way through some ungodly three hour and 40 minute epic, you met the intermission at about the two-hour mark with no small measure of relief -- even if you were enjoying the movie in question. (The only time I remember an intermission in any movie I saw in the theater was when I was taken to the 174-minute The Sound of Music as a kid probably under ten.)

So I thought it was sort of funny when I was watching Dial M for Murder on Wednesday night and the intermission came after 54 minutes of movie.

I don't recall ever seeing an intermission in an Alfred Hitchcock movie, probably because his movies were tight and suspenseful and did not require his audiences to get up and stretch their legs and refill their drink. 

Dial M for Murder, at an hour and 45 minutes, should have been no exception. And that's how I found it: relatively short, suspenseful and propulsive, even if almost all the activity takes place inside one apartment.

As a matter of fact, its relatively brief running time was one of the key factors in me choosing it for a mid-week movie on a day I had been into the office and was therefore a little more tired than I might have ordinarily been.

And yet before I'd even been sitting there for an hour, Hitch and Warner Brothers told me I needed to take a break.

I find myself wondering if the fact that I saw this on Kanopy is some explanation. I never know how movies are sourced on Kanopy, but it is frequently not the same version that went around on DVD back in the day or that you would find on other streaming services. So perhaps the intermission version of Dial M for Murder was not the version seen by people who watched this on DVD, or VHS before that.

But it's clear that at some point, Dial M had an intermission, which I think is funny for its length.

And that's all I have to say about that. 

Atlas with my sleepy sister

Having an out-of-town visitor means just a little -- or maybe a lot -- less free time. 

Sometimes, even with someone as undemanding and cool as my sister, the extra facetime just leaves you with significantly less downtime, the time in which you usually keep up your routines. This is especially the case if the person is staying with you, which is unusual for us, but which we can accommodate for just a single person by converting my office into a bedroom with a single bed.

And sometimes you don't even realize it's been an entire week since you last posted to your blog.

It hasn't been a particularly newsworthy movie week anyway, but with a little less programmed time, your mind has time to wander and think about things to write about. Not this past week.

But my sister is now away in Tasmania on a solo trip for three nights, so here I am, finally catching you up on my movie happenings.

Since I was trying to also catch up on reviewing -- I've dropped to only a single review a week for about a month now -- I scheduled myself to watch the newly released J. Lo vehicle Atlas on Netflix on Sunday night. 

Despite her spotty and jet lag-afflicted sleep schedule, my sister said she would join me for the viewing. 

My first instinct was to find something that she might be more naturally interested in, but when she said she had nothing in her personal mental queue, I just decided to proceed with Atlas -- secretly believing she wouldn't last, simply because she has been sleeping so poorly.

She didn't, in fact, last, but she did stay there on the couch the entire 118 minutes, despite snoozing for probably 65% of the movie.

This didn't bother me in the slightest, because I appreciated the social viewing time my sister wanted to engage in -- though it did make me feel like a heel for my choice of viewing, which, while not terrible, rose only to the level of mediocre in its very best moments. (I wavered between two and two-and-a-half stars on Letterboxd before going with two.)

One thing I did notice, though, is that my style for the watching of mediocre movies when I'm tired is significantly cramped when there is someone else there on the couch with me.

When I'm struggling through a movie due either to boredom or exhaustion -- the latter was more at play here -- I usually have an easy solution at my disposal: Just take a nap. Sometimes I sleep too long and end up finishing the movie the next day, and sometimes this sort of thing does play havoc with my sleep that night. But at least there is a form of sweet relief in the struggle against sleep.

But when you don't have the couch all to yourself, there's no stretching out and snuggling up with a blanket. And when there's a second person who is theoretically watching the movie, you can't pause it anyway.

Every time my sister would wake up, I thought she'd realize she was toast and just go off to bed. But no, she was determined to sit there through the whole thing, even though she must have realized she had no idea what was going on.

The other thing I thought was funny was that every time I paused it to see how much time was remaining -- which was a lot of times -- she would wake up. It was as though her mind were conscious enough to recognize that the dull roar of explosions and an over-emoting J. Lo meant that everything was on track, and she could sleep. As soon as there was a pause, her mind wondered what was going on and woke up. 

Well, I wish she had just gone to bed, because that night she woke up at 3:30 a.m. and did not get back to sleep. Did I mention jet lag had been killing her?

But at least without any pauses, I got the movie over in time to watch the Survivor finale reunion show -- which I had decided it was wise not to start at 1:30 a.m. the night before, after finally finishing the finale.

Bing-Bong memorial weekend on The Audient

I watched two movies involving imaginary friends over the weekend. It started out as sort of an accident, and then I leaned into it.

The first was Jeff Wadlow's Imaginary, the Jason Blum-produced quickie horror on the idea of an imaginary friend (embodied in a teddy bear, though it's a malevolent spirit with multiple forms) trying to kidnap its kid into imaginaryland and treat violently anyone who gets in the way. With its PG-13 rating, it doesn't give us much of that violence, and only a few images that really qualify as scary. That was Saturday night. 

Once I realized that John Krasinski's IF had also opened this week -- at first thinking there was no new big Hollywood opening, which would be strange for the third week in May -- I made sure to get in a viewing with my younger son on Sunday afternoon. (First checking to make sure it did not, in fact, have anything in common with the genre of Imaginary, which would be too intense for a ten-year-old.)

Bing-Bong, the divisive imaginary friend in Inside Out (I liked him, others did not), actually gets name-checked in Imaginary. The teenage daughter (there's always a teenage daughter), in trying to understand the concept that they're dealing with, likens it not once, but twice, to the Richard Kind-voiced part elephant, part cat, part dolphin. 

IF doesn't mention Bing-Bong because that would be too on the nose, and because it's not the kind of movie to call attention ironically to its own references. But the idea itself could not be lifted any more from Inside Out. The imaginary friends here are astray after being forgotten by the kid who invented them, requiring them to be matched up with a new kid, or else -- well, we don't really know, but the main one (voice of Steve Carell) believes he will disappear, which is what does in fact happen to Bing-Bong when he's forgotten. (Oops, spoiler alert for Inside Out.)

The thing these movies have in common most is that I did not really like either of them.

I feel bad dissing IF, since it's obvious Krasinski made it for his own kids (age 8 and 10) and that he was trying to give us something with lots of heart and joy. IF's greatest sin is that it's shmaltzy, that Carell is annoying, that it has a bad script, and that Michael Giacchino's score is over the top. Okay, I guess that's four sins. But it isn't a bad movie, if you consider two stars out of five to be that cutoff line.

Imaginary got only half a star less from me, but I did think it was actually bad. Wadlow's direction is poor and the idea gets really unhinged from what could have been a small, creepy concept to something involving fantasy worlds in a person's mind -- the kind of thing you would see, and do see, in IF.

As much as I might like to make this Bing-Bong memorial month rather than Bing-Bong memorial weekend, it doesn't look as though Kind's character will be revived in the upcoming Inside Out 2, as Kind is not listed on IMDB. 

Didn't notice the missing article

When I went to start watching Warriors of Future on Thursday night, I thought I was watching a movie called Warriors of THE Future. (Emphasis mine.)

But no, once I started the movie and paused it, I saw that the "the" was missing.

I have to think this was an intentional choice in the translation and not some sort of botched job that they used to joke about on websites like Engrish.com, before that became problematic. (The website still exists. That doesn't mean it's not problematic.) Oh, I think I neglected to mention that the movie hails from Hong Kong. 

However, one of the first bits of on-screen text made me wonder.

When I first saw this:

I thought it said "BIG TEMPORARY COMMAND CENTER," which I thought was hilarious. The salient characteristic about the temporary command center was that it was big, but otherwise completely anonymous. 

Of course, rewinding I saw that it was B16, not BIG. But combined with the missing article in the title, I thought this movie might be destined for the Engrish hall of fame.

I enjoyed the movie reasonably well. It has a lot of FX shots and I thought for the most part, they were well done. The technology and aliens that appear here are imaginative, if they don't have quite the tactility and three-dimensionality that you'd get from the most expensive CG going today. However, for a movie without those resources, good job I say.

The thing that prevents me from quite recommending the movie is its terrible acting. You don't always notice bad acting in films that are in other languages, since one of the key signifiers of bad acting is an inability to put the emphasis on the right syllable. In another language, you have no idea what the right syllable is.

But in this case, I could tell this acting was bad. This guy is the poster child of it:

This is actor Nick Cheung, and he has this expression on his face for literally his entire screen time.

A "Christmas" movie you wouldn't watch at Christmas, and the question of default subtitles

I have had an itch to watch Merry Christmas, Mr. Lawrence for a long time. 

Long recently, and long within the full span of my lifetime.

Recently, it's been part of my Kanopy queue, probably for something like three or four years now. 

Within the full span of my lifetime, it was one of the movies my mother recorded off The Movie Channel (and may never have watched). Seeing it in the plastic bins with all the other VHS tapes of movies she'd recorded and never watched led to speculation on my part about what it was about. 

Actually I did know something of what it was about, because there was an image of it I'd caught somewhere -- probably in an ad on The Movie Channel -- that haunted me. For those of you who've seen that movie, you'd know the image was David Bowie buried in sand, so only his head poked above the surface.

I probably would have gotten to Merry Christmas, Mr. Lawrence before now except that I am such a slave to thematically appropriate viewings that I think I thought I had to watch it at Christmastime. Even knowing it was set a prison camp run by the Japanese in World War II, I thought with that title, I had to save it for December.

But see the thing is, in December, I've got no time for random 41-year-old movies starring David Bowie. I need to watch movies from the current release year in order to prepare my year-end list, I need to watch genuine Christmas movies, and usually I need to watch old favorites that taste just a little bit better during the holiday season. Old movies that are new to me get the short shrift pretty much from after Halloween until late January. 

So a Tuesday night in May ended up being the right time to watch Nagisa Oshima's film.

I liked it about as well as I like any movie set in a camp holding prisoners of war, which is to say, just fine. Actually, that's a bit of short shrift for these movies themselves. As soon as I started to test the validity of my middling response to POW movies, I started to think of exceptions, such as The Bridge on the River Kwai, Stalag 17 and a movie I only just watched for the first time about a month ago, The Human Condition: No Greater Love. Which, incidentally, is also made by a Japanese director.

What I can say for sure, though, is that I am not inclined to go on at length about the details of the movie. It was good, it had good performances, enough said.

Of course, if that were all I had to say about it, I'd only be addressing half of my chosen title for this post.

Nary a few moments into Merry Christmas, Mr. Lawrence, I noticed there were Japanese characters, not to mention one English character, who were speaking in Japanese, without the Japanese being translated.

And I immediately felt I could not be certain what were the true intentions of the filmmaker.

In most English language movies, we are accustomed to expecting dialogue spoken in foreign languages to be subtitled. This happens without us having to do anything as viewers. For a very small percentage of English language movies, the film will choose not to provide a translation -- often for the purpose of disorienting their English-speaking audiences, just as the English-speaking characters are disoriented.

If you see a movie in the theater, and you are in a country where English is the official language, you know exactly what the filmmaker's intentions are. Since there is no ability for any individual audience member to customize their viewing experience, we are handed the subtitling option appropriate for the largest number of viewers. And if we get no subtitles, it means the director sure as heck intended it to be that way.

At home, though, we are in a thoroughly customizable environment. We can have subtitles on. We can have descriptive text for the hearing impaired. Sometimes we might even be able to dub it into another language.

But what should we do? What did the director want us to do?

I did turn on the subtitles in Merry Christmas, Mr. Lawrence, not only because I suspected they were supposed to be on, but because even some of the words spoken in English, with their heavy British or Japanese accents, benefitted from having on-screen text as a reference point. 

But when the subtitles don't exist as the default option -- like, embedded into the print rather than layered on top -- you don't really know what you're supposed to do. Maybe you're not supposed to understand what the Japanese characters are saying, or what the one Brit who can speak Japanese is saying when he's speaking to them. Maybe this is all meant to approximate the experience of being a prison of war in a foreign land. (The film is actually set in Java, Indonesia, but there are no Indonesian characters.)

Because these subtitles were offset from the screen by big black rectangular boxes behind them, it gave me even more of a sense that what I was seeing was alien to the original print. Maybe whoever distributed this version of the print translated because they could, not because they should.

Often I am allergic to googling the answer to one of the rhetorical questions I ask here, but in this case I did look it up. Apparently, there are two versions of the film, one with subtitles and one without. You are "supposed" to watch the one without. (So, we got the version without, but the subtitles existed as an a la carte option.)

The guy on Reddit who posted about it made what I thought was a good point about what we were "supposed" to do in this case, saying "While it sounds intriguing, I wouldn't want to miss out on half the movie if it isn't true."

I agree with this. We are only going to see most movies once in this life -- actually, most movies we are going to zero times, but you know what I'm saying. If you are only going to watch something once, you better watch the version that gives you the best chance of comprehending it. 

I'd say you could then go back and watch the version without subtitles if you really love it, but you can't un-learn the dialogue that was being said. 

Maybe I'll rewatch Merry Christmas, Mr. Lawrence again 20 years from now, having forgotten what was being said from scene to scene -- maybe even the entire gist of the plot -- and see what I think of it.

And maybe I can schedule that particular viewing for Christmastime. 

The demise of movie advertising, all in one handy Bond puzzle

I had a very diligent Secret Santa last year -- or Kris Kringle, as they insist on calling it down here.

When we do Kris Kringle with my larger work team of a couple dozen people, you get randomly assigned a person to give presents to, and weirdly, you never actually tell them it was you. I suppose if you're only giving one gift, that makes sense, but I prefer it to be like a handful of small gifts over the course of December, and then at the end you say "It was me!" Without that, it's this very odd sort of secretive affair, though I admit, it does prevent you from having to own up to your shitty gift if you missed the mark. And since we are scattered around the state, only all coming together a couple times a year, multiple gifts over a couple weeks isn't practical anyway. 

To help prevent your giver from missing the mark, you are invited to give hints about things you would like. For a couple years now I have been suggesting that someone give me a copy of the latest book they've read, as it will allow me to branch out to things I might not have considered, but no one takes me up on that. Since they don't, this year I included chocolate as an option, and I may have mentioned I like puzzles -- or this person just knew it from having talked to me. 

In any case, she got me all three things, in a true case of going above and beyond the $20 limit. I say "she" because I am quite certain I know who it was, based on her interests. The "book" she got me was a Star Wars comic book featuring Princess Leia, and I happen to know this person is into Star Wars. She gave me the actual copy, rather than buying me a copy, and since people don't seem to be able to interpret this suggestion correctly, I think I will stop making it next year.

For chocolate, she got me Cadbury Favourites, which come in a distinct purple box and contain miniature versions of their offerings. This alone was at least half of the $20 limit.

Then the puzzle was a James Bond puzzle, featuring posters from all 25 movies in existence at the end of Daniel Craig's tenure. It was quite well chosen, as I had just posted on Facebook about going to that James Bond Marathon at the Sun Theatre that I wrote about on this blog a couple times last year. So that limited the potential Kris Kringles to one of my Facebook friends, which narrowed it down to about eight people. The Star Wars fan is one of those eight. 

(I actually didn't want to become friends with any work people on Facebook, and have had a policy of not doing so until I no longer work with the person. That way, I can say whatever outrageous things I want to say without feeling self-conscious. But once my boss sent me a friend request, and her boss sent me a friend request, the floodgates opened and I had to take pretty much anyone who asked. I say "pretty much" as there is still one woman I find objectionable whose request I have not accepted, but I never see her and have never actually met her in person, so I thought this might give her a hint without it being awkward.)

Okay that's a lot of preamble. I am ready to get to the point of this piece now.

My wife and I have been working on the Bond puzzle, one poster of which you see above, and the rest of which I will be providing in snippets across the rest of this piece. The posters go chronologically through the Bonds from the upper left hand corner to the lower right, proceeding more or less in the shape of a Z, and I recently realized that they get increasingly worse as you go trace that route.

Because we haven't quite finished the puzzle yet -- less than 100 of the thousand remaining -- the pictures are from the fold-out picture that comes with it that you use as a reference point. (Or at least, some people do. In a conversation about puzzles with my Kris Kringle, I learned that she and her family do not believe it is fair to check the picture, and you must form the puzzle from the pieces alone. That's insane.)

Let's start with the lovely upper left:

Ah the films of Sean Connery. How delightfully 60s they were. (They were all from that decade except for 1971's Diamonds Are Forever.) They aren't all kinetic, but that Goldfinger one sure is. It should be out of a Batman comic (also from the 1960s) and the word THWACK! should appear in giant letters. The first two on the left are fairly staid in terms of action, but just look at the warm and rich colors. Especially the last two capture the zany spirit of the movies, with Diamonds kind of functioning as the first of the sort of posters made famous in Star Wars movies, with the characters grouping around in poses. Anyway, it's glorious stuff.

As we move to the right and to my Bond, Roger Moore -- with a groovy diversion for one George Lazenby movie, half of whose slogans you can see in the previous shot -- there isn't much dropoff. We get to a lot more storytelling in the poster, as fully half the events of The Man With the Golden Gun are depicted in this poster, and The Spy Who Loved Me looks like something out of an art deco sci-fi movie. Even the simplest of these, For Your Eyes Only, has the clever through the legs shot (while getting in some more female flesh, which was a Bond calling card, and a Moore calling card in particular). The posters aren't afraid to have life and be cheeky, and interestingly, the one my wife called out specifically for positive reasons -- my favorite, Octopussy -- can't even be seen in this quadrant. (We'll get to it in the next.) She said instead of having all 25 movies, she'd rather just have a full puzzle of the Octopussy poster, for example.

As we look at Moore's last two posters, which are striking for different and opposite reasons -- one busy, one sparse -- we get a crucial line of demarcation here. Once we switch over to Timothy Dalton and Pierce Brosnan, the hand-drawn art is retired. Not immediately -- Dalton's first, The Living Daylights, seems to be drawn, and works in a similar way to how For Your Eyes Only worked. But from License to Kill onward, photographs of the actors become the norm, for the worse. At least we're still getting story, though. In each Brosnan movie -- Die Another Day is slightly off screen here -- you get not only Bond but his co-stars, plus some visual information that tells you what the movie is about, with plenty of vehicles still making appearances. They're still good.

They're not good anymore. This may be what we thought we wanted in 2006 when the series had probably its sharpest reboot to date, to bring it into more modern times. But fully four of these five posters have only a single person on them, Daniel Craig, and not a single one gives any clue what the movie is about. (Okay, I guess you could argue that he's gambling in Casino Royale, but that title is somewhat self-explanatory anyway.) These are cold, clinical, lifeless. Taken in combination, they sort of make Daniel Craig look like the world's biggest narcissist, when I doubt that actually describes him. Only in Quantum of Solace is any of the real estate ceded to another character/actor. 

Unsurprisingly, this is the least fun quadrant of the puzzle to complete. My wife and I each get a little depressed when we try to work at it. Just a bunch of generic whites, blacks and golds. Ho hum.

You don't often think about the long history of movie advertising until you can see a single idea go through multiple transformations as it does here. And here it is obvious that somewhere along the way we lost the sense of fun. We lost the sense of things being larger than life. We lost the sense of someone creating a design that was as much an impressionistic interpretation of the movie as it was an accurate depiction of the contents of the package. And yet some of them were also that, much more than they are now.

And this, of course, is not specifically an issue with the Bond movies, but rather, a larger design trend. Remember when every new poster was blue and orange with some random ignited sparks somewhere in the frame, whether the movie featured sparks or not? That may have been the nadir of this sad loss of inventiveness. 

We can only hope that the arrival of a new James Bond heralds a new way to imagine a Bond poster, perhaps one that harkens back to these joyous works of art from the 1960s and 1970s. 

And that may happen. The posters that seem to resonate most with us nowadays are the intentional throwbacks, the ones that mimic the design, for example, of famed Star Wars poster artist Drew Struzan. Nothing makes us geek out more, for example, than to see the kids from Stranger Things oriented as they would be in a Star Wars sequel, with ephemera from the show surrounding them on all sides.

Let's hope the next Bond puzzle, released 15 years from now with the retirement of the next Bond, has a fifth quadrant -- if you will -- that makes us forget the mistakes of the fourth. 

Blaxploitaudient: Foxy Brown

This is the fifth in my 2024 monthly series watching blaxploitation movies I haven't previously seen.

Tomorrow is Mother's Day. I was going to say "here in Australia," but unlike with Father's Day, it's the same day as in the U.S. (Australian Father's Day is in September. Let's not get into it.)

Which means it's the perfect time to watch a movie about a vengeful nurse who goes undercover as a prostitute to take out heroin dealers.

In all seriousness, though, I did think the month of Mother's Day was a good time to turn to the first female-led movie of this series, not to mention one of the genre's most iconic.

In a way, you could say Pam Grier's Foxy Brown is the mother of all blaxploitation heroines, except there's probably some evidence that an earlier film would be more accurately considered that. Grier herself actually appears a year earlier in 1973's Coffy, another likely viewing in this series. 

But Foxy Brown is the name we all know. When Grier appeared in Jackie Brown more than 20 years later, there were a lot of mentions of Grier's iconic turn in Jack Hill's 1974 film Foxy Brown, not so much about Jack Hill's 1973 film Coffy. Heck, it could just be the fact that the characters have the same last name. (Interesting to note that Hill was such a maker of blaxploitation, when he was white. A discussion for another time probably.) And since I found Grier very captivating in Jackie Brown -- one of my favorite parts of the movie, of which I have only a middling appreciation -- I had wanted to see Foxy Brown for a good 25 years.

So the actual movie was probably a mild disappointment for me, though I do think Grier is great in it, and she has an absolutely dynamite succession of period outfits.

First I should say it was something of a relief to return to a more straightforward narrative after last month's Sweet Sweetback's Baadasssss Song, which was the best movie in this series so far, if not always the easiest to watch in terms of clarity of the story. I still, though, don't think I got all the details, or maybe some of those details were just wrong. For example, I don't actually think Foxy Brown is a nurse, a detail I got from the Amazon Prime brief plot synopsis when I rented it. Speaking of Coffy, I think they may actually be conflating the two, as she definitely appears to be a nurse there. 

The Wikipedia plot description makes no mention of her profession at all, but there is an early scene in a hospital, so I tell myself I may have just missed a throwaway line of dialogue. However, in that scene Brown is a visitor to the hospital, not working there, as her boyfriend, an undercover agent who had infiltrated a drug ring, has needed to have facial reconstruction to avoid being targeted now that his cover has been blown. It might have worked, too, if this man hadn't been ratted out by Foxy's own brother, a drug addict named Link, played by Antonio Fargas.

Before we continue with the plot, I wanted to pause for a moment to mention Fargas. His was a face I immediately recognized, and thought I even knew from where, even though this next film is one I haven't seen in more than 30 years. Sure enough, I confirmed on IMDB and he plays that pimp with the fishbowls in his shoes in I'm Gonna Git You Sucka!, which was probably my first exposure to blaxpoitation in the form of a spoof. Maybe I will rewatch that this year after I have seen the original version of many of these tropes. It's been too long. 

So one thing I thought was funny about this undercover agent, who is played by Terry Carter, is that to prove the success of the facial reconstruction and change in name from Dalton Ford to Michael Anderson, the film shows us a newspaper headline that reads UNDERCOVER AGENT DALTON FORD MISSING. I love imagining that there would have ever been a time when the whereabouts of undercover agents, whose names should not be named, would be the subject of newspaper articles.

Anyway, Ford/Anderson is gunned down, and that sends Foxy on the warpath both to rough up her own brother and to take down the drug ring headed by Kathryn Wall (Kathryn Loder) and her lieutenant Stevie (Peter Brown). Loder's performance is pretty campy, but it's hard to tell whether or not it's on purpose.

Hill's direction is probably the weakest part of the movie, as his ability to get good line readings from the actors is only one of the deficits he puts up there on screen. He's also challenged when it comes to staging the action scenes, with some of them even prompting laughter.

At least he has Grier, whose charisma is a physical force. I did find myself surprised, though, how much this movie takes us down into the dirt with her character. I imagined her to be kind of a groovy superhero with a great afro in a variety of sharp wardrobes, above the fray and able to dispatch foes with a cool quip. But that's me looking back on Foxy Brown from the perspective of her being an icon, not imagining how the filmmakers might have seen her at the time.

There's no doubt she's badass and strong, but the film is not above degrading her. Without getting too much into spoilers -- though I doubt you are worried about spoilers for a film that turns 50 this year -- there's a scene where Foxy is tied to a bed, drugged, and raped. The rape is off screen, but that would not have played in a film today -- at least not for the hero of the film. As she's struggling against the ropes that have her bound, we get a casual exposure to her breasts. I suspect this sort of thing may have contributed to why the film was, according to Wikipedia, "seized and confiscated in the United Kingdom under section 3 of the Obscene Publications Act 1959 during the video nasty panic." I'm not following the link to see what the "video nasty panic" was. 

There is one other actor I wanted to call out. Sid Haig, who I know from his later life collaborations with Rob Zombie, appears here, looking quite thin, as a hippie pilot. It's a goofy role and it brought a bit smile to my face.

The movie does end with a very satisfying comeuppance for its villains, which reminds me a bit of the ending of Shaft. That might be the kind of thing that gives a film its iconic status. I'll have to see whether Coffy botches that same sort of ending when I get to it later in the year, perhaps explaining why that film is not as well known.

So Happy Mother's Day, everyone. If you have a heroin ring you want to bust up, Foxy Brown is available. 

Not all milestones are created equal

Today I learned that The Muppet Movie is being re-released this (U.S.) summer to celebrate the 45th anniversary of its release.

Come on.

We all know it is patently ridiculous to celebrate X number of years since something occurred if the X does not end in a zero or five.

But if you celebrate all of the anniversaries ending in zero and five, that's too much too. 

The target audience for this celebration, even if it is comprised of adoring fans, will say "Didn't we just do this?"

Forty-five is a perfect example of a terrible anniversary to celebrate. Oh if you are married for 45 years, oh yeah, you should be jumping for joy, if you're still able. Andrew Haigh even made a movie about it. (Wait, I don't think that was the point of that movie.)

But a movie's 45th? Just wait five years and celebrate its 50th.

Especially if you are talking about a re-release, which should really only happen on special anniversaries, because I can tell you it ain't happening every five years. Especially if that film's golden anniversary is just five years off.

I don't recall anyone creating any hoopla over the 40th anniversary of The Muppet Movie five years ago, so maybe this is just an overdue celebration for a movie whose previous anniversaries had been neglected. Still I say, can't you just wait five more years? Are you that desperate for the extra couple million the re-release will bring in?

So let's talk about the movie release anniversaries it is okay to celebrate.

Ten is the first one I would do. When it's five years, that's too soon, and no one has had the time to develop any nostalgia for the different time in their lives when they first saw the film. Because that's a big part of this whole thing, right?

You have to skip 15, especially if you've done ten. That's easy.

Twenty is a tricky one. Two decades is the roughly defined length of a generation, the dividing line between baby boomers and Gen X and millennials. I'm okay with it, with the caveat that you have a really special anniversary only five years off. If you can wait, wait. If you can't, I get it.

Twenty-five. Of course. Quarter century. 

Thirty is also tricky. In fact, from here on out you can make an argument for any anniversary ending in zero. So that'll cover 30, 40, 50, 60, 70. I mean, 50 is such a given that I needn't even devote a separate thought to it because of course you celebrate 50.

Thirty-five is the first one that is just dumb, and 45 is equally dumb. In fact, I say you skip every other five until you get to 75, and then until you get to 125. At some point we will be celebrating the 125th anniversary of the release of certain movies, though no one alive will have seen them when they came out. 

I didn't mention 100, but obviously. 

So 45 is slightly less dumb than 55 but it's slightly more dumb than 35. In any case, it's dumb.

What really is the likely explanation is that someone got the idea to re-release The Muppet Movie like three years ago and someone else said "Okay, but we at least have to wait for its 45th anniversary." Perhaps they deemed the conditions were right, for whatever reason, and waiting those extra three years was already the compromise. Maybe waiting eight years would have lost the window of opportunity, however they defined it.

But it still doesn't mean that I can't grumble about it here on my blog, and now I have. 

Rewatching Rogue One on American May the 4th (sort of)

A few days before May the 4th -- a day I mildly look down upon, all evidence to the contrary in the date-specific viewing I'm about to tell you about -- I thought about how Star Wars Day was falling on a Saturday this year, and it would make a good opportunity to finally rewatch Rogue One: A Star Wars Story.

Then I plum forgot.

But I remembered in time for Sunday night, and since many of the hours of our Sunday here in Australia are Saturday in the U.S. -- May the 4th, in case you've already forgotten -- I thought I could squeeze in the viewing Sunday night, even though Saturday would have expired in all U.S. time zones by then (yes, even Hawaii).

But first let's get into why I look down upon both May the 4th and Rogue One.

If you truly love Star Wars, then you don't need a day to celebrate it. You do Star Wars things at regular intervals. Not daily, of course, because that would be too nerdy by half. But you'd keep Star Wars in your heart and home -- "keep" in the sense that Ebenezer Scrooge talked about keeping Christmas -- and you wouldn't need to draw special attention to it once a year. For a real Star Wars fan, May the 4th is for tourists. (When every major league baseball team playing a home game on May 4th has some sort of Star Wars themed night, you know it's become too commercial by half. Much like Christmas.)

And Rogue One? A true Star Wars fan does not like Rogue One.

How do I figure? Well, I say, a true Star Wars fan does not believe that the stealing of the plans to the Death Star was an epic battle with the loss of many lives, starships and planets, the kind so consequential that they'd devote entire history books to it. A true Star Wars fan thinks the stealing of the plans for the Death Star was a cloak and dagger mission involving clever betrayals, intrigue, and probably only the deaths of a couple Imperial soldiers who might have gotten in the way.

Yet Gareth Edwards' movie did indeed posit that this epic battle had taken place immediately before Princess Leia came into possession of said plans, which is the biggest, but not nearly the only, reason I didn't dig the movie when I saw it back in 2016, and had not yet rewatched it.

When I watched and appreciated Andor, I started getting the hankering to give Rogue One another shot. I thought I'd wait until after the second and final season of Andor, but I also found myself getting impatient for that to arrive. As it turned out, I would have only had to wait three more months, as it'll be on Disney+ this August.

But Cassian Andor was decidedly not one of the things I appreciated in Rogue One. He had to grow on me in his eponymous show. I generally like Diego Luna, but I did not think he was right for this movie and I did not think his performance was up to snuff. The fact that English is not his first language was likely a factor, but I also thought he just had a big charisma deficit. Again, I've softened that stance since then.

And true enough, Cassian Andor was not a bother to me this time around. He might not stack up to other recent iconic additions to the Star Wars universe -- your Oscar Isaacs, your Daisey Ridleys, your John Boyegas, your Adam Drivers -- heck, pretty much everyone in that whole trilogy -- but he's fine here, and it's not really his story anyway. 

But I also had an issue with Felicity Jones as Jyn Erso. My memory was that I thought her facial expressions were too overdetermined, and that she needed a sure-handed director to tell her not to be going off the reservation with the looks she was giving the camera. 

I must say, I really don't know where I got that the first time. I sat there during this viewing and I specifically tried to detect why I reached that conclusion about Jones. I could not. She, too, is fine, perhaps better than that.

While we are on the cast, in 2016 I did not like Donnie Yen's chanting about being one with the force and the force being with him. I guess I just don't feel like the force and incantations go hand in hand. Shouldn't you just be able to feel the force, and have it serve or not serve you, without speaking about it? Perhaps Edwards was intentionally drawing a comparison between belief in the force and religious zealotry, but if so, I was not a fan of that comparison.

Guess what? Didn't bother me so much this time.

Riz Ahmed's mumblings about being the pilot?

Didn't bother me so much.

Forest Whittaker's admittedly scenery chewing performance?

Didn't bother me so much.

The story?

Yeah that still bothered me. 

I still don't like that this movie culminates in a battle costing the lives of, would it be exaggerating to say thousands of people? That's not so good.

But I found myself appreciating the staging of this battle, at least, on the level of pure spectacle. The beach scene with the palm trees is a good place to have a Star Wars battle. And some of the stuff going on up in space, with the assault on that invisible shield, is good material.

This is not me becoming a Rogue One acolyte. I promise you it is not.

Though it is someone who does not like dislike the movie anymore, and might already watch it again after I conclude Andor after all. Yes, even if that means two Rogue One viewings within about a year's time.

I am eager to see if they are consistent with the depiction of Andor, whom they had not conceived as the center of his own TV show when they set out to make this prequel. His killing of a person who appeared to be a friend or colleague during his first scene does not, for example, seem consistent with his character -- or not consistent, anyway, with the person he seems to have become by the time the show ends. To see how they sew this all together, it probably really will behove me to watch it right after I watch the show.

Anyway, this leaves exactly one Star Wars movie that I have seen only once. And you should be able to guess what that is.

That's right, it's Solo: A Star Wars Story, which I always considered to be worse than Rogue One and looks a lot worse right about now. 

I can't imagine the circumstances that will come along to make me want to watch that one again ... but if my feelings toward Rogue One can be rehabilitated, I won't rule out that same thing being possible here.

After all, there's another May the 4th only about 363 days away.

Anne Hathaway goes to Coachella, Nicholas Galitzine pulls a Costanza

It's been interesting to watch former The State cast member Michael Showalter transition from comedic actor to comedic director to director of things that are primarily not comedies. Though I guess the melancholy has always been there. I'm higher than most on The Baxter and Hello My Name is Doris, but I'm lower than most on The Big Sick and The Eyes of Tammy Faye. The last time he made a true comedy, The Lovebirds, it was easily his worst film, probably because there was no melancholy. His only feature I haven't seen was 2022's Spoiler Alert, but since I believe this is a gay romance where one of the characters dies (that's the spoiler), I'm sure it has melancholy out the wazoo.

I'm actually not here to talk about the melancholy of Showalter's films. I just couldn't figure out a better intro into the piece.

I'm actually talking about my favorite film of his since Hello My Name is Doris, which has just been released on Amazon and which is called The Idea of You. And since I have a lot of random observations springing from it, that intro was as good as any.

The first is that you would call this a romantic comedy except that, despite some light or whimsical moments, it's really not a comedy. "Romantic drama" sounds heavy so when I review it I will probably just call it a "romance."

It's the story of a 40-year-old woman (Anne Hathaway) with a 16-year-old daughter who ends up in a relationship with the frontman of a boy band (Nicholas Galitzine) -- the same boy band her daughter obsessed about when she was 11 or 12. That's a good premise and it's the sort of thing that got me in the door, despite appearances from this poster and elsewhere that this could be yet another interchangeable romance gone straight to the streamers. (It was only later that I noticed it was directed by Showalter, which piqued my interest further.)

Hathaway's Solene meets Galitzine's Hayes because Solene's ex-husband was supposed to take their daughter and her friends to Coachella, but at the last minute had to drop out of the excursion because of a sudden business trip to Houston. He'd already purchased tickets to a meet-and-greet with August Moon (great name for a boy band, reminds me of Maroon 5), a sign of his being out of step with his daughter's interests. (She's now into "aggressively talented female singer-songwriters.") But they had all agreed to go to the meet-and-greet because he'd already bought the tickets, but now that he's not going at all, Solene agrees to take his place, while her daughter's friends do mostly other Coachella-related activities while grudgingly being nice and showing up for the meet-and-greet. She meets Hayes by thinking she's going to a VIP bathroom, which is actually his trailer, and things go from there.

For starters I wanted to take about this movie really pulling me in with its Coachella setting. I don't know that I've seen another film that had any part set at Coachella -- I suppose that could have been one of the stops in A Star is Born, but I'm not checking to be sure -- and it brought me right back to my festival days. I attended Coachella from 2005 to 2007, which means that among other great acts (The Chemical Brothers, Prodigy, Nine Inch Nails) I was present for the performance that has probably attained the most legendary status of any live show I have attended, which was Daft Punk's 2006 appearance. Aware only in retrospect what sort of classic set this is considered to be, I started to watch it on YouTube the other day before decided I needed to wait for a time when it was more convenient for my schedule. 

The thing I think is funny about how Coachella is used in this movie is that there is a sly commentary on how far the festival has fallen since those glory days. It's sly enough that you won't be aware of it at all if you are not "in the know" like I am. But I have to imagine that Showalter would know (he's also the writer) that Coachella, in its original incarnation, would never have welcomed a band like August Moon to the mainstage. Coachella was envisioned as the anti-boy band festival, its roots primarily in electronica but always open to major rock and rap acts that had a certain level of credibility. (Plus all the dozens of smaller acts on smaller stages.) Appearances by Madonna (in the year I was there in 2007, but not the day I was there) and Beyonce, while lauded, are not Coachella's bread and butter, and they probably signalled the opening of the main stage to much more mainstream fare. August Moon would be a prime example of that.

Yet the thing that's really lovely about The Idea of You is that it does not view this band as a joke. Almost any boy band representation in the movies over the years has been for the purposes of humor, but Showalter's film takes the band seriously. He's not arguing that they are great musicians, but he's arguing that they are real people with real feelings and emotions, and that the songs they make are actually catchy for the right reasons. We hear four or five August Moon songs in this movie, and they are all credible versions of boy band songs, not obvious parodies designed to feed our sense of superiority. (Songwriter and producer Savan Kotecha, who has written songs for actual boy band One Direction, was responsible for these.)

It's not the only thing in this movie that "shows us the expertise," which is dangerous in a movie but which I listened to a podcast about the other day. The podcast talked about the making of real 70s era music, that was really supposed to sound great, for the Broadway show Stereophonic. The episode also cautioned about the pitfalls of doing this, giving Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip as an example. In this hour-long drama about a Saturday Night Live-style variety show, the snippets we got of the comedy sketches were awful. I hear Mr. Holland's Opus, which I have not seen, is also an example of this, where when we hear the titular composition it is a cacophonous mess. 

So not only does the August Moon music sound good, but there's a painting that plays a role in the narrative that is also supposed to be brilliant. Solene, an art dealer, says when she looks at it, she feels "everything." I think you might be inclined to agree:

The lighting in this particular screen grab available on the internet is not ideal to convey the multitudes this painting contains, but let me assure you, it contains multitudes.

I'll circle around and finish with the part of this subject that relates to Nicholas Galitzine, an actor whose name and faced I recognized, but had to look him up on IMDB to remember that he plays the main asshole jock in last year's Bottoms. 

And one day after my latest coincidences post regarding Jon Hamm and John Slattery, I'm back with another coincidence.

On Saturday night my younger son was sleeping over at his aunt's house. We usually watch Young Sheldon together as a family during one or two weekend night dinners per weekend, but without the youngest there, we didn't want to continue on with it. (And if you think Young Sheldon is beneath you or would be beneath me, you haven't watched that show.)

So we decided to introduce our 13-year-old to Seinfeld over dinner instead. (It helped that I'd seen Jerry Seinfeld's Unfrosted the night before.) In seeking out a classic episode that basically had nothing to do with sex -- sex stuff makes him kind of antsy -- I landed on the Kenny Rogers Roaster episode, which is also the episode where Elaine puts the expensive Russian hat on the Peterman expense account for George. As a strategy to get a second date with the saleswoman, who clearly loathes him, George then "accidentally" leaves the expensive hat behind her couch cushion, so he'll have a reason to contact her again. 

Galitzine's character Hayes did the exact same thing in this movie about an hour after I'd finished watching George do it. 

The need for the action is slightly more debatable, as Solene clearly likes him. But she's also concerned about what "people will say" (rightly so, it turns out) so is making gestures about it not being a good idea to increase the intensity with Hayes. As he's leaving her house, he surreptitiously deposits his expensive watch on her entryway table, meaning it can't be the last time the two are in contact.

Hey, if it worked for Costanza, it can work for anybody.

And in case you forget, it did actually work for Costanza, to a point. Using the theme from the "By Mennen" ad that we all knew back in the 1990s, she gets Costanza in her head -- "Coooo-stanza." Unfortunately, he's already screwed it up by bringing the clock he stole from her house to exchange with the hat, thinking that was the only reason she was meeting him, when in fact, she was interested in pursuing the relationship. "Was" -- because as soon as she learns he stole her clock, she's out again.

We never do find out what happened to the hat.

Jon Hamm-John Slattery reunion weekend

Important note to readers: Although I am describing the following two movies as a "reunion weekend," it should be noted that the viewings occurred on a Thursday night and a Friday night. But let's face it: On Thursday night we are allowing ourselves the luxury of entering the weekend mindset.

What are the odds that I would watch two movies on two consecutive days that both featured Jon Hamm and John Slattery?

They were also two movies that would either potentially entice my wife or potentially not entice my wife, as we shall see.

I was already 30 minutes into Confess, Fletch -- which has only just recently landed on Netflix -- on Thursday night, when my wife came into the room and said she would have liked to watch it with me. She says things like that when I'm 30 minutes into lots of movies, but the reality is, we watch about six movies a year together these days. Her choice, not mine. So I can't be blamed if I go ahead with my own viewing priorities rather than waiting for her to be ready to watch something on her schedule. (This one was actually a little worse than usual, as she turned an expression of mild disappointment into an expression of mild accusation: "When you saw this movie, didn't you think it was something that I would like to watch?" It's true, she likes crime shows and podcasts, especially if they are gentle, like Only Murders in the Building. I volunteered to stop watching and continue it another time with her, but she wasn't having any of it.)

Of course, Hamm stars in Confess, Fletch as Irwin M. Fletcher, the role originally made famous by Chevy Chase. I was never a huge fan of Fletch -- I think I've seen it only once -- but I did understand its charms and why people would quote it. I don't think I ever saw Fletch Lives. (My movie list tells me I have, but I could not tell you a single thing that happened in that movie, and if I am ranking it on Flickchart, I'm probably rating it based on how I assumed it must have been.)

As an Easter egg of sorts to their Mad Men fans, director Greg Mottola (actually casting director Ellen Chenoweth) throws in a bearded Slattery as a frenemy? friendly rival? of the former investigative reporter. (Most likely just friends who like to give each other shit.) The two have some good banter, though Slattery's role does not need to eclipse more than about five minutes of screen time and is essentially a cameo.

I enjoyed Confess, Fletch a lot more than I thought I would, considering that a love for this character is not baked into my DNA. Hamm does a credible facsimile of Chase's verbal dexterity and above-the-fray manner, and overall I found it a pretty delightful if ultimately pretty slight diversion. Yes, my wife would have enjoyed it. 

Knowing the way I'd missed on including her on Confess, Fletch, I tried to get my wife interested in Jerry Seinfeld's new movie, which he wrote, directed and stars in, on Friday night. Now, I do know enough about her not to hold her to watching something on the same night I first mention it (even though I did that for her on Tuesday night with a movie where her friend wrote the music. No, I'm not keeping score, why would you say that). So this was just to gauge her interest in seeing it at some point, though she probably knew, because she knows me too, that this weekend would be ideal, because it's the sort of thing I would like to review. Knowing the stakes this time, she ultimately passed.

Well, maybe we will get to watch it this weekend after all. I enjoyed it so much that I would probably watch it again tonight.

If you thought the now 70-year-old Seinfeld was past his comedic prime, you'll be surprised to note how he a) can still perform in a manner that recalls the groove he eventually found on Seinfeld, and b) he can direct! I was noting clever choices that a director would make throughout this movie. You won't be surprised that he can still write, as that was always least in doubt.

Anyway, I was laughing throughout and there was one bit that made me laugh harder than I've laughed at anything in a movie in a couple years. 

As you may have gleaned, this is an apocryphal retelling of the invention of the pop tart at Kellogg's, and it's a hilarious one -- similar in approach to something like Weird: The Al Yankovic Story, but funnier I thought.

At one point, the Kellogg's team, which includes Seinfeld's character as well as very funny turns by Jim Gaffigan and Melissa McCarthy -- yes, sometimes Melissa McCarthy just needs to be directed smartly -- calls in a pair of hot shot New York advertising execs to help get just the right ad campaign for their new product. You guessed it, because this is the 1960s, the ad executives are the actual Don Draper (Hamm) and Roger Sterling (Slattery), though they are credited as "Man #1" and "Man #2." (Would that be a "mad" Man #1 and #2?) I don't believe Man #2 ever calls Man #1 "Don," but I believe Man #1 does call Man #2 "Roger." 

This scene, like everything else in the movie, is funny. I won't spoil their proposed advertising campaign for the breakfast treat but it's a good one.

Sometimes coincidences are just too much for me to comprehend, though I suppose both of these movies recently coming to Netflix means that viewings on consecutive nights was slightly more likely to happen. However, in order for that to happen, it meant I had to have not seen Fletch when it came out two years ago, something I usually would have done in my attempts for completism in a given movie year, and also that my wife would not have held up the Unfrosted viewing for a night when it was convenient for her to watch it.

I had a coincidence this week with another Jon that adds further profundity to the whole concept of coincidences. It was either Wednesday or Thursday that my wife was talking about an Israeli she was working with named Shlomi, which put me in mind of Shlomo, the name of one of Hanukkah Harry's reindeer on Saturday Night Live. Hanukkah Harry was of course played by Jon Lovitz. Not an hour later, after finishing one YouTube video, I was fed another where Bill Burr was watching people do impersonations of him. One of those impersonations was by Jon Lovitz.

I might go a whole year without ever thinking of Jon Lovitz, and then twice in one day. (You could say that me having spoken the name Jon Lovitz earlier was picked up by my phone and led to a later YouTube video involving Lovitz. I don't think I'm quite paranoid enough to go there.)

Burr plays yet another John -- John F. Kennedy -- in Unfrosted, where he is also doing an impersonation, so it all comes full circle.