It begs the same question now as then: Why? Why remake "Psycho," one of the most hailed and studied films ever made by the medium's most lauded master? It will inevitably be compared to the original and found lacking. I suppose the same could be said for making sequels, which didn't stop Universal and produced some interesting results. If a filmmaker was compelled to remake "Psycho," surely it would be out of a desire to explore something unsaid in the original. To go deeper into Norman Bates' twisted world or to reinstate the elements from Robert Bloch's novel that didn't make it to the screen. Instead, Gus Van Sant came to studio head Casey Silver with a pitch for a shot-for-shot remake of Hitchcock's classic. Silver found this to be, quote, "a very strange idea." Van Sant, however, was still riding high on the critical, commercial success of "Good Will Hunting" and apparently could get any crazy idea green-lit. Upon release in 1998, Van Sant's "Psycho" was met with confusion and irritation. Most audience members seemed annoyed that they were presented with an almost identical but obviously inferior version of "Psycho." Critics generally found the project to be pointless, which was probably the consensus opinion. I mean, it would have to be. A 1-to-1 reenactment of "Psycho" could be achieved far more easily, and in a far more satisfying manner, by simply renting "Psycho" from the video store. Why spend 25 million dollars on that and several million more on releasing it?
Now, Gus Van Sant is an artist, a reputation earned from his prominent position in the New Queer Cinema Movement of the eighties. He has been called upon to explain himself a few times over the years. While he's given vague answers that he remade “Psycho” “so no one else would have to” or by explaining that all remakes are merely “marketing schemes,” his true intentions are observable within the film. Van Sant's “Psycho” is a meta-experiment. If we take the screenplay to a great movie and shoot it in the exact same way as was previously done, will the results still be a great movie? The answer is obviously “no,” that you'll only get a rather literal pale imitation. You would think any filmmaker who has actually done the day-to-day work on the set would understand that. The alchemy happens because of who is there, the choices made in the moments, and copying that is not the same thing as doing it.
Now, Gus Van Sant is an artist, a reputation earned from his prominent position in the New Queer Cinema Movement of the eighties. He has been called upon to explain himself a few times over the years. While he's given vague answers that he remade “Psycho” “so no one else would have to” or by explaining that all remakes are merely “marketing schemes,” his true intentions are observable within the film. Van Sant's “Psycho” is a meta-experiment. If we take the screenplay to a great movie and shoot it in the exact same way as was previously done, will the results still be a great movie? The answer is obviously “no,” that you'll only get a rather literal pale imitation. You would think any filmmaker who has actually done the day-to-day work on the set would understand that. The alchemy happens because of who is there, the choices made in the moments, and copying that is not the same thing as doing it.
But, okay, Gus Van Sant. I'll play your game. If the thesis of your “Psycho” is that the people making the film indirectly change it, even when slavishly following the blue print, what does the evidence say? Yes, Van Sant's “Psycho” is different from Hitchcock's, despite the fidelity to the source material. It is noticeably worst. Obviously, a wide released film in 1998 was going to be in color. Unable to replicate the original's stark black-and-white cinematography, the remake instead amps up the color. It makes the interior of the Bates Motel reds, greens, and yellows. The colors of Marion's bright dresses, the clean white of Norman's final prison cell, and Mother Bates' immaculately preserved bedroom are all strikingly colorful. It's not as creepy but it looks interesting, at least.
Most of the other riffs on what came before are noticeable down grades. This is most obvious in the editing. Amy E. Duddleston cuts the remake faster than the original, managing to shave about three minutes off the runtime. Subtle though it may be, the result feels rushed. This “Psycho” feels impatient, unwilling to sit with its characters as much. I would say it sinks any chances for suspense but that was never possible, because we know every reveal and moment before it comes. The devotion to duplicating the exact camera movements, the smooth pans around Norman as he cleans up the murder scene or peering down as Mother is carried into the fruit cellar, feel less like an organic expression of the story and its themes. It's not careful choices to draw us in. It's choreography, Van Sant and his team doing the Groucho mirror gag with Hitchcock but failing to convince us that we are seeing the same thing. This is also true of the score, Danny Elfman and Steve Bartek brought in to tweak Bernard Herrman's music just enough that you notice it's different but not enough to feel like anything but a glitchy cover.
Despite everyone describing this as a “shot-for-shot” remake, it's not exactly. Minor updates are made to the story, Lila wearing headphones in one scene and the amount of money Marion steals being increased. The late nineties R rating is secured by adding stab wounds, more blood, and Anne Heche's ass in the shower scene. To show equal oppretunity offense, I guess, Viggo Mortensen's modesty is barely maintained by carefully placed body parts in the opening scene. Most notoriously, we hear Norman tugging on his dick while looking through the peep hole. Imagine the fun the sound designer had trying to find the perfect fap-fap sounds for that moment. These additions certainly don't make the material more shocking or upsetting, while dragging away some of the original's subtly.
The other changes are even more intrusive. The sound design ups the discordant chatter in the background, which is only distracting. Lila entering into the Bates mansion occurs in daylight, rather than night, a choice that is significantly less atmospheric. She also lands a punch on Norman after he's restrained, some ill-made decision to make the character more proactive, I guess. The most baffling choices are surreal visual interludes during the murder scenes. Split-second cuts to a nude woman in some sort of mask or a cow in the middle of the road during Arbogast's face slashing do nothing but make the audience asked why they are there. The faster paced editing renders the tightly-wound frenzy of the shower stabbing to a rejected industrial rock music video. Why set out to make a shot-for-shot remake only to add these sudden swerves? That does nothing but cause the film to fail at its own stated objective, quite confusingly.
One must be forced to ask another question: Is the “Psycho” remake a prank? Did Gus Van Sant giggle mischievously while burning through Universal's money, as he wankishly played a game of monkey-see-monkey-do with Hitchcock? Perhaps. Vince Vaughn adopts a loose-limbed, cocked hip physicality to Norman. His nervous prater projects more a sense of insecurity than under-the-surface instability. Meanwhile, his body seems squeezed into Anthony Perkins' tight-fitting turtlenecks. The impression is that the serial killer is now a swishy homosexual, giving his face-to-face confrontation with Sam Loomis a new layer. Norman now wears his mother's nightgown when acting out his murderous impulses, a sillier visual that seems to also point towards deliberate camp. The fruit cellar is now a bird-filled, curtain decorated chamber. That suggests a kind of giallo-esque, DePalma like exaggeration. If the remake had embraced that tendency more frequently, I be more charitable to agree with those that enjoy this film as a subversive act of queer parody.
All the performances seem to have been ramped up a bit. Anne Heche adds a squirrely quality to Marion Crane, which feels like an attempt to reinterpret the character in the more openly neurotic nineties. While the film is ostensibly set in the modern day, William H. Macy is playing Arbogast as even more of a noir throwback. There's a recognizable character actor in most of the supporting roles. Robert Forester as the psychologist, James Remar as the highway patrolman, Phillip Baker Hall as the sheriff, Rance Howard as Marion's boss. All fine performers whose presence are never anything but distracting, a further indication to the viewer that we are watching an elaborate fan film rather than an involving work of art on its own. You really feel that way when Flea, of all people, shows up as Bob, the guy working in Sam's shop. Why, man? Why'd do that?
And “Why?” is the same question I opened this review with, meaning I'm no closer to finding any deeper meaning in this act of cinematic imitation. Van Sant inserts himself into the space in the original where Hitchcock's cameo was. He is now talking to a rotund man in a hat, a clear stand-in for Hitchcock who is supposedly berating the younger filmmaker. This furthers my feeling that “Psycho” (1998) is not a legitimate attempt to retell this story. It's not an especially effective act of meta-commentary on the idea of remakes or authorial intent. As a prank, it's not that funny either. I can only conclude that this was some masochistic humiliation for its auteur, Van Sant doing a blasphemous act and luxuriating in how obnoxiously pretentious and pretentiously obnoxious he's being. If you're into that kind of thing, more power to ya but I got little out of it. [4/10]
Despite everyone describing this as a “shot-for-shot” remake, it's not exactly. Minor updates are made to the story, Lila wearing headphones in one scene and the amount of money Marion steals being increased. The late nineties R rating is secured by adding stab wounds, more blood, and Anne Heche's ass in the shower scene. To show equal oppretunity offense, I guess, Viggo Mortensen's modesty is barely maintained by carefully placed body parts in the opening scene. Most notoriously, we hear Norman tugging on his dick while looking through the peep hole. Imagine the fun the sound designer had trying to find the perfect fap-fap sounds for that moment. These additions certainly don't make the material more shocking or upsetting, while dragging away some of the original's subtly.
One must be forced to ask another question: Is the “Psycho” remake a prank? Did Gus Van Sant giggle mischievously while burning through Universal's money, as he wankishly played a game of monkey-see-monkey-do with Hitchcock? Perhaps. Vince Vaughn adopts a loose-limbed, cocked hip physicality to Norman. His nervous prater projects more a sense of insecurity than under-the-surface instability. Meanwhile, his body seems squeezed into Anthony Perkins' tight-fitting turtlenecks. The impression is that the serial killer is now a swishy homosexual, giving his face-to-face confrontation with Sam Loomis a new layer. Norman now wears his mother's nightgown when acting out his murderous impulses, a sillier visual that seems to also point towards deliberate camp. The fruit cellar is now a bird-filled, curtain decorated chamber. That suggests a kind of giallo-esque, DePalma like exaggeration. If the remake had embraced that tendency more frequently, I be more charitable to agree with those that enjoy this film as a subversive act of queer parody.
And “Why?” is the same question I opened this review with, meaning I'm no closer to finding any deeper meaning in this act of cinematic imitation. Van Sant inserts himself into the space in the original where Hitchcock's cameo was. He is now talking to a rotund man in a hat, a clear stand-in for Hitchcock who is supposedly berating the younger filmmaker. This furthers my feeling that “Psycho” (1998) is not a legitimate attempt to retell this story. It's not an especially effective act of meta-commentary on the idea of remakes or authorial intent. As a prank, it's not that funny either. I can only conclude that this was some masochistic humiliation for its auteur, Van Sant doing a blasphemous act and luxuriating in how obnoxiously pretentious and pretentiously obnoxious he's being. If you're into that kind of thing, more power to ya but I got little out of it. [4/10]
Ooe-yama Shuten-dôji
You might have noticed that I am fascinated by similar folkloric concepts emerging across different, far-off cultures. St. George slaying the dragon to save the princess was likely inspired by Ragnar killing the serpent for Thora. Or Perseus rescuing Andromeda from Cetus... But what of Rama's wife Sita being abducted by demon king Ravanna? Or Māui protecting the bathing Hina from Kuna, the eel god? These are comparable stories that developed independently of each other. The hero, the maiden, and the monster he must save her from is a narrative that resonates deeply within the human soul. In Japan, another island nation often isolated from the rest of the world, there are stories like this too. Susanoo dismembering Orochi for the sake of Kushinadahime is probably the most direct parallel. Consider, also, the tale of Shuten-dōji. A hard-drinking ogre who dwelt on Mount Oe and had a habit of snatching young maidens, actual historical figure Minamoto no Raikō is credited with decapitating the monster. The most famous beat of the story then occurs, as the not-quite-expired head of the beast takes one last chomp at the samurai. Luckily, Raikō wore a couple extra helmets that day, which is all the demon gobbled before it died. It is a beloved legend in Japan, often adapted and referenced across pop culture. One such example is the 1960 film "Ōeyama Shuten Dōji," a samurai-and-kaiju predecessor to Daiei's later "Daimajin" and "Yokai Monsters" series. Since we rubes overseas don't know what the hell a Shootin' DJ is, the film is internationally known as "The Demon of Mount Oe."
Princess Nagisa is the bride to the emperor. After a demonic ox attempts to abduct her, she is transported to the city of Genji and placed under the care of general Raiko. The princess reveals that she is cursed. Demons follow her to Genji. Tsuno, Raiko's greatest warrior, is attacked by a witch and slices off her arm. Bandits, some of whom possess magic powers, torment the village. Nagisa reveals that the emperor stole her from the mountain-dwelling bandit king, Shuten-dōji. He was once human, a disgraced samurai, and is now plotting to kill the emperor with his band of otherworldly cohorts. Raiko is tasked with assembling a team to scale Mount Oe, confront and kill Shuten-dōj, and bring this reign of terror to an end.
"The Demon of Mount Oe" begins with a heavily stylized rendition of the Shuten-dōji tale as Japanese audiences in 1960 would probably know it. After that wild opening, the film then announced that it's going to tell you "the real story" behind this legend. Yes, the film belongs to that style of post-modernist fairy tale adaptations, an approach surely taken from Matsutarō Kawaguchi's source novel. This is probably why the sake swilling demon king of the mountain is simply a guy in this version, played by Kazuo Hasegawa in a really cool wig. That approach also assumes the audience is already familiar with the traditional telling of this story. Minamoto-no-Raiko, Watanabe no Tsuno, and the rest of the Four Heavenly Kings are introduced with little preamble. The script weaves a few different legends into the plot, alongside various historical battles. The film stars Raizō Ichikawa and Shintaro Katsu, a few years before headlining two long-running samurai franchises for Daiei. Both actors are put in similar looking period garb, with the same style of make-up on their face. When this is combined with a plot that frequently leaps around in time and location and has a large cast of characters, "The Demon of Mount Oe" proves a little hard to follow for a clueless American like me.
For the same reasons, it's a bit tricky for me to engage with what is obviously the film's attempt to deconstruct a famous folk tale. All the more so because director Tokuzō Tanaka and screenwriter Fuji Yahiro do not dismiss the otherworldly elements. Shuten-dōji may be human in this telling but he's still backed up by demonic henchmen. Like Kidomaru, who can teleport and turn into that hideous bull demon, and the ninja-like Tsuchigumo, who shoots silk from his fingers before changing into a big-ass spider. The plot concerns folkloric devices like a witch having her true form revealed in her reflection, disguising herself as an old woman to retrieve her detached arm, a sword that glows in the presence of demons, and a magical arrow being delivered by the gods in a dream. This back-and-forth between more grounded elements and blatantly fantastical ones throws me off a little. Maybe the Japanese don't feel the need to distinguish as much between historical fact and legend as we stiflingly literal Americans do.
Of course, the monster stuff is what got me to watch “The Demon of Mount Oe” in the first place, so I can't complain about its presence too much. Indeed, the fantasy sequences are the best part of the film. Compared to the relatively grounded and black-and-white “The Whale God,” the previous Tokuzō Tanaka film I wrote about, this one is very far-out and colorful. The opening sequence is all surreal lighting and frantic movements. The first appearance of Kidomaru is proceeded by a swirl of colors in the sky. The sequence where Shintaro Katsu meets and fights the witch is lit in bright pinks and purples and shot on an intentionally artificial looking sound stage. When she ascends up into the air and takes him with her, that is achieved in an effect that clearly looks fake but in a playful, dream-like way that really sells that this is a reenactment of an old folk tale. This peaks during the confrontation with Tsuchigumo, whose web of entwining silk are usually accompanied by bright flashes of lights. The giant spider sequence does feature a fairly stiff puppet, whose awkwardly spurts sparks from its mouth and slowly kicks its eight legs. It also takes place on a back-lit night set, with interesting uses of pyrotechnics and cinematography. It's all very stylized and neat.
For all the verve in its fantastical scenes, “The Demon of Mount Oe” still favors feudal melodrama more than monstery stuff. There are many scenes of court intrigue, two love triangles, and at least one dying declaration of affection. At about two hours, it gets a little long winded at times. Yet the film is also likable in its stylistic bursts. There are, in fact, three separate dance numbers as well, all of which are quite interesting. One of which involves Shintaro Katsu kicking up his heels, if that's something you want to see. “The Demon of Oe” is not as grimly intriguing as “The Whale God” and doesn't feature the crowd-pleasing kaiju destruction of the “Daimajin” trilogy. It's still scratch that itch for me, of seeking another corner of obscure Japanese monster movie action. Also, I've enjoyed how many times this review has given me a chance to type “Shuten Dōji.” It's a fun name! Shoe-ten Doe-jee! [7/10]
Princess Nagisa is the bride to the emperor. After a demonic ox attempts to abduct her, she is transported to the city of Genji and placed under the care of general Raiko. The princess reveals that she is cursed. Demons follow her to Genji. Tsuno, Raiko's greatest warrior, is attacked by a witch and slices off her arm. Bandits, some of whom possess magic powers, torment the village. Nagisa reveals that the emperor stole her from the mountain-dwelling bandit king, Shuten-dōji. He was once human, a disgraced samurai, and is now plotting to kill the emperor with his band of otherworldly cohorts. Raiko is tasked with assembling a team to scale Mount Oe, confront and kill Shuten-dōj, and bring this reign of terror to an end.
For the same reasons, it's a bit tricky for me to engage with what is obviously the film's attempt to deconstruct a famous folk tale. All the more so because director Tokuzō Tanaka and screenwriter Fuji Yahiro do not dismiss the otherworldly elements. Shuten-dōji may be human in this telling but he's still backed up by demonic henchmen. Like Kidomaru, who can teleport and turn into that hideous bull demon, and the ninja-like Tsuchigumo, who shoots silk from his fingers before changing into a big-ass spider. The plot concerns folkloric devices like a witch having her true form revealed in her reflection, disguising herself as an old woman to retrieve her detached arm, a sword that glows in the presence of demons, and a magical arrow being delivered by the gods in a dream. This back-and-forth between more grounded elements and blatantly fantastical ones throws me off a little. Maybe the Japanese don't feel the need to distinguish as much between historical fact and legend as we stiflingly literal Americans do.
For all the verve in its fantastical scenes, “The Demon of Mount Oe” still favors feudal melodrama more than monstery stuff. There are many scenes of court intrigue, two love triangles, and at least one dying declaration of affection. At about two hours, it gets a little long winded at times. Yet the film is also likable in its stylistic bursts. There are, in fact, three separate dance numbers as well, all of which are quite interesting. One of which involves Shintaro Katsu kicking up his heels, if that's something you want to see. “The Demon of Oe” is not as grimly intriguing as “The Whale God” and doesn't feature the crowd-pleasing kaiju destruction of the “Daimajin” trilogy. It's still scratch that itch for me, of seeking another corner of obscure Japanese monster movie action. Also, I've enjoyed how many times this review has given me a chance to type “Shuten Dōji.” It's a fun name! Shoe-ten Doe-jee! [7/10]
The episode of “Thriller,” Brian Clemens' British crime and murder anthology from the seventies that has nothing to do with someone whose name is surely Boris Karloff, I watched last year was pretty good. So here's another! “The Double Kill” concerns Hugh Briant, husband to rich heiress Clorissa. The two are fighting more often, as Clorissa uses sleeping pills to soothe her restless mind and Hugh spends all night at poker games. The man has developed a habit of bragging in public about all the riches and wealth in their home and also how they have no locks on their windows. He's hoping a burglar will enter the house, a common crook he can then blackmail into killing his wife. That way Hugh receives her significant inheritance and doesn't have to get his hands dirty. He thinks he's found the man in a shifty-eyed young thief named Max Burns. Max has other plans though, deliberately leaving clues behind that implement the husband. Now Hugh has to enact a new plan, that gets rid of the loose end and clears his name.
“The Double Kill” is a twisty act of misdirection most made worth seeing by Gary Collins' lead performance. The prolific star of film and TV brings his resounding voice to the role of the scheming husband. Collins slithers through every scene, quite confident in his own ability to manipulate those around him. When he gives his proposal to the various home intruders he “auditions,” the certainty and smoothness in his delivery is quite convincing. The script, of course, is build around increasingly upsetting that sense of control. Watching this guy slowly loose his grip on the plan he's cooked up is worthwhile. His facial expressions as the cops reveal each new piece of evidence against him is almost comical in how on point they are. While watching this jerk slowly blow his cool as he's double-crossed at every turn would be fun, Collins' instinct as an actor are sturdier than that. A guy like this isn't going to slip up overnight. This is why Hugh is still toying with Max in their final scene together, still so confident that he can make this work.
I love how literal the titles of "Friday the 13th: The Series" episodes tend to be. "Shadow Boxer" is about a cursed pair of boxing gloves that makes the wearer a champ in the ring... At the cost of causing their literal shadow to detach from their body and act upon their anger and resentment, beating the target of that rage to death. The Villain of the Week is Tommy, a wannabe boxer and current janitor at Manny's Gym. After coming across the gloves, he quickly starts winning matches. People around him also begin to die violently, including Manny himself who left the letters T.O. in his own blood at the crime scene. The Curious Goods team are on the case, with Micki pretending to be romantically interested in Tommy in order for Ryan and Jack to get into his apartment. This has unforeseen consequences.
The rule I laid down last time, that any given episode of "Friday the 13th: The Series" is only as good as whatever baddie the heroes are chasing this week, holds true. If this episode had been made in 2026, the script would probably characterize Tommy as an incel. He's a loner, a smaller-in-stature young male that seems to simmer with resentment at everyone around him. In the gym, he's surrounded by bigger, stronger guys who are better at the sport of punching people into submission than the physically weak Tommy. He glares at Manny's favored student with jealousy and rage. Modern online Tommy would call this guy a "Chad," the Alpha Male that denies him access to that which he believes is his. (Or, since the rival is a black man, he would call him "Tyrone," because incels are also totally absorbed in the hyper-racist rhetoric of the terminally online right.) It's not being an outcast or shrimpy that makes Tommy an asshole. It's his unearned sense of entitlement. Tommy believes he deserves to be a champ. The magic boxing gloves allow him a short cut to achieve that dream of being intimidating and easily cutting his objects of scorn down. The same way an AR-15 does for any bitter, misogynistic manlet.
While the plot is focused on the ultra-macho world of the gym and the ring, Tommy is still super weird about women. Micki is given the unfortunate task of charming the young psycho. The script doesn't go into it but Tommy is immediately enamored of Micki, presumably because womanly attention is something else he longs for that has been denied him. Probably because he's also a sexist jerk. After sharing one piece of pie, he assumes this female he's never talked to before, who knows nothing about him as far as he's aware, wants to sleep with him. "Shadow Boxer" takes an unexpected turn in the last act. The villain is defeated and the Cursed Artifact of the Week retrieved, the point where this show would normally end. Instead, it goes on for an extra act, Tommy breaking into Micki's apartment. He restrains her in bed and threatens her with a knife, a set-up obviously reminiscent of sexual assault. Denied access to the object he wants, he turns to violence, just like he did with the guys at the gym. Bitterness over not having what he's been taught should be his is the root of Tommy's evil.
Josh Miller's script is not that deep and "Shadow Boxer" doesn't get into the web of toxic masculinity that births monsters like this. Tommy's rage manifesting as a shadow is a clever, Jungian image but the guy is also a sleazy ass in his regular life. His anger is not exactly repressed. It's mentioned that each of the boxers have nicknames like "Killer" or "Terrific," emphasizing that violence and triumph is what distinguished people in this world. Yet the gym seems pretty chill otherwise, the episode having neither the time nor depth to explore why prizing aggression and victory over everything else produces kids like Tommy. The script is also unaware enough that it depicts Ryan giving Micki a playful smack on the ass as charming male behavior. Which may just be another example of this show seeming to forget that these two are cousins and probably shouldn't have a will-they-won't-they dynamic going on. What's a little incest in-between solving weekly mysteries, ya know?
As is typical of this show, it eventually gets bogged down in the nonsensical magical rules around its cursed object. Tommy's shadow is beaten back by bright light, leading to a goofy scene of Micki fighting it off with a flash camera. The exact link between the gloves' wearer, the shadow, and the object itself are not always clearly defined. The climax features an especially confusing turn of events, in how Tommy is defeated. Still, this is easily one of the better episodes I've seen so far. It shows that our modern day "crisis of masculinity" isn't anything new, that entitlement and might-as-right attitudes has been producing guys like this for a while. [7/10]
The rule I laid down last time, that any given episode of "Friday the 13th: The Series" is only as good as whatever baddie the heroes are chasing this week, holds true. If this episode had been made in 2026, the script would probably characterize Tommy as an incel. He's a loner, a smaller-in-stature young male that seems to simmer with resentment at everyone around him. In the gym, he's surrounded by bigger, stronger guys who are better at the sport of punching people into submission than the physically weak Tommy. He glares at Manny's favored student with jealousy and rage. Modern online Tommy would call this guy a "Chad," the Alpha Male that denies him access to that which he believes is his. (Or, since the rival is a black man, he would call him "Tyrone," because incels are also totally absorbed in the hyper-racist rhetoric of the terminally online right.) It's not being an outcast or shrimpy that makes Tommy an asshole. It's his unearned sense of entitlement. Tommy believes he deserves to be a champ. The magic boxing gloves allow him a short cut to achieve that dream of being intimidating and easily cutting his objects of scorn down. The same way an AR-15 does for any bitter, misogynistic manlet.
Josh Miller's script is not that deep and "Shadow Boxer" doesn't get into the web of toxic masculinity that births monsters like this. Tommy's rage manifesting as a shadow is a clever, Jungian image but the guy is also a sleazy ass in his regular life. His anger is not exactly repressed. It's mentioned that each of the boxers have nicknames like "Killer" or "Terrific," emphasizing that violence and triumph is what distinguished people in this world. Yet the gym seems pretty chill otherwise, the episode having neither the time nor depth to explore why prizing aggression and victory over everything else produces kids like Tommy. The script is also unaware enough that it depicts Ryan giving Micki a playful smack on the ass as charming male behavior. Which may just be another example of this show seeming to forget that these two are cousins and probably shouldn't have a will-they-won't-they dynamic going on. What's a little incest in-between solving weekly mysteries, ya know?
