Director Report Card: Steven Spielberg (1982)

10. E. T. the Extra-Terrestrial

Following the blockbuster success of “Close Encounters of the Third Kind,” Columbia Pictures demanded a sequel. Spielberg wasn’t interested but, weary of the studio moving on without him the way Universal did with “Jaws 2,” proposed a compromise. “Night Skies” would be a spiritual successor to “Close Encounters,” a big budget horror movie inspired by the Hopkinsville Goblins incident in which hostile extraterrestrials attack a rural family. John Sayles wrote a script and Rick Baker designed the alien antagonists. Yet, while making “Raiders of the Lost Ark,” Spielberg became uncertain about the project. He read the script to Harrison Ford’s girlfriend, screenwriter Melissa Mathison, who was touched by a subplot in which the sole friendly alien befriended the family's autistic son. Combined with Spielberg's memories of his own lonely childhood – which he was already developing as a project called "Growing Up" – "Night Skies" mutated into a new, more sentimental story. Mathison wrote a first draft called "E.T. And Me," which eventually became "E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial." Columbia doubted the project could be successful, prompting Spielberg to take it to Universal, where the director would create another pop culture phenomenon. 

Visitors from another world come to Earth to study our plant life. One of the scientists is left behind when the ship, following detection by the U.S. government, has to make an emergency exit. The alien is discovered by Elliot, a young boy living in the San Fernando Valley with his recently divorced mother, older brother, and younger sister. Elliot quickly forms a psychic bond with the creature, who displays extraordinary abilities. The visitor wishes to return home, building a device to contact his ship. Yet as Elliot and E.T. start to grow sick together, scientists from NASA intervene, threatening both the boy and his special friend from beyond the stars. 

"E.T." is the first truly sentimental film that Spielberg – who previously specialized in thrillers and blockbuster spectacle, least we forget – would make, forever changing the course of his career. It's among the most nostalgic of the director's movies, looking back on the adventure of childhood. Yet "E.T.'s" relationship with childhood is more complicated than that. Elliot's world is a lonely one. He can't relate to his jock older brother and his mischievous little sister doesn't seem to grasp his feelings yet. His family mocks him when he first mentions the "goblin." Elliot often lives in his own little universe, telling elaborate stories with his "Star Wars" action figures and holding secret crushes on the tall girl in his class. When E.T. comes into his life, he keeps the alien secret from his family at first. It's the most extraordinary part of his little world, a fantastical friend that might as well have sprung from his dream. "E.T." so subtly takes us into the secret world of childhood, exploring the often-unspoken loneliness young boys feel and the escape that imagination can provide for them. 

That Elliot's inner life feels so fleshed-out might be because "E.T." was a deeply personal story for Spielberg. As a child, after his parents’ divorce, Spielberg created an alien imaginary friend to fill the void left by his father. This explains the undercurrent of melancholy all throughout "E.T." There's an unspoken tension in Elliot's home. His father is never on-screen, only cryptically being referred to as living in New Mexico. His mother, in an early moment, starts to cry in the shadows of the home’s darkened kitchen. Divorce is never quite addressed but it informs everything that happens. Elliot feels the absence of his father most keenly, which is what's causing his intense loneliness. Without making a movie explicitly about divorce, Spielberg still managed to capture the exact feelings it invokes in the kids who live through it.

Needing something in his life that's missing is partly why Elliot latches onto E.T. so desperately. The most underexplained element of the film is Elliot and E.T.'s psychic bond. How it's forged, how it works, and even the role it plays in the alien's eventual resurrection are never elaborated upon. It's the most spiritual aspect of the story and functions entirely on an emotional level. When you were a kid, did you ever love something so much that it became a part of you? Was there a person, a pet, a toy or anything else that you wanted, needed, so desperately that it started to live in your heart as much as anywhere else? Of course, you did. Every kid in the world went through that. This is all you need to understand why Elliot and E.T. become empathetically linked. It is the most intrinsic, intuitive element of the film.

We wouldn't understand why Elliot loves E.T. so much if the character wasn't appealing to the audience as well. Arising out of the unused designs Rick Baker created for "Night Skies," Italian effects master Carlo Rambaldi would perfect the character's appearance. E.T., as a visual effect, walks a very careful line. The design, in a slightly different light, would be creepy. His body is squat, his skin wrinkly and hairless, arms and neck gangly. When combined with a muted, earthy coloration, it brings some sort of deflated organ to mind. The arched brows, pig-like nose and slopping, lipless mouth is similarly odd. Yet it all comes together to create something charming. Part of this is in the character's warm blue eyes and its soft smile. A lot of it has to do with how E.T., created through a combination of advanced puppetry and short actors in suits, moves. He waddles around, in a way that's clearly harmless. His movements are slow and considered, thought and care being put into every motion he makes. E.T.'s design, like a pug, straddles the line between ugly and cute. Yet everything about how he acts projects no malevolent intent at all. The audience finds the awkward little alien exactly as charming and lovable as the characters do. 

Throughout his early films, Spielberg displayed an ability to put awe-inspiring images on-screen. Sometimes this was in service of creating terror, in the form of a thundering truck or attacking shark. Other times, it was to create a stunning feeling of the otherworldly, when faced with a massive alien spaceship or the literal light of God. In "E.T.," that instinct move towards the emotion we perhaps most associate with Spielberg: Child-like whimsy. Among E.T.'s array of unearthly abilities is telekinesis. He levitates balls into the air, to make it clear that he's from another planet. Obviously, this pays off in the scene where he takes Elliot and his bike on a ride through the moonlit sky. It's a moment so indelible, so universally dream-like, that it immediately became iconic. Hasn't every kid dreamed of flying? Yet even the smaller moments in "E.T." are packed with this sense of wonder. When E.T. first talks, in his distinctive little croak, or the effervescent joy of sneaking the alien out on Halloween, the movie also captures the thrill and magic of being a child and still being able to experience something new. 

In the forty years since "E.T.'s" release, a term – maybe you'd even call it a subgenre – has started to crystallize. That would be the "kids on bikes" adventures, stories that combine coming-of-age drama and comedy with a feeling of nostalgia and usually extraordinarily elements of fantasy or danger. Obviously, this concept would not exist without "E.T." The film's last act is quite literally devoted to kids on their bikes, having an adventure full of danger and enchantment. And it's easy to see why this sequence would influence so many stories that came afterwards. With all the precision staging and editing that he showed off in "Duel" and "Raiders of the Lost Ark," Spielberg creates an impressively tense, exciting, and coordinated chase scene. Individual moments, of a bike sailing over a cop car and landing on the concrete with a thud, are so perfectly cut. When Elliot and his gang of buddies fly over the police barricade, it shouldn't be such a huge moment. We already know E.T. can make bikes float. Yet it's so well executed that it becomes another massively crowd-pleasing pay-off. Even if this film couldn't be more different if it did feature Indiana Jones or a giant shark, Spielberg's ability to engineer a mouth-dropping action scene remains intact. 

That climatic moment also represents the perfect conclusion to Elliot's journey. He's gone from flying through the sky with just his alien best friend to doing it with a whole crowd of people. E.T. has helped him grow from a lonely kid to a young adventurer. While this simple coming-of-age arc is perhaps the film's most potent theme, it's not the only one people have sought to read into this story. Some see a messianic element to the narrative. E.T. comes from the stars. He can heal with a touch, gathers a group of followers, and is persecuted by the state. The visitor then dies before being wondrously resurrected. His time on Earth ends with him ascending back up into the heavens, though his message – that he lives in our hearts – will always stay with the people whose life he's touched. The film undeniably seems to be courting this Christ-like subtext at times, in images like E.T. glowing while wrapped in a white robe. Or the main poster, which intentionally invoked Michelangelo's "Creation of Adam." Spielberg, who is very Jewish after all, has always denied this reading. Yet it speaks to the spiritual emotions the film summons that observing an element like this in a children's movie about a goofy looking alien doesn't come off like a joke. 

Whether you see "E.T." as a Christ parable or a simply a story about growing up, the movie is shot in such a way as to support both ideas. Cinematographer Allen Daviau fills the screen with images of light reflecting down from on-high. Sometimes this is from the lights of E.T.'s ship floating in the darkness or a picturesque sunset on an October evening. Sometimes it's simply from the lamp Elliot is using to warm up a thermometer, to convince his mom he's sick. Either way, it invokes feelings of looking up at the night sky, at the stars, and feeling like something is shining back down at you. Daciau conveys the youthful perspective of Elliot and his siblings by often shooting scenes from a low angle. We see escaped frogs hop away from a school at feet-level. Often, the camera looks up at the story's adults or even the little alien, how a child would. Like all great movies, the themes and ideas "E.T." is about are baked into the very way the movie looks.

While you can most clearly see Spielberg's hallmarks in the film's narrative of a broken family or the miraculous intervening on a mundane life, "E.T." continues the director's uncertain relationship with authority figures. The government enforcers in "E.T." are perceived the same way a kid would. One assumes they seek to study the alien to make sure he's not spreading any extraterrestrial germs to the human population. Yet the kids don't understand that. They just see anonymous people breaking into their home to steal their best friend away. That's why the scene of the agents, in face-concealing astronaut suits, breaking into the home is shot like a horror film. The doctors who attempt to resuscitate the unconscious E.T. seem unfeeling, untouched by the wonder of seeing a real-life alien. As much as the movie paints the government as an intimidating, unsympathetic force, there's also a friendly voice among the scientist. The mission to capture E.T. is led by Keys, a man who admits that he has dreamed of meeting otherworldly life since his own childhood. One imagines he was a lonely kid very much like Elliot. He ultimately helps the boy. "E.T." continues the same thesis that occurred through "Sugarland Express," "Jaws," and "Close Encounters:" That the system is cold and distant, maybe even corrupt, but that individuals within seek to do the right thing. 

One of the big questions I found myself asking during this re-watch of "E.T." is: How the hell did Spielberg get such great performances out of these kids? Henry Thomas gives a truly extraordinary experience. He never mugs or comes off as flat. He seems utterly in-tune with the story's emotional needs, while appearing totally natural in the part. The sequence where he tells the unconscious E.T. that he's going to think about him every day for the rest of his life is the best acting I've ever seen out of a young actor. Drew Barrymore, as younger sister Gertie, is adorable and energetic. Robert MacNaughton, as older brother Michael, strikes the ideal balance between teasing his siblings and clearly caring about them. Spielberg cultivated a family-like atmosphere with the kids, which is probably how he managed to direct their chaotic youthful energies into such committed performances.

The grown-ups do a good job too. Dee Wallace, already a veteran of genre films like “The Hills Have Eyes” and “The Howling,” plays the kids' mother as someone who clearly loves her children dearly while quietly struggling with her own pain. It's meaningful that the film never makes the parents clueless or neglectful, clearly showing that she's still doing her best. Peter Coyote, as Keys, projects a calm and reassuring voice as the sole scientist who seems to understand Elliot's connection with E.T. He stands in contrast to the faceless collection of government agents that appear in the film's last third.

Another indispensable element in “E.T.'s” success is another immediately iconic score from John Williams. The Flying Theme has a sweeping, playful melody that conveys a youthful exuberance, a sense of adventure and wonderment. Its striking string section recalling the spinning wheels of a bicycle. Other moments of the score, such as the impressively quiet opening scene, provides feelings of isolation and mystery but also curiosity. Yet other moments are full of bombast, such as the closing melody that ends the film on a feeling of triumphant but also overwhelming emotions. This captures everything the characters are experiencing in that moment, transferring it right to the viewer. It's impossible to separate “E.T.” from Williams' score and one would not be anywhere near as successful without the other.  

In the pantheon of director's cuts or alternate versions of Spielberg's various films, most are fairly well regarded... With the 20th anniversary edition of “E.T.” being a notable exception. You'd think Steve would've known better too, considering the critical pummeling that greeted his buddy George's “Special Editions” of the “Star Wars” trilogy. While nothing in the re-release of “E.T.” is half as bad as the CGI tinkering Lucas made to his sci-fi classics, it's still an inferior version. Changing shotguns out for walkie-talkies somehow became the most notorious alteration, which is so odd to me. The CGI version of E.T. that replaces the original puppet in several scenes is far more distracting. The movie is great in any form but the anniversary edition of “E.T.” is inessential, to say the least. Unlike Lucas, Spielberg learned his lesson and has more-or-less buried that cut in recent years. The original 1982 version of “E.T.” is the widely available print now, while the altered cut can only be found on old DVD releases. 

That is, after all, the “E.T.” that became a massive success in 1982. Spielberg pulled off another extraordinary feat here. “E.T. The Extra-Terrestrial” wasn't only a huge box office hit. It wasn't even just the biggest hit of that year. Spielberg's story of a boy and his alien friend was, for a brief period, the highest grossing film of all time. Naturally, that brought with it a hurricane of merchandise. There was novelizations, cereal, tie-ins with Reese's Pieces, a record album, a Neil Diamond song, a notorious video game, and more toys than you can shake a glowing finger at. Yet you can tell that this film, no matter how commercial it might be, remains highly personal to its filmmaker. Aside from a beloved amusement park ride and a brief cameo or two, Spielberg has never brought himself to go through with a proper sequel. This, I am certain, is for the best. “E.T. The Extraterrestrial” stands on its own as a touching, beautifully made motion picture. [Grade: A]

Director Report Card: Paul Thomas Anderson (2021)

9. Licorice Pizza

Paul Thomas Anderson's films aren't exactly a stranger to controversy. The frank and explicit depiction of the seventies porn industry in "Boogie Nights" attracted some sideway glances at the time. As did the subplot in "Magnolia" depicting misogynistic, pick-up-artist seminars. But it's not like anyone was outraged by the content of "Punch-Drunk Love" or "Inherent Vice." Yet Anderson's most recent film has, surprisingly, been his most hotly debated. Not because "Licorice Pizza," a nostalgic hang-out movie loosely inspired by Anderson's own adolescence, is especially graphic or inflammatory. It's because the film revolves around a quasi-romance between a teenage boy and a twenty-five year old woman. This seems like a pretty silly thing to get upset about to me but, now that I've seen the film, I can say it is. Because this film is a lot more than just that. 

Gary Valentine is an unusually ambitious fifteen year old boy, growing up in the San Fernando Valley in the early 1970s. While she’s working as a photography assistant at his high school, he meets Alana Kane, a twenty-five year old woman from a large Jewish family. Gary is immediately smitten with Alana and attempts to seduce her. The two form an odd friendship after Gary, who has had a little success as a child actor, asks Alana to accompany him to New York. After returning to the Valley, Gary and Alana start a waterbed business together. This leads them on a number of misadventures together, their different perspectives on the world leading them to get closer and further apart. 

Paul Thomas Anderson grew up in the San Fernando Valley. Anderson would take this love for his childhood home and combine it with the memories of former child actor and producer Gary Goetzman to create “Licorice Pizza.” Fitting this backstory, the film is a largely episodic but extremely specific recollection of life in this place and this time. The early seventies fashions, fads, and styles are painstakingly replicates. The interiors of the homes are characterized by mustard yellow wallpaper, wood paneling, and teal phones. High-waisted pants, mini-skirts, garishly colored buttoned-up shirts are the fashion of the day. The cars are all very specific models. Real people and places, like the Cock O’ the Tail restaurant or city councilman candidate Joel Wachs, weave in and out of the story. I never lived through the seventies but “Licorice Pizza” sure made me feel like I was there. 

And it’s not just the superficial details of the time period that Anderson faithfully recreates. The 1973 gas crisis is an important plot point and the politics of the day are referenced many times. Yet, more than anything else, the film transports the viewing because of how it looks. Anderson and D.P. Michael Bauman shot the movie on 35mm film while utilizing older camera lens. This creates a film with a deeper, grittier visual texture to it that matches the way actual movies made in 1973 looked. You see this in the way the actors look too. The teens have actual acne. They have blemishes, their hair curly and skin sticky from the California heat. Great pain was taken to recreate not just the look but also the feel of Anderson’s childhood.

As eager as I am to call “Licorice Pizza” a movie about the early seventies, it is best described as a coming-of-age story about two young people at very different points in their lives. Gary Valentine is an irrepressibly horny fifteen year old boy. He thinks about girls and sex all the time. This might be why he’s eager to grow up, pursuing business opportunities that hover uncomfortably between real self-made jobs and get-rich-quick con schemes. Alana Kane, meanwhile, is in her twenties, unemployed and still living at home. She is still easily charmed by handsome, older men smiling at her. She gets high too often and spends most of her days just hanging out. She’s self-aware enough to ask if it’s weird that she spends so much time with teenagers, but is still desperately trying to find her own place in the world. Here we have a romance between an incredibly immature boy who wants the freedom and power of adulthood and a young woman trying to hold onto the carefree days of her early youth.

The film is definitely aware of the problems that are created between Gary and Alana because of their differences in age. (Making the outrage over the gap in their relationship all the more ridiculous.) And it’s not like the two are ever really dating throughout the movie. Gary thinks Alana is hot and obtainable. Alana is intrigued by the ambitious boy and gets sucked up in his elaborate swindles. Yet she pursues other guys, frequently more outwardly charming or mature men, making Gary feel jealous and impotent. Sometimes, she’ll even intentionally do this shit to make him jealous, showing her own immaturity. They have a flirtatious relationship characterized as much by trivial bickering and petty resentment as mutual curiosity. Any middle ground they find between their different life goals is destined to be short lived. To say “Licorice Pizza” supports the idea of women in their twenties dating teenage boys deliberately ignores that the film repeatedly shows why these two are ultimately not a good fit for each other.

Starring as Gary Valentine, is Cooper Hoffman, the son of Anderson's late frequent collaborator Phillip Seymour Hoffman. Cooper shows an easy-going and natural charm that makes it hard to believe this is his first ever movie role. But it's hard not to be charmed by a character like Gary Valentine. He's sleazy, perpetually attempting to get sexual favors from any attractive female around him, and sometimes tricking people into helping him. Yet you can't help but be impressed by a young kid who is able to pull off semi-legitimate businesses, seemingly overnight finding the money to open a waterbed store or a pinball arcade. When he sees opportunity, he eagerly leaps at it. No matter how much of a youthful swindler Gary comes off as, he's also just a vulnerable kid who sometimes can barely conceal his hurt feelings. He's extraordinary and totally typical in equal measure, a relatable mixture that Hoffman beautifully pulls off. 

Another relative non-actor was cast in the other lead role of the film. Since 2017, Paul Thomas Anderson has directed nine music videos for the indie pop group Haim. The Haim sisters also grew up in the San Fernando Valley, which allowed them to forge a friendship with Anderson. So it's unsurprising that all of the sisters, along with their mom and dad, would end up in “Licorice Pizza.” Alana Haim, the youngest of the three, stars as Alana. Much like Cooper Hoffman, she also looks like a real person, with imperfect skin and what is described in the film as a “very Jewish nose.” She gives a similarly naturalistic performance, playing an impulsive but conflicted young woman that generates a relaxed, low-key type of sexiness. It's easy to see why Gary would be immediately captivated by her, as she radiates with both an accessible girl-next-door energy and a quirky charm all her own.

Alana, and the movie around her, is also acutely aware of the sexual politics of the 1970s. All throughout the film, Alana catches the attention of various men. Gary is immediately crushed on her. His more traditionally handsome co-star Lance flirts with her the minute he sees her. After trying out acting on her own, Alana meets movie star Jack Holden – based on William Holden – and he's quickly interested in her. Late in the movie, an unhinged Jon Peters aggressively hits on her and touches her. Sometimes, Alana appreciates this attention. She's charmed by Holden and Lance. Sometimes, it disgusts her, as Peters and Gary's repeated request for a hand job do. Each time, Alana finds her actual thoughts and feelings being ignored by men who see her as a means to an end. Holden never remembers her real name and discards her the minute he no longer needs a young woman to hold. Alana is frequently frustrated by Gary's inconsiderate treatment of her. After developing a crush on Joel Wachs, she soon learns he just wants her to be his beard. She's tired of always being a prop in a man's story, instead of being treated like a real human being with a complicated personality. This represents the seventies as a time when sexuality freedom was trumpeted but often at the expense of women's actual feelings. Even the other women in the movie, like a female casting agent, see Alana as something she's not, as merely a reflection of her own experiences.

“Licorice Pizza” is a movie that has a lot on its mind but that doesn't keep it from being frequently hilarious. The episodic story structure allows for a number of encounters with the colorful, bizarre figures you meet on the fringe of the entertainment industry. Such as Alana's day-long fling with Jack Holden, played by a nearly unrecognizable Sean Penn, a movie star so enamored of his own persona that he frequently can't seem to tell the difference between his real life and his fictional roles. This sequence – which also features Tom Waits as a foppish movie director – escalates to a ridiculously dangerous stunt involving a motorcycle, a golf course, and a pile of burning chairs. The real scene-stealer in the film is Bradley Cooper as an utterly unhinged, probably completely coked-up Jon Peters. Peters rampages through the center of the film, his insane acts creating lots of laughs while also seeming genuinely dangerous. Cooper unfurls reams of rapid-fire dialogue and swaggers with a crazed machismo that truly must be seen to be believed. (And seems to be a barely exaggerated portrayal of a larger-than-life figure.)

Stand-out performances like these are paired with some stunning filmmaking. The lengthy Peters episode also includes an incredible sequence where Alana steers a huge truck, totally out of gas, down a steep hill and through traffic that could easily compete with the excitement found in any of last year's best action movies. Anderson includes a number of reoccurring visuals that obliquely illustrates the film's themes. The first are repeated shots of characters reflected in glass or a mirror, often separated from someone by some sort of barrier. Such as when Alana and Gary get a DJ to read an ad for their waterbed store or when Gary gets briefly arrested by cops for no reason at all. This seems represents the adolescent desire to connect, to touch, another person but being held back by other forces. The other visual trademark of the film are repeated tracking shots of people running to someone else, overflowing with youthful energy as they race to be with someone they care about.

If the visuals go a long way to cementing how “Licorice Pizza” thinks and feels, it's soundtrack takes things all the way. Anderson largely scores the film with radio hits and deep cuts from the time and place. The irreverent inhabitants of a Teen Fair – which include the Adam West Batmobile and a cameo of John C. McGinley as Herman Munster – are matched with Sonny and Cher's “But You're Mine,” another irreverent icon of then-contemporary pop culture. The jungle movie drumming of Chico Hamilton's “Blue Sands” provides an uneasy energy to the scene where Gary is arrested. Bowie's elegiac and sweeping “Life on Mars?” provides the right touch to the end of one of Gary's schemes as he moves towards another. While the thumping rock swagger of the Door's “Peace Frog” energizes an earlier moment of people simply packing up. The songs are so vital to the film that there's barely any room for Jonny Greenwood's score, though he does chime in with a beautiful and simple piece of piano-driven music just when the movie's emotions need it.

Despite the prominent role music plays in the movie, the record store that lends the film its title never actually appears. Anderson chose the title because of its nostalgic association. And because its a better title than working title “Soggy Bottom,” the name of Gary's waterbed company that is derided by Alana in-film as being terrible. Ultimately, “Licorice Pizza” is another triumph from one of America's most consistently great filmmakers. Hilarious, touching, beautifully constructed and performed and with enough ambiguity to keep people talking about it forever, it's a wonderfully entertainment love letter to a bygone time and place. [Grade: A] 

Christmas 2021: December 16th

Sailor Moon S: The Movie – Hearts in Ice (1994)

I've mentioned this before but I went through a pretty big anime phase as a kid. It starred when my older sister's boyfriend brought over tapes of "Ranma 1/2" when I was probably too young to be watching them. Not long afterwards — I was in the second grade at the time — the DiC-produced English dub of "Sailor Moon's" first two seasons started to play in syndication. The show aired at six in the morning on our local WB affiliate and I would get up early every weekday just to watch it. To be frank, the leggy anime heroines awoke something in my seven-year-old soul. It's the first time I can ever remember being attracted to the female form, even though it was ink-and-pen and not flesh-and-blood. I wanted Serena or Amy or sometimes Raye and Lita (but never Mina!) to be my girlfriend, even though I didn't really understand what that meant at the time. A few years later, Cartoon Network picked up the show and began to air seasons previously unseen on American television. This included a handful of feature film spin-offs as well. Such as "Sailor Moon S: The Movie - Hearts in Ice," which just so happens to have a Christmas/winter motif. 

The plot for "Hearts in Ice" isn't actually motivated much by Sailor Moon and her teenage superhero teammates. Instead, Luna — her talking cat advisor — gets things rolling when she's rescued from traffic by Kakeru, an astronomer obsessed with the moon. He has recently discovered a comet, containing an elaborate crystal, that has fallen to Earth. The crystal is a source of power sought by an icy outer space villain, who quickly takes the name Princess Snow Kaguya. She arrives in Japan and blankets Tokyo in snow and ice, while her Snow Dancer henchwomen terrorize the populace. That's when Sailor Moon and her fellow mini-skirted superheroines leap into action to save the day.

Though animated, "Sailor Moon" drew inspiration from Japan's Super Sentai program, the series that was adapted into "Power Rangers" over here. Like "Power Rangers," "Sailor Moon" featured lots of stock footage. The audience is greeted to each of the Sailor Scouts going through their transformation sequences, becoming nude silhouettes as their uniforms appear around them. Similarly, each of the planetary-themed superheroines have special attacks, which are also shown in breathless detail. The animation grain on these scenes are obviously different from the rest of the movie, making their status as stock footage apparent. If you don't find that stuff tedious, the strictly archetypal characters may grate on you. Serene/Sailor Moon is the best fighter, despite ditziness and a love of food being her primary characteristics. Amy is the smart one, Raye is the mean one, Lita is the goofy one, and Mina is the girly one. These thin character types might actually be a benefit to the movie, since the other Sailor Scouts —  lesbian lovers "cousins" Sailor Uranus and Sailor Neptune, mysterious Sailor Pluto and Serena's daughter from the future, along with the movie exclusive characters — are also here, occupying a runtime that's only a little over an hour. It all flows smoother when you can pinpoint who these characters are quickly. 

This kind of excessively girly, highly marketable, really goofy nonsense will not be for everyone. It's definitely not entirely for me, as I found stretches of "Hearts in Ice" pretty tedious. Yet, at its best moments, this is delightfully insane kiddy entertainment. I mentioned that Luna, a talking housecat, motivates the plot. What I didn't mention is that she develops a crush on Kakeru, actively lamenting throughout the film that they can never be lovers because he's a human and she's a cat. In addition to being the object of desire of a cat, Kakeru is also a lunatic. He believes fairy tales are literally true, that the Story of Princess Kaguya means there's literally a magical princess living on the moon. When his smoking hot astronaut girlfriend, about to become the first Japanese woman to go into space, tells him this is childish nonsense, he breaks up with her. Of course, they kiss and make-up by the end. And you're just left to wonder what other insane bullshit this guy believes in, that's going to threaten this relationship. 

Part of why "Sailor Moon" was so popular on both sides of the ocean is that it appealed to both boys and girls. Girls loved the romance and the strong female characters. Boys loved the sexy character designs and ridiculous action. "Hearts in Ice" has plenty of both.  There's a number of sappy scenes involving Serena and her boyfriend Darian, who is also the hero Tuxedo Mask, as well as Luna and Kakeru's subplot. The villainess shows off lots of cleavage and acts in a cartoonishly evil manner. But I do wish the action was a little more consistent here. Princess Snow Kaguya's "Snow Dancer" henchwomen make a very annoying trilling noise all throughout the movie. The villain is ultimately defeated via very corny aphorisms about friendship and true love. Overall, "Hearts in Ice" is a little too heavy on magical plot devices and superpowered weapons to be totally satisfying. 

Part of why I maybe didn't enjoy "Hearts in Ice" more is my own thought. For nostalgia's sake, I tracked down the old Pioneer dub of the movie to watch. This was mostly composed of the same cast I heard on the DiC dub as a kid, so I figured I'd get a kick out of hearing these old voices again. That's why I used the name Serena, instead of Usagi, throughout this review. Yet this dub isn't very good, the voices mostly largely being grating and annoying. I probably should've watched the subtitled edition instead. This is what I get for giving into nostalgia. Either way, there is an undeniable kookiness to "Sailor Moon S: The Movie" that makes it an entertaining film. By the way, the sole Christmas element here is a cameo from Santa Claus, though the winter element still makes it suitable December viewing. [6/10]

Sealab 2021: Feast of Alvis

Of all the early Adult Swim programming, "Sealab 2021" was somehow the most inexplicable to me. The Hanna Barbera superhero shows, which set the foundation for "Space Ghost: Coast to Coast" and "Harvey Birdman," were fairly well remembered. (And not just because Cartoon Network showed them a lot in the nineties.) And "Aqua Teen Hunger Force" was pure surrealism. But who the hell remembered "Sealab 2020," an animated mash-up of "Voyage to the Bottom of the Sea" and "Star Trek" that ran for all of 13 episodes in 1972? Someone at Williams Street sure did and they used that forgotten flop as the basis for the strangest workplace comedy ever aired. And since the year 2021 is now nearly the past, it seems fitting to revisit the program this holiday season.

Unsurprisingly, "Sealab 2021" puts an aggressively nonsensical spin on the aforementioned holiday season. Captain Murphy regales us with the story of Alvis Tide. That would be a winter holiday commemorating the birth of the hard-drinking, vengeance-seeking, gun-toting, ham-loving savior Alvis. Murphy is trying to put on a proper Alvis pageant but problems ensue. Safety inspector repeatedly interrupt, to point out the clear ways Murphy's actions are endangering people. Mostly, the other Sealab crew, namely Debbie and Dr. Quinn, proceed to criticize Murphy for his cultural insensitivity to the non-Alvist members aboard the vessal. But a miracle soon occurs.

One of the things I most admire about “Sealab” is how hard it would always commit to the bit. In “Feast of Alvis,” the show creates an incredibly in-depth parody of mainstream religion. The episode begins with a twisted perversion of the Nativity story, in which Mary is traded out for Delia, a “comely” young maiden that arrives with a group of young men. (None of whom claim to be the father of her child.) Bethlehem is switched out for a frontier military fort, the heavenly star with a glorious white comet, and the Three Wise Men with shamans from the local Native American tribe. (Who are not referred with such politically correct terms.) This bizarre spoof extends to other religions. There are references to “Krebs,” who celebrate an eight night festival and include Alvis themselves, as well as “Shiekrahs,” who fast for a whole month. It seems most major religions, and even wicca, receive absurdist revisions here.

The best thing about how this bizarre world-building is handled is how natural it is. Like all Adult Swim shows, “Sealab 2021” was extremely low budget. Its character models were recycled from the original show. Most of the animated here is devoted to the cast talking. Yet this is hardly a loss, as listening to these characters bicker about this ridiculous nonsense in a deadpan fashion is often hilarious. “Sealab 2021” knows to keep the absurdity constantly rising too. A buffalo, fires, and microscopic fecal matter all put in appearances. That's before the miraculous conclusion too. This kind of circular silliness may not be to everyone's liking but humor is subjective, of course. For me, “Feast of Alvis” is exactly the right kind of yuletide nonsense to tickle my funny bone. [8/10]

Director Report Card: Quentin Tarantino (2019)

9. Once Upon a Time... In Hollywood

In the year 2019, Quentin Tarantino was still, somehow, a controversial filmmaker. Of course, the reasons for why have shifted along with our general cultural woes. The violence in his movies is shrug worthy and the use of racial epitaphs is begrudgingly accepted. Instead, the fallout of Harvey Weinstein's #MeToo moment wouldn't leave Tarantino totally unaffected. Mostly, it's was news that his latest movie, “Once Upon a Time... In Hollywood,” was going to grapple with the historical death of Sharon Tate by the infamous Manson Family that caused concern. The film was even originally intended to be released on the 50th anniversary of the killings. There was plenty of worry that the famously acerbic filmmaker might not handle this real life tragedy with the amount of sensitivity it deserves. While these controversies, among others, have continued to follow the film to some degree, “Once Upon a Time in Hollywood” has largely been enthusiastically received by most critics, fans, and filmgoers.

Rick Dalton once had a hit TV show, starring on popular western “Bounty Law.” But now it's 1969 and the only thing he has to look forward to is a revolving door of guest spots on shows starring younger, hotter, more upwardly mobile actors. His ego takes its greatest hit when his agent suggest he star in Italian films, which Rick thinks of as hitting rock bottom. Mostly, Rick spends his days drinking too much, hanging out with his best buddy and former stuntman Cliff, and preparing for the next guest spot... And lusting after the life of glamour and success his new next door neighbors, Roman Polanski and Sharon Tate, experience. Unbeknownst to Rick and Cliff, a sinister family has plans of their own for the Polanski household, history the two men will be wrapped up in.

From the fairy tale-evoking title on down, “Once Upon a Time in Hollywood” is a film awash in memories and fantasies. The film takes us inside its protagonists' heads on more than one occasion. We see Cliff's recollection of the events leading up to his wife's death or how a fight with Bruce Lee got him fired from a stunt gig... And these memories clearly favor his side of things, in the way memories tend to. There are flashbacks within flashbacks. When it's mentioned to Rick Dalton that he nearly got the Steve McQueen part in “The Great Escape,” we are treated to a fantasy sequence depicting him in that role, created by seamlessly inserting Leonardo DiCaprio into the classic film. Tarantino then directly draws a line between these mental imaginings with movies – both the ones that actually exist and the ones that were created for this film – by shooting them in a similar style. Because movies reflect our dreams and aspirations too, making “Once Upon a Time in Hollywood” the latest in Tarnatino's lines of films about the power of films.

This dream-like, nostalgic approach extends to the way the movie is shot. Tarantino often shoots from a heavenly angle, looking down on his characters in the distance. During a lengthy visit to the Playboy Mansion, we often assume the perspective of an outsider (who just happens to be Steve McQueen) looking in at these young, beautiful people living it up. Rick himself is sometimes that outsider too, admiring the Polanski/Tate household from afar. This is even evident in the voyeuristic moments of Cliff admiring the comely hippy chicks from his car seat. Or the Manson Family spying on people from afar. The visual language of “Once Upon a Time in Hollywood” is that of a memory, something recalled but not actually happening right now. It becomes especially dream-like in the final moments, when Rick finally receives the acceptance he's been longing for and ascends up into Hollywood heaven. What could be more fitting for a nostalgic love letter to a bygone era?

Tarantino comes in close on his performers often, of course. Most importantly, he fills the screen with his actors' faces and bodies (And, of course, their feet. Because “Once Upon a Time in Hollywood” is a film hopelessly defined by its director's fetishes.) when they are in an important act: Watching movies and television. A key sequence involves Sharon Tate going to see herself in the Dean Martin/Matt Helm flick, “The Wrecking Crew.” We see the joy on her face as she experiences the dream of seeing herself up on that big, glowing screen. She watches the audience as much as she watches herself, getting high on the joy she feels from their joy at enjoying her. Later, we see Rick and Cliff enact a smaller screen version of this, as they watch Rick on “The F.B.I.” at home. They ideally chit-chat as they watch, the audience becoming privy to their casual thoughts. If these movies and TV shows are dreams, projected big or small, there's nothing more surreal or fulfilling than watching them come to life.

And, sometimes, “Once Upon a Time in Hollywood” lets us live that dream too. The film often takes us inside the cinematic world. We see the grindhouse war flick Rick stars in, with its shaky camera work and crash-zooms. The brief glimpses we get at “Bounty Law,” in clean black-and-white with sanitary angles, is a perfect recreation of shows like “The Rifleman” or “Wanted: Dead or Alive.” During his guest role as a villain-of-the-week on a new western, “Once Upon a Time in Hollywood” adopts its most cinematic feeling. Honestly, the intimate angles, atmospheric lighting, and slowly prowling camera movements seem uncharacteristic for late sixties television.   Clearly, this is how Rick is experiencing this challenging shoot: As an elaborate and intense event.

As much as “Once Upon a Time in Hollywood” is a story of fame and the magic of movies, it is also a self-reflective commentary on the modern world. Rick and Cliff are two toxic men struggling with their upcoming obsolescence. Cliff probably killed his ex-wife, the kind of Hollywood gossip you imagine a fanboy like Tarantino lives for. Rick, meanwhile, heaps scorn on hippies. The world is changing and both men can feel it in their bones. They know they'll have no place in the reorganizing universe. This anxiety is mirrored in the story, where the legendary bro-mance Rick and Cliff share is soon coming-to-an-end as well. It's the end of the sixties too, the impending Manson murders representing a national shift-of-perspective too. Ultimately, “Once Upon a Time in Hollywood” is a last hurrah for this kind of outdated perspective, giving the tough guys – endearing but screwed-up – one last chance to be heroes before the world changes forever. The future belongs to little Trudi Fraser, with her method acting, not to burned-out dudes like Rick Dalton.

But, more than any of that, “Once Upon a Time in Hollywood” is an intentionally shaggy hang-out movie. Long stretches of the film are devoted to just watching Rick and Cliff go about their days. There are long scenes of Cliff driving his car, weaving in and out of traffic. We watch him go about his business in his trailer home, stirring up some mac-n-cheese and feeding his dog. (A delightful dog, a beautiful pitbull named Brandy that is a very good girl indeed.) We see Rick mix up drinks and hang out in his pool. We are privy to their light-hearted conversation as they hang out and drink too much. And, ya know what? It's totally engrossing. Tarantino's movies have always luxuriated in spending time with his characters, always enjoyed their company. Now, he's made a movie largely devoted to just that. And, being a master of dialogue and crafting finely detailed worlds, it's absolutely captivating.

That detail is important. The world of “Once Upon a Time in Hollywood” is just as invented as the samurai movie/comic book playground of “Kill Bill” or the blaxploitation-influenced western universe of “Django Unchained.” Only this time, Tarantino is building an entire world on the pop culture ephemera of the late sixties. The director's specifically chosen soundtrack this time ushers largely from the radios and record players the characters listen to throughout their day. And it's not just music either, as we hear radio spots and advertisements over the airwaves too. Movie posters, real and invented, pepper the background. Magazine covers, commercial artwork, TV episodes and intros, and architectures of movie theaters and fast food restaurants fill the film. “Once Upon a Time in Hollywood” builds an entire universe around the most forgotten pieces of the past. This creation even extends into the end credits, when we see Rick Dalton cut a promo for Tarantino's fictional Red Apple cigarette brand or hear real radio spots from back in the day over the credits.

It's not just a world of idyll pleasures. There's a quiet sense of tension rumbling under the surface all throughout “Once Upon a Time in Hollywood.” As soon as the Manson Family is introduced, the audience feels ill at ease. We, as outside observers well aware of history, know exactly what their presence means. The camera work becomes askew as we see them dumpster-diving. Later, this tension boils up to the surface as Cliff visits the infamous Spahn Ranch. In a drawn out sequence, we feel the sense of danger grow and grow as Cliff roams through the isolated area, surrounded by people we know are capable of harming him... Which he proceeds to make more nervous, more agitated. At that point, the tension becomes almost unbearable. The filmmaker knowingly uses our knowledge of history against us, ramping up the tension to create a splintering mini-thriller in the middle of his Hollywood hang-out movie.

Of course, the swerve is coming. Tarantino is, after all, the director that killed Hitler at the end of his World War II epic. We can assume that some twist, some sting in the scorpion's tail, is coming concerning the infamous Manson Family murders. Yet the sheer irrelevant ferocity with which “Once Upon a Time in Hollywood” attacks the facts is delightfully startling. In its last third, the film shifts into an act of alternative history, Tex, Sadie, and Katie deciding to target Rick Dalton instead. From there, the film explodes into a hysterical shock comedy, deploying increasingly violent – outrageous, gory, cartoonish – retribution against the real life murderers. The camera spins in frenzied ways, the soundtrack swells, and the audience is encouraged to hoot and cheer as the good guys, who really aren't all that good, rain glorious, holy hellfire down on the historical villains. It's amazing.

Tarantino's frenzied fictional payback on real life killers has a deeper purpose, other than providing a giddily joyful conclusion to his movie. Having Cliff Booth and Rick Dalton pay evil onto evil with the Manson Family isn't just an amusingly childish act of fictionalized wish fulfillment. Tarantino is re-writing history and giving us the better version of reality. When a still tripping balls Cliff recounts events to the police, he mangles Tex Watson's infamous “I am the Devil” line. Thus, in the world of the film, nobody remembers the Manson Family (attempted) murderers. The killers are denied their infamy, their cultural legacy. The power is taken away from them. If movies are dreams, and this movie is a dream too, then we get to experience the happy ending that reality denied us. (This approach is also evident in the way Tarantino gives Manson himself only a minor role, the cult leader appearing in one brief scene. The film is not interested in adding to the pop culture cult of Charles Manson.)

After “Django Unchained,” Leonardo DiCaprio is now an established part of Tarantino's troupe of actors, which he even refers to as “The Gang” in the end credits. (That Leo is a genuine star that can get movies greenlit probably doesn't hurt.) If Calvin Candy was a childish fraud hiding behind a carefully cultivated image of power, Rick Dalton's true persona is not so easily hidden. He shows a clear stutter during every day conversation. He meticulously memorizes his lines in order to cover up the condition while filming. During his daily life, his insecurities are more evident. He's a neurotic mess, drinking way too much and always puffing cigarettes in an attempt to dull the pain he feels every day. This doesn't do much to keep his discomfort with his own imperfections from boiling over, such as in the volatile meltdown in his trailer after forgetting his lines on-set. Dalton spends the whole movie looking for acceptance, for that fleeting feeling of satisfaction. DiCaprio brilliantly inhabits every twitch and squint, sacrificing all his movie star glamour in the part of an almost has-been struggling to maintain his self-imposed dignity.

As electric as DiCaprio is, the film's most impressive performance is from Brad Pitt as Cliff Booth. Cliff is not a good man, his macho bravado and casual attitude towards murder clearly painting him as the worst of what the film's heroes represent. (That Cliff killed his wife and then delivers extreme violence against women in the movie's climax is pretty clearly QT deliberately fucking with our moral compass.) He's also kind of a loser, a tough guy reduced to his more famous friend's errand boy. Despite, or maybe because of that, Brad Pitt is called in to deliver all his charm. And, boy, does he succeed. Looking like a sun-baked god, Pitt works all his movie star charm to create a character you truly want to hang out with. Cliff might be a good ol' boy scumbag but you also bet he's a lot of fun. Pitt's laconic, smooth appeal is directly responsible for that.

The two lead an extraordinary cast, of course. Margot Robbie's lack of dialogue as Sharon Tate was much contested at the time of release, though ultimately a silly issue. Robbie is the film's source of light, playing Tate as an effervescent angel that makes every room she walks into brighter. No wonder several of the film's characters are in varying shades of love with her. Margaret Qualley is enticing in a whole different way as Pussycat, the Masonite that nearly seduces Cliff. A ball of manic, sexual, and ultimately unhinged energy, she is probably the film's best discovery. Al Pacino gets a colorful bit part as the enthusiastic agent attempting to rescue Dalton's career. The film is peppered with icons of the time, with Mike Moh's pitch perfect impersonation of Bruce Lee being the most notable. When not doing that, Tarantino peppers the cast with his favorite performers and cult icons, filling the margins with Kurt Russell, Luke Perry, Zoe Bell, Michael Madsen, James Remar, Martin Kove, Bruce Dern and Danielle Harris. (And, in an oddball in-joke either about the film's themes of a new generation replacing the old or its atmosphere of Hollywood legacy, a number of children of famous performers are present. Rumer Willis, Maya Hawke, and Harley Quinn Smith all have bit parts.)

In other words, “Once Upon a Time in Hollywood” is a triumph. It is not Tarantino's most energetic, touching, powerful, or exhilarating film. However, it is surely among the director's most likable. Another love letter to cinema from that great lover of cinema, the film is a richly constructed story full of lovable characters that the audience can't wait to spend more time with. Though it would weather its own controversy – the accuracy of the depiction of Bruce Lee seemed to be the main one, which largely ignored the self-serving fantasy structure of that sequence anyway – I was happy to see Tarantino continue to make his own special brand of art. Yeah, it's self-indulgent. But, whatever. The filmmaker and his characters would certainly never apologize for what they like. I don't intend to either. [Grade: A]

Halloween 2019: October 27th

Willard (1971)

In many ways, “Willard” seems like a genuine Forgotbuster. Released in summer of 1971 – back before summer was the destination for big budget blockbusters – the film became a surprise hit. The significant box office success of this killer rat thriller led to the animal horror wave of the seventies, spawning “Jaws” and indirectly changing Hollywood cinema forever. Despite that, “Willard” didn't seem to make much of a lasting impression on pop culture. The original film was unavailable on DVD for a very long time, only receiving a proper release a few years back. That certainly contributed to this movie, once a mainstream success, being forgotten by the general public.

Willard Stiles is 27 years old. He lives with his melodramatic, domineering mother in the crumbling home she bought with his late father. At his office job, he's frequently humiliated by Mr. Martin, his boss and his father's former partner. Willard is meek, pushed around, and lonely. One day, his mother instructs him to kill the rats living in the backyard. Instead, he takes pity on the animals and befriends them. He starts to train the rats and forms a special bond with a little white rat that he names Socrates. Also among the rodents is another intelligent rat named Ben. Willard uses the rats to take petty revenge on his tormentors but, after Mr. Martin kills Socrates, the young man's fury turns murderous.

“Willard” might've terrified audiences in 1971 but it comes across as hokey today. Many of the characters are exaggerated figures. Willard's mother is not the bitter old woman she was in “Ratman's Notebooks,” Stephen Gilbert's source novel, but a goofy drama queen who manipulates her son in obvious ways. She constantly invites her equally old friends over, Aunt Charlotte being even more obnoxiously histrionic. Alex North's musical score is unusually prosaic. A scene where Willard sics his rats on Mr. Martin's birthday party is more humorous than scary, the mere appearance of the rats driving the guests into a frenzy. When Willard finally takes his revenge on Martin, the tension is somewhat undermined by rats falling down on Ernest Borgnine in such a way that you know, just off-screen, some P.A. was throwing them at him. It's only during the very end, when Ben turns the tables on Willard, that Daniel Mann's direction gets sufficiently moody.

While more-or-less failing as a horror movie, “Willard” is more interesting as a study of outsiderdom. Pathetic, frustrated Willard is belittled by life. The film makes him more sympathetic than the unnamed protagonist of Gilbert's book, who does many bad deeds. Yet once Willard receives a degree of power, with a huge colony of rats depending on him, he abuses it. With the exception of Socrates, Ben and all the other rats are excluded from his house, confined to the dark cellar. A pivotal scene has him yelling in anger at the rodent filled basement. He even picks Ben up and tosses him away, at one point. If the toxicity of modern nerd culture has taught us anything, it's that those who have been excluded their whole lives are eager to start excluding others. When Ben takes his bloody revenge, it's the cycle of abuse starting anew.

The film is, if nothing else, well acted. Bruce Davidson is compelling as Willard. When he has to play off his mother's smothering or his boss' condescension, you really feel for the guy. The genuine joy he feels when playing with his rats is equally apparent. His agony at Socrates' death, and the righteous fury he delivers back at Martin, are well conveyed. As Martin, Ernest Borgnine is perfectly hateable as the bullying boss. The scene where he unexpectedly drops a homophobic slur is especially effective. Sandra Locke appears as the office girl Willard forms a romance with. I wish that subplot was more fully formed, as Locke is inexplicably attracted to Willard but the actress is charming. Elsa Lanchester is grotesquely over-the-top though as Willard's mom.

It's easy to assume “Willard's” box office success has to do with the public's intense musophobia. Admittedly, just seeing a bunch of rats would be enough to make some people intensely uncomfortable. This was long before the rise of the “fancy rat,” where rats are considered perfectly acceptable pets. (Roger Ebert suggested the public just really wanted to see Ernest Borgoine attacked by rats.) While not exactly a bad film, “Willard” is far too campy and overwrought in its emotions to be especially effective. Superior films about outsiders striking back at society would follow and better killer animal flicks would arise in its wake too. [6/10]

Candy Corn (2019)

Aside from reboots of long running franchise or the occasional odd exception like “Hell Fest,” slasher movies don't show up in your big box theater chains anymore. However, the slasher film has been going through something of a revival in the independent horror scene. Last year we had several notable releases and now, this year, our Halloween season has been gifted with three brand new slasher movies based around the holiday. The first, and most low-key, of these productions is “Candy Corn.” I recall the film's crowdfunding campaign receiving some minor buzz and was happy to see it arrive just in time for the Halloween season to kick off earlier this year. And now we're at the end of the October and I'm finally watching it.

Set in the early eighties in the small town of Grove Hill, Ohio, “Candy Corn” centers on a group of recent high school graduates. Led by psychotic bully Mike, the group of friends celebrate Halloween every year by viciously attacking Jacob Atkins, a mentally ill boy. This year, Jacob has gotten a job at a traveling carnival, working under freak show leader Dr. Death. Before he can leave town, Jacob is beaten to death by Mike. Disgusted by the act of violence, Dr. Death uses dark magic to resurrect Jacob as a supernatural entity on Halloween Eve. Wearing a rotten pumpkin mask, the newly empowered Jacob seeks revenge on those that wronged him. 

When I was in high school, the very first attempt at a screenplay I ever wrote was about a bullied teenager being murdered by his tormentors and coming back to life to deliver bloody vindication. I think every weird kid into horror probably imagined a similar scenario. “Candy Corn” reminds me a lot of that script, though it's a lot more polished than my deranged, half-scribbled first attempt at screenwriting. A problem with this premise is its hard to be too invested in a group of juvenile delinquents that enjoy hazing a sad loner. The victims in “Candy Corn” range from obnoxious – like the cartoonish evil leader or the adult sleazeball who hangs out with them – to total non-entities. The film tries to make the token girlfriend in the clique remorseful, as she feels bad about what happens and tries to tell the cops, but she never attempts to actually stop the brutal beating. Hard to be too sympathetic to her. Further not helping matters is that most of the acting is stiff or overdone.

Normally, when telling these types of stories, filmmakers will develop the outsider into a fully-formed character, so the audience relates to their strife and finds the eventual revenge cathartic. “Candy Corn,” weirdly, doesn't do that. Jacob Atkins is barely a character at all. He's introduced eating the titular treat - the only role it plays in the film, by the way - out of a Halloween pail while watching a static-screened TV. He doesn't have any dialogue. Jacob is clearly mentally ill and I think we're suppose to be freaked out by that, since the local sheriff discovers the horrible secret in his house. So are we suppose to cheer on Jacob's retaliation or be afraid of him? It's hard to know because the killer has no personality. The film instead builds up the carnival performers as these mythic defenders of “outsiders.” That doesn't really work either, since Dr. Death is the only one developed much and his actions are rather cartonish.

So does “Candy Corn” have anything going for it? Well, writer/director John Hasty – a protegee of Rob Zombie – does capture that dreary, late October feeling several times. (He also dips his toes into Zombie-esque grotesquery, by making us privy to one guy's masturbatory fantasies.) Shots of the sideshow performers going on-stage for an empty audience have a sense of mid-western isolation I like. However, Hasty's direction is also melodramatic. He employs too much slow-motion. The attack scenes are all awkwardly framed, weirdly focusing on the squirming victims and not the special effects. Maybe that's because the film didn't have much of a budget for gore. The death scenes usually amount to uninspired ripping and gouging, with most of the red stuff showing up afterwards. There's even some embarrassingly bad CGI blood. You'd think a film so clearly indebted to seventies and eighties slasher flicks would know better than to do that.

The film is peppered with homages to “Halloween.” Such as in the on-screen font, the low-key synth score, or Hasty putting his name above the title. The cast includes convention regulars like P.J. Soles, who wears a ridiculous wig and plays a very Lucy-from-”Twin-Peaks” style police secretary, and Tony Todd, who does nothing but brood silently in the back of several scenes. Going into “Candy Corn,” and knowing how micro-budget horror flicks like this usually turn out, I didn't have high expectations. However, the film has won some positive reviews. I'm glad some folks were able to get something out of the film but, sadly, I wasn't so receptive. It's a nice try, and I think Hasty next film will be better, but “Candy Corn” is mostly empty calories. [5/10]

Goosebumps: The Haunted Mask

If you were a kid horror fan in the nineties, you were definitely exposed to “Goosebumps.” The Y.A. horror anthology books, cranked out via a tried-and-true formula monthly by R.L. Stine, were a full-blown kiddie phenomenon during the decade of my youth. I was a fan, of sorts. I loved Tim Jacobus' vivid, grotesque cover art but, even as a kid, I found the actual stories to be rather campy. I felt much the same about the TV show adaptation, which ran on Fox Kids at the peak of the books' popularity. Yet I watched practically every episode and happily ate up the merchandise, because I was always hungry for spooky bullshit. Fox frequently treated the series as an event, debuting several episodes in prime time. Including the forty-minute series premiere, “The Haunted Mask,” which just happens to be set on Halloween.

“The Haunted Mask” follows Carly-Beth, an easily frightened ten year old girl. As Halloween approaches, Carly-Beth gets increasingly fed up with the taunting and pranks from bullies Chuck and Steve. Tearing up the cutesy duck costume her mom made her, she instead seeks out a spooky mask shop that has popped up in town overnight. Despite the objections from the shop owner, she buys a spooky, green-skinned ghoul mask. Upon wearing the mask, Carly-Beth's behavior becomes more mischievous and unhinged. She goes around on Halloween night, scaring other kids, including Chuck and Steve. But then she finds she can't remove the mask, that a malevolent persona seems to be overtaking her own.

Undeniably, “The Haunted Mask” is campy bullshit. The acting is ridiculous, most notably from the young kids. The special effects are unimpressive, especially anytime the masks come to life. The writing is highly compressed and overwrought, the emotions being oversized for the youthful audience. The show was produced in Canada and this is obvious every time someone says “sorry.” R. L. Stine, with his droll voice and distinctive forehead mole, appears as host in a very silly wrap-around segment. The writer claims his books don't contain moral lessons but “The Haunted Mask” is obviously trying to teach kids about self-worth, to value the opinions of their friends and family more than those of their snot-nosed peers. This becomes especially overdone during the sappy conclusion. And the episode contains a dumb-ass twist ending, like everything Stine wrote. It's about what you'd expect from a horror show targeted at ten year olds.

And yet... There is something about “The Haunted Mask” that gets under your skin. Carly-Beth is sick of always being scared. She's sick of her own failings. She sees Halloween, and the admittedly creepy titular mask, as a way to bury the version of herself she hates. (A concept literalizes when she buries a sculpture of her head her mom made.) And yet, by venturing so hard to change the elements of herself she dislikes, she also looses the parts of her personality she values. Though it's stricken with kid-friendly goofiness, there is something bracing about the scene where Carly-Beth forces her bullies to repent. Or the way the shop-owner's face is turning into a moldy, diseased mask. You could take this same premise and write a far more disturbing horror movie about kids behaving badly. And, yes, the episode is steeped in the warm glow of nostalgic childhood Halloweens, making it far more entertaining to my weary, grown-up eyes than anticipated. [7/10] 

The United Monster Talent Agency (2010)

After thirty years as one of the premiere monster makers in Hollywood, Greg Nicotero – the “N” in KNB Effects – decided to try his hand at filmmaking. He started his directional career with 2010 short “The United Monster Talent Agency,” produced for AMC's website during their annual Fear-Fest marathon. Presented as a 1940s entertainment industry newsreel, it takes us inside the United Monster Talent Agency. That would be exactly what it sounds like: A scouting and managing agency that specializes in monsters, creatures, freaks, and abominations. Going under the premise the monsters are real actors, we see how stars like the Gillman, the Wolfman, Frankenstein, and others are corralled for motion picture stardom.

“The United Monster Talent Agency” is about what you'd expect from a monster kid special effects guy who has decades worth of connections in the industry. The short features beautifully faithful recreations of all sorts of classic monster characters. Frankenstein, Gillman, and the Wolfman all get notable roles. Moments from the original “Creature from the Black Lagoon,” “The Thing from Another World,” or “Abbot and Costello Meet Frankenstein” are recreated in obsessive detail. More obscure critters like the Hideous Sun Demon or the Alligator People are also referenced. Despite its 1940s-style setting, newer creations like the ants from “Them,” the shark from “Jaws,” Dr. Zaius, the “Dawn of the Dead” zombies, or John Carpenter's the Thing all show up as well. Recognizable faces like Cerina Vincent, Eli Roth, Jeffrey Combs, Derek Mears, Robert Rodriguez, Frank Darabont, and Bob Burns all have cameos. 

Are there any actual jokes here or is it all a game of spot-the-reference? Well, a few. There are tiny, mildly amusing gags like a maid whose responsibility is to dust the mummy. Or the cheesy narrator cracking jokes about agents being “bloodsuckers.” Seeing how the Wolfman is controlled on-set is mildly amusing. But mostly this is a breezy, goofy act of homage for other folks obsessed with the long history of the horror genre. And I happen to fall into that category, so I appreciate the effort. Nicotero has since directed episodes of “The Walking Dead” and Shudder's new “Creepshow” series and seems ready to move into features. [7/10]