So this is what a Playboy-produced film used to look like. You know, back before they modeled themselves after their brainless FHM style spawns and were still at the very least attempting to inject some cutting edge material in between the shots of naked women with badly feathered 1970s hair. I know the joke is old and tired, but you know there used to even be something worth reading in that magazine. Not so much these days, from what I can tell. I have many vices, but Playboy ceased to be one of them round about the time it forsook that dapper jet-set lifestyle and became just another frat boy publication. And Playboy films? Don’t even get me started. Yeah, I’ve seen one or two. They’re awful erotic thrillers, which I know seems like a silly criticism to level at Playboy films until you consider for a moment that there, for a brief spell in the 1970s, Hugh Hefner decided to throw the Playboy name and money at Roman Polanski’s stylish, intelligent, and grim adaptation of one of Shakespeare bloodiest plays.
Anyone claiming that Spirits of the Dead isn’t a good movie is probably only just saying that because Vadim’s contribution to this anthology of Edgar Allen Poe adaptations as conceived by three of Europe’s maverick directors is so sloppy and unengaging. Vadim’s contribution, “Metzengerstein,” is certainly not the way you’d want to start a film. As was par for the man, Vadim casts his current sexy main squeeze in the lead, which just happened at the time to be Jane Fonda. The duo were fresh off Barbarella, and this story was originally envisioned as a feature film follow-up to that piece of sci-fi pop art. How they could have every stretched this thing out to a full running time is beyond me, though it’s not as if Vadim wasn’t a pro at stretching out thin-to-nonexistent plots and pasting them together with eye-popping, mind blowing costume and set design. Fonda plays the Countess Metzengerstein, heir to a vast fortune she squanders by throwing lavish orgies and torturing the underlings. Actually, they’re rather dull and lifeless orgies. You know, orgies always seem like a good idea until you try and hammer out the logistics of the whole thing. As for me, I’d be too worried about people knocking stuff over. Anyway, she delights in hurling barbs over the fence at her more modest cousin, played by none other than Jane’s brother, Peter. Eventually, she becomes sexually obsessed with him — kind of, well, you know, but then this is Roger Vadim we’re talking about, and it was the sixties — until he rebuffs her advances. I mean, heck, Henry was probably already pretty steamed at the both of them for being a coupla hippies. Incest would have really set him off.
As revenge, the mad Ms. Metzengerstein burns down his stables, and he in turn dies in the fire trying to save his horses. Or so it would seem. A big black stallion bursts through the flames and gallops to safety, but there is no record of such a horse in the stable. Metzengerstein becomes convinced that the horse is the reincarnation of her beloved cousin, and her obsession with the horse crosses into madness and, frankly, borders on bestiality. Despite all the weird stuff thrown into the mix, this is a decidedly dull and uninspired way to kick off the film. The costuming, usually one of Vadim’s only strong points, is relatively without shock or beauty. Jane dons some navel-exposing Little Lord Fauntleroy type outfits, but everything else looks like it’s on loan from the local community theater. The cinematography is listless, and Vadim’s usually striking composition of scenes is non-existent. In addition, everything is shot in soft-focus “Playboy-o-vision.” The English speaking actors are dubbed into French in the currently available version, which means the only way we can judge their performances is through body language, most of which consists of them staring half-stoned at the camera.
The tone of the film is all wrong too, at least in my opinion. A tale of mystery and the bizarre, as this is meant to be, should have some sense of menace and the macabre, some sort of tension. There is none of that here, and the film instead unfolds like a languid, ethereal, and intensely boring dream. Fairy tales and Cocteau Twins songs conjure up more darkness and dread than this supposed Edgar Allen Poe tale. There are some nice crumbling castles and decaying seaside scenery, but Vadim doesn’t seem to understand how to take thematic advantage of it or relate it to the decaying morality and mental state of his central Nero/Caligula-like figure (though I must say I bet Jane Fonda’s figure is better than Nero or Caligula’s). When you fail to match even someone as hit-or-miss with similar atmosphere as, say, France’s Jean Rollin, you know you’re way off the mark. It’s like Vadim wasn’t even trying here. The hilariously silly ending was repeated in Vadim’s 1973 film Don Juan (Or if Don Juan Were a Woman), which we covered right up there at the very beginning of this journal.
Things pick up, but only just, for the second story in the trilogy. Luis Malle directs “William Wilson.” Malle is probably most infamous for flirting with child pornography when he introduced the world to Brooke Shields in his 1978 film Pretty Baby. Before that, he was a member of the French New Wave, which helped get him this gig. He’s pretty far off his game for this outing, though, turning in an entry that manages to be less ponderous and a little more tense and eerie than Vadim’s meandering hunk of nonsense, but it still just doesn’t play out the way it should, perhaps because the story itself has been done so many times and this one offers nothing new. French heartthrob Alain Delon stars as the titular Wilson, whom we meet as he stumbles into a confessional and claims to have killed a man. Through a series of flashbacks, we learn the history of Wilson, who in every regard is a grade-a prick. As a young boy attending a military school where his classmate was no doubt Damien from The Omen II, he encounters a boy with the same name as he who seems dedicated to countering everything he does. He encounters this double, who even grows to look exactly like him, throughout various points in his life until, ultimately, they face one another in a fencing duel.
There’s very little to surprise here. The man fighting his doppleganger, and by killing it killing himself, is nothing new, and Malle’s approach is so straight-forward and by the books that the story, while decent for a single viewing, has nothing more to offer. Like Vadim, Malle seems to almost be phoning it in just to collect his paycheck. The primary difference is that the performers, native French speakers, are better and the story is, as I said, OK at least for the first go-round. Brigitte Bardot shows up briefly in a gambling scene. All in all, the segment isn’t bad. Direction is nice, acting is good, and it moves at a fair clip. There are also a few effective moments, chiefly the scene of a young Wilson lowering a new student into a barrel full of rats and a later scene in which Wilson, now a medical student, seeks to practice his dissection technique on a living subject. So OK, it’s not bad. It’s just not that interesting.
If you make it through the awful first story and middling second, they pay-off is Federico Fellini’s entry, the final piece in the trilogy and easily one of the most delirious, grotesque, and utterly insane forty minutes of film you’ll ever come across. Fellini was known for a lot of things, not the least of which was his fondness for the absurd. If you’re familiar with the director, and you should at least try to be, then try to imagine everything about him and his style distilled down and concentrated in one forty-minute sequence. Quite frankly, it’s almost too much, and that’s simply divine.
His story is “Toby Dammit,” based loosely on Poe’s “Never Bet the Devil Your Head.” A wild-eyed, completely mad looking Terence Stamp stars as Dammit, a drunken, wild British film actor who seems to be hovering on the brink of a career collapse. He travels to Italy to star in a film in which Jesus is reincarnated as a pioneer in the American West, but nothing about his trip to Rome is the least bit ordinary. Fellini saturates his film in colors, and they’re all the wrong ones for what should be going on. Think of film that has been cross-processed. The world of Toby Dammit is awash in red and yellow, billowing orange clouds and dust, like driving through someone’s hallucination of the end of the world. Given the Biblical nature of the film Dammit is to be starring in, it wouldn’t surprise me if Fellini’s own inspiration for the look of the film came straight from the Book of Revelations.
Dammit’s biggest problem, besides his addiction to and disdain for fame, is that he is haunted by visions of a smiling young blonde girl (shades of Mario Bava’s Kill, Baby, Kill) who he believes to be The Devil himself. We follow Dammit onto a bizarre talk show, an even more bizarre awards show, and finally a manic, out of control car ride as he attempts to escape the increasingly bizarre and artificial landscape around him (people on the street are frozen in mid-motion, and eventually become mannequins).
The difference between the two French directors and the Italian Fellini couldn’t be more obvious. He seizes his story with gusto, indulging every bizarre notion that crosses his mind and throwing it all onto the screen with a madcap zeal totally lacking in Vadim’s entry and an absolute lack of predictability as seen in Malle’s. Nothing is the slightest bit real. It’s all highly stylized and has its grotesque alien factor cranked to the very top. Everyone is grossly overdone. Their make-up is outrageous; their movements are more the movements of stage props and puppets. Lights flash and glitter from every angle, and a non-stop of psychedelic detail and sheer lunacy require that you watch the segment several times just to catch everything that goes on in each scene.
And standing above this gaudy, gorgeous horror show, this gleeful dissection of fame and the film industry (or rather, the industries that affix themselves to the film industry) is Terence Stamp, white-faced and genuinely looking like he’s just come of a weeklong binge. He’s haggard and sweaty and pasty and looks utterly spent, while at the same time seeming completely and utterly hysterical. Although in the currently available version all his dialog has been dubbed into French, unlike the Fondas in the first segment, he gives you plenty more by which to judge his frenzied performance. He’s a whirlwind of agitated energy, and it’s one of the best performances in the career of one of England’s best actors. It’s impossible not to compare him here to Malcolm McDowell’s equally cracked performance in 1971’s A Clockwork Orange. I’m no expert on the film, but I’m willing to bet Stamp’s turn as Dammit (right down to the wild driving scene) was a major influence on both Kubrick as director and McDowell as actor. Spirits of the Dead is owned by Fellini’s segment, and Stamp owns that segment. It is sublime, and a must-see.
Where Vadim and Malle try, or we assume they try, to invoke dreamlike and Gothic horror atmospheres respectively, grounding themselves in historical settings and costumes, Fellini sets his film in a warped and twisted version of the present, a fever dream where the mood he goes for is more one of psychosis and hysteria than creeping dread (or oozing boredom, in Vadim’s case). “Toby Dammit” is as funny as it is warped. It is a celebration, in it’s own way, and by dispensing entirely with the “typical” Poe setting, Fellini seems to have achieved the only truly eerie Poe feeling in the entire anthology, though it might be Poe on one of his famous drug binges. Every scene drips with the promise of menace, albeit a completely absurd one, and his ending is as comical as it is spooky. And those images of the maniacally grinning little girl/Satan? Positively brilliant. The whole thing is an orgy of a psychotic, surreal Hell on Earth populated by annoying comedians and glittering women in gigantic false eyelashes.
So skip the first segment. Sit through Malle’s middle segment, but for the devil’s ball-bouncing sake, don’t miss Fellini’s finale. It’s the sort of lunatic filmmaking that makes you happy to be watching a movie. It’s a five-star segment trapped in an otherwise two-star film, but more than justifies the effort of getting through the film.
Chor Yuen’s mind-blowing Magic Blade is a prime example of something I’ve always appreciated about kungfu films. You see, there are certain things that, while deemed horrible in real life, are perfectly acceptable and even admirable activities for the hero of a kungfu film. I’m not talking about the obvious will-nilly killing of anyone who offends you in some way. No, I’m talking about, first foremost, the stamp of approval kungfu films put on beating up senior citizens. Outside of an Adam Sandler film, no one is going to cheer for a hero who beats grannies and tries to skewer them with elaborate bladed weapons. Even street thugs who don’t give a damn about anything won’t stoop so low as to mess up someone’s grandma. That’s why grandmas can get in between two jackasses waving guns at each other and send them home with tail between legs using nothing but harsh words and an umbrella or oversized pocketbook or maybe an oversized copy of The Bible.
This sun-drenched French production set in St. Tropez, one of the first for that country shot in color and scope, is famous — or notorious, if you prefer — for several reasons. For starters, it is the film that launched the career of Roger Vadim, a member of the French new wave in cinema who looked at his films as more of a fashion and art design show than as a way to actually tell a story. His tendency to romance beautiful women, them feature them in his films wearing as little as he could get away with, is among his many great contributions to global society. And here, in his debut film, he decided to give the world Brigitte Bardot.
I said when I reviewed the final Vadim-Bardot collaboration the dreary-yet-intriguing Don Juan (Or if Don Juan were a Woman), that a film of that sorry caliber was not the proper place to discuss the life and times of Brigitte Bardot, that she deserved something a little more impressive. Well, you can’t find a much better place to discuss her than here, the film that launched her to superstardom. She had been working in film since 1952, but this was the one that turned her into the endearing cinematic icon she would become. She started out training in music and dance but quickly moved into modeling and, as seems to often be the case, film. During the first year of her film career she met Vadim, and they planned to wed just as soon as it was legal (she was 17 at the time). Hey, it was France after all. Their marriage only lasted five years. Vadim was a legendary womanizer, after all, and a young Jane Fonda was waiting to become his next muse.
But the Bardot juggernaut was rolling, and she became a huge hit in America despite remaining a wholly French performer. Her photos and dubbed movies created a sensation and outraged Puritanical thinkers who were shocked at the level of sauciness her films often displayed. Yeah, that old chestnut. Will grumpy, uptight American blowhards ever get tired of being shocked and outraged at everything? This overblown reaction to everything, this desperate attempt from so many people to seem shocked and outraged by everything just so they can create a scandal or a sensation where none exists, is perhaps one of my least favorite things. It would be different if the shock was ever genuine, but no, it’s always something concocted purely to make waves in the media, who being utterly and fantastically idiotic and useless and an insult to the entire history of journalism, lap it up like mad dogs (if, indeed, mad dogs lap things up more fervently than regular dogs. You know what I mean). And lest you think I’m aiming my criticism purely at “the Conservative right,” let me throw into the ring that colossally moronic parade of indignation that was parades through the Left simply because Dick Cheney told someone to go fuck themselves, or way back when G.W. called a NY Times reporter an asshole. Or any of the countless times some innocuous something or other sends a money-hungry lawyer into fits of hysteria because it might offend someone somewhere, possibly.
Man alive, it’s enough to send me into fits of moral outrage. We live now in a society where sexuality comes in two flavors: either we’re totally repressed or we’re totally pornographic. That middle ground where things are playful and fun and teasing and healthy seems to have been eliminated from our concept of sex. We’re either uptight moral watchdogs fuming over some pop star’s boob or we’re ten-year-olds in thongs freak dancing in some lewd video full of sweaty strippers and guys in needlessly baggy trousers. We’re a nation of extremes growing ever further apart, even though in reality, I would bet most people are somewhere in the middle wishing the nutjobs on either edge would just shut the hell up. But that’s not going to happen, and as long as the middle doesn’t speak up and increase the noise even more, we just have to endure the crazies around us and hope that they keep canceling each other out as we remind ourselves most of them don’t even believe what they’re screaming about. They’re just trying to get more time on television.
So what does any of this have to do with Brigitte Bardot, Roger Vadim, and And God Created Woman? Well, it’s that same old story, though I guess it was newer in 1956 than it is now, but it was still pretty old even then. The film opens with a playful nude profile of BB as she sunbathes amid sheets of flapping laundry. This is back when people hung things out on lines to dry, you know. This was pushing what you could show in any film that wasn’t playing in the grindhouse and featuring a plotline about an escaped gorilla that terrorizes a nudist colony, but the French seemed to roll with it (the nudity, that is; not hanging laundry out to dry). Say what you will about their snootiness. At least they know not to get totally outraged at something like a naked butt. That could be their national motto.
When the film sought release in the United States, however, we trotted out our usual shock and outrage. Or rather, the handful of cranky sons of bitches in charge of such things trotted it out on our behalf without ever stopping to inquire as to whether the greater portion of America was actually going to be as offended as they were telling us we were. But even more so than a glimpse of Bardot’s behind, the powers in charge of national outrage were outraged, it seems, simply by the naked sensuality in the film, even though it wasn’t accompanied by actual nakedness, and by the open depiction of a woman who is at ease with her sexuality, her own body, and not prone to play the demure and loyal housewife. It seems, almost, that Vadim’s picture was made specifically for this sort of reaction. It is the story of a sexually liberated woman named Juliete who is perfectly nice and friendly but, because of her tendency to do things like mambo with them colored folks, is considered a trollop by the small-minded villagers around her. Conversely, the men in the film are all highly regarded and can do no wrong because they are successful and society-minded men, never mind how rotten they may actually be. Their transgressions can be forgiven since they are men, and well-dressed men at that.
Compounding Juliete’s problem is that she is an orphan adopted by a stern couple that doesn’t approve of her free spiritedness and are planning to send her back to the orphanage unless she settles down and gets married. I didn’t know you could send grown adults back to the orphanage, but I guess there are a lot of things I don’t know. She eventually finds a man she could love, but he treats her like a one-night stand and takes off the next day. His younger, more sensitive brother takes pity on her and falls in love, and eventually the two are married against the wishes of nearly everyone. Things get more complex with a wealthy shipping magnate takes an interest in her as well, and even more complicated when the older brother returns with romance on his mind. Although the men think of Juliete as a “destroyer of men,” Vadim’s film is positively on the side of the heroine. She’s the victim not just of opportunistic men, but also of the backward attitudes of those around her.
Though the film is somewhat sympathetic to Juliete, she is not without her faults. She is unable to remain faithful to her husband, though you could say this was simply because she was more or less forced into the marriage by circumstance. She seems less malevolent than she is simply innocent and ignorant of the fact that she, as a woman, is expected to do anything other than behave like the men around her, which means she should be free to flirt and sleep with whomever she wants. She comes across at times and thoughtless and impetuous, sometimes selfish, and as unable to control herself as the men around her. Like them, she wants to disregard any responsibility she should take for her own actions. All of them deserve a good kick in the bum to wake them up. However, it’s not Juliete fault the men turn into a bunch of leering goons every time she comes around — even though that seems to be the pervading (and damnably persistent) attitude of society at large, where the woman is always to blame when a man gives in to temptation or acts like a vicious cur.
It became difficult, if not impossible, to separate the movie from the controversy it caused. Well, it’s been a few years since 1956, so it’s easier now to look at the film on its own merits, though it certainly gets points still for having caused such a stir. And separate from said controversy, it’s an enjoyable film for me. Vadim would become famous for his art design and composition, and though this film lacks the eye-popping op-art madness of films like Barbarella, it’s still supremely gorgeous. Vadim takes full advantage of color and the richness of the lush Mediterranean setting. He alternates between painfully composed art shots and wild naturalism, using the wide scope format to its fullest to convey a sense of serene beauty and haunting desolation amid the color-drenched French seaside.
Of course, let’s not kid ourselves, since this is a Vadim picture. It is a serviceable psycho-sexual drama, but like most of his films, it’s rather sloppy in the narrative department and wanders without a care between art and exploitation. The plot is breezy at its heaviest, and the few times it attempts to inject serious drama into the proceedings are clumsy. It’s unevenly paced and drags in spots, but I’m partial to a slower film these days anyway. And of course, every single reviewer will refer to the formerly shocking scenes like the bare bottom or the mambo finale as “rather tame by today’s standards,” which has always been a phrase that I don’t like. Can’t say exactly why, other than to relate it to my even more fervent distaste for the “looks dated” criticism. Maybe it’s because it just seems stupid. Okay, we get it. Standards have changed in the past half a century. That’s not exactly a news flash. Personally, I think this film remains plenty daring and sexy, if not for what it shows then certainly for what it has to say. The “woman in touch with her sexuality” line has been trotted out countless times since this film as if it remains something new, daring, or unique. It’s much more enjoyable to go back to a film where it was new, daring, and unique. What the film manages to do with its daring, however, is where the wheels start to come off.
The film seems confused about what to do with its theme and often comes across as reactionary as it is progressive. It seems unable to make up its mind whether it wants to stick by Bardot’s character or pull the ol’ morality tale ending and teach us all a valuable lesson about the wanton ways of womanhood. If it seems hesitant to support the woman, it’s also hesitant to condemn the men, resulting in a film full of mixed messages. It doesn’t help that the dialogue is often campy and stilted. Vadim was never one for a stellar script, after all. Rather than try to decipher the message the film itself seems unable to bring into focus, it’s best to look at the film as something of a time capsule, of masculinity on the cusp of a new era trying to come to grips with a new breed of woman it fears and cannot fully comprehend.
But Brigitte is the main attraction, and she truly shines here in a film that could almost be summarized as a series of provocative postcards, or as a love letter to the form of Brigitte Bardot. She’s playful, charismatic, and hints at a touch of devilishness. It is quite easy to understand why the men around her are willing to throw their lives into disarray (even as they blame their weakness on her) for her affections. She is hypnotic and possessed of a quality few women have been able to convey onscreen. Her supporting cast is quite good too, including a turn by future James Bond villain, Curd Jurgens, here as the charming older captain of industry Carradine and later in The Spy Who Loved Me giving Roger Moore and Barbara Bach a hard time. But everyone else pales in comparison to BB, who was one of the few mode-turned-actress sex kitten types with real acting ability behind the pout to die for. Her mambo madness during the film’s finale is a sight to behold, that’s for sure.
Ultimately, the film’s aspirations slightly outreach its ability to deliver, but we’re left, if nothing else, at least with a film that had aspirations and looks damn good while trying to attain them. Bardot is stunning, the cinematography is divine, and the story may not be perfect, but it’s still a satisfying film for me. Is it art or cheap titillation? Well, does it really even matter? Is there a difference? As I’ve always maintained, what counts in a film, and with any sort of medium isn’t whether or not some body of strangers pronounces it as “art” or as “important.” What matters is, “did you enjoy it?” and “did it entertain or move you?” And you know, I did and it did, and that’s that. Like any Roger Vadim film it’s flawed, and things really start to fall apart the closer you examine the confusing messages behind the pretty pictures and see a movie that manages to be sexy, sexist, and sexually liberating all at once, that somehow is pro- and anti-feminist at the same time. In the end, what you have to remember is that this train wreck of moral messages is simply more proof that even at the beginning of his career, Vadim was far more interested in the image than the story. And God Created Woman emerges as an exploitation film wrapped in a art film — something that would become Vadim’s trademark. You can’t necessarily take it seriously, but that’s probably for the best. If you did, it would just make your head spin.
Bardot would go on a spectacular career full of many bad movies and a few more good ones. Her marriage to Vadim crumbled shortly after the completion of this film. In the end, the fact that she was reportedly a rather kind and generous person got the better of her, and relentless tabloid attention (you didn’t think those were new inventions, did you), crazed fans breaking into her home, and ultimately demonization simply for the fact that was sexy and willing to show the fact off, drove her to the brink of a breakdown. She retired from film in the early 1970s and did her best to disappear entirely from the public eye, eventually becoming active in the fight for animal rights. Vadim would reunite with her for her final picture, and then in 1988 go on to remake/rewrite And God Created Woman with Rebecca DeMornay in the lead.
Release Year: 1956 | Country: France | Starring: Brigitte Bardot, Curd Jurgens, Jean-Louis Trintignant, Jane Marken, Jean Tissier, Isabelle Corey, Jacqueline Ventura, Jacques Ciron, Paul Faivre, Jany Mourey, Philippe Grenier, Jean Lefebvre, Leopoldo Frances, Jean Toscano, Marie Glory | Writer: Roger Vadim | Director: Roger Vadim | Cinematography: Armand Thirard | Music: Paul Misraki | Producer: Raoul Levy | Original Title: Et Dieu… crea la femme
Technically, this should have been the first Hammer horror film I reviewed, if for no other reason than the sake of some chronological order running through this ongoing journal. This is the one that started it all. Well, no, technically I guess Quatermass Xperiment started it all, but this is the one that really made “all” all that much more. But in our zeal to watch a good vampire movie, we skipped ahead a bit and went for Horror of Dracula first. A faux pas, perhaps, but thanks to the miracle of hyperlinks and the web, you can always read this one first then skip on back to the other one. Or you can do what most people are probably doing anyway, and just not worry about it.
Where to start with this one? First off, it’s a mess. Not necessarily an unenjoyable mess, but a mess never the less. Comparisons to Barbarella are, at least for me, inevitable since this is once again director Roger Vadim constructing a film around pop art, outrageous fashion, and his sex kitten obsession of the week. This time around it’s French bombshell Brigitte Bardot. Granted, constructing your movie around Brigitte Bardot wearing outrageous outfits (or nothing at all) and parading around a series of equally outrageously designed space-age pop sets is certainly not a bad thing, but where Barbarella was freewheeling fun and campy enough to make the darker moments seem palatable, If Don Juan Were a Woman is possessed of a grubbier, perhaps even sleazier feel that makes the cynicism and nastiness of the characters difficult to bear. It certainly lacks the sexy-yet-innocent perverse glee of Jane Fonda’s space opera.
Bardot stars as Jeanne, a self-proclaimed man-destroyer who recounts her deeds to a young priest. Her goal in life, after deciding that men are contemptible creatures is to seduce them, then drive them to ruin and, from time to time, suicide. She does this all while living on a partially submerged boat that looks to be the end result of a fight between interior designing mods and those weird 1970s people who dressed in flowing, shiny “future wear.” Mod meets Freddie Mercury, I reckon. The script has a tendency to be so bland that this orgy of campy fashion and décor becomes the main reason to keep watching. Well that and the fact that, even a few years past her sex kitten prime, Brigitte Bardot is still a wonder to behold. She need only look at the camera to make you understand why men are willing to destroy themselves for her. Heck, I like her more for being “a bit past her prime” and showing that yep, older women can indeed still be one hell of a sight. Still, if you’r elooking for a movie to discover Brigitte Bardot and discover why so many of us old farts are, even today, prone to wobbly knees and dreamy eyes at the mention of her name, this film is a pretty bad place to start.
As I said, the movie has a real nasty streak. The woman who is abused by men to the point that she seeks to extract revenge on as many of them as possible should be a sympathetic character, but the script never really gives Bardot’s Jeanne a chance to do much that is likeable. She fancies herself, as the title suggests, something of a reincarnation of the famed 16th century lover, Don Juan. In the end, as befits a broadly drawn morality tale, she gets her comeuppance, but not before the film has indulged in numerous saucy moments that are, in reality, fairly tepid even by standards of the day. BB shines in a few erotic moments, but most the film lacks any real sexual charge. It all feels a bit…I don’t know. Tired, I suppose. I think the movie would have been better played as a farce with more drive and spirit. Instead, it takes a more serious approach and sinks under it’s own attempts to be important. Vadim was never a good director, but he had a great eye for the absurd, both in art design and storytelling. He should have indulged that predilection more in this film. Instead, it wallows not so much in its own mean-spiritedness as it does in its own tedium. It was meant to be sort of a autobiographical stab at the audiences from BB, the fading arthouse sex symbol who saw her life ravaged by tabloid attention. I guess the main problem isn’t so much the darkness as it is the fact that everything unfolds in such dull fashion.
Actually, I guess the fashion is the one thing that isn’t dull about this film.
Chalk it up to this being a French production. Where Vadim under the guidance of the Italians was wild and free, here as part of the French New Wave he is morose and dreary, a hipster whose hippest moments are behind him in the same way Bardot’s best days were behind her. He goes about making this movie devoid of joy, passion, or insight. It is clinically dry, even when Bardot is reclining naked in her big furry bed with another woman. Vadim was a stylist, and this movie relies too much on storytelling from a man who can’t really tell a story. We are left with a train wreck of a film, too listless to be pleasurable, too silly and broadly drawn to be intellectual.
But it’s not all drudgery here. There’s enough eye candy on display to keep a viewer like me marveling at the tacky beauty of it all. And while they call her over the hill or past her prime, the way I see it Bardot, then age 39 or 40 is still plenty in her prime. This was, however, her last film, but I guess my taste for older women biases my views. Give me a woman in her thirties any day over those babbling young things, especially if that woman in her thirties looks like, say, Brigitte Bardot or Nicole Kidman. Even with her icy, detached performance here, Bardot still can’t help but smolder. Too bad for this film that nothing every actually ignites. There’s plenty to dicuss when it comes to Brigitte Bardot, and God knows we love her even in a bad film, but I think I’ll hold off on that discussion until we get to one of her better films (we have both Contempt and And God Created Woman coming up soon).
Of course when it comes to eye-popping art design, Vadim was an ace, and this movie, despite its failings elsewhere, is still quite beautiful to behold. Nice cinematography helps highlight the truly cracked vision of this world that exists somewhere between the swingin’ sixties and the self-destructively indulgent seventies. The look of the film is enough to merit slogging all the way through to the end, but just barely. And when you get there, the end is pretty goofy anyway.
Still, I can’t help but defer to the quirkiness of it all. As big a mess as it is, as haggard and confused and tired as it may seem in some parts, there is still something curiously alluring about the film. It’s like probing a cold sore with your tongue. You know it just hurts, but you can’t stop doing it. Of course, I’d much rather probe Brigitte Bardot with my tongue but then, well, I’ve crossed the line, haven’t I?
I’m no Christian. This is probably pretty obvious to anyone who’s been with us for a while. I don’t believe in God. Not any of them. Well, maybe God of Gamblers, but that’s about it. However, while this would place me firmly in the camp of the atheists, I’m much happier not camping with anyone based on religious beliefs or lack thereof. Where I confuse people is that I like to discuss religion and religious evens, the sociology and history of religion, religious and Biblical archaeology, but I have absolutely zero interest in debating the existence of God. It bores me to tears utterly and completely. I don’t want to be argued at by people trying to convert me any more or less than I want to hear atheists hurling their arguments at believers. I’m a laid-back kind of non-believer who doesn’t care what you dig, at least not up until the point where you start executing people for religious reasons.
My interests in religion are not theological. They are, as a said, historical, archaeological, social, and literary. I was simply interested in the story as a story, in the metaphors and meanings behind the action, in the humanism of the New Testament and the guts and gore action and warfare in the Old and how those who would use The Bible to justify their hatred of another so often selectively forget the teachings of that bearded dude they claim to love. I read the Bhagavad-Gita for the same reasons. I bear no religion a grudge, though most organized churches and sects I could do without. That said, I should also confess another fact some of you might already know: I love me a big overblown epic. Especially big overblown ancient-world epics. Give me a cast of thousands in tunics stabbing each other and careening about in chariots, and I’ll probably be a happy viewer. So obviously, throw all these tastes together, and you can guess that I really love big, lavish Biblical productions. Charlton Heston standing in front of special effects and throwing stone tablets down at people, things like that.
As a fan of these films, I’ve always been struck by how few of them are about Jesus. He does, after all, play something of a large role in the whole Christianity thing. And yet, few and far between are the films about the man. You’d think there would be hundreds. Perhaps it’s simply too daunting a task. After all, it’s a long and complex story possessed of much depth that might be difficult to translate to screen, especially in a way that would be intelligible to the so-called uninitiated (actually, I don’t know if they’re called that at all). Plus, the man is a gigantic, larger-than-life character who must radiate charisma, compassion, emotion, and majesty on a grand scale. That’s a tall order for an actor other than Nicolas Cage to fill, to be told “try and act just like the son of God.” So it is that most directors stuck to other stories from The Bible, and John Huston tried to do the entire thing with disastrous results. Jesus would stroll in from time to time, but he was never the central figure.
And curiously, he’s not exactly the central figure in King of Kings, one of the first grand-scale retellings of the life of Christ.
It’s not really important, at least to me, whether or not Jesus was the Son of God. Personally, not believing in God, I find it difficult to believe he had a son. So that’s a pretty easy one, as far as I’m concerned. Whether or not he was a true historical figure is a thornier issue, but I figure yeah, there probably was a Jesus or someone very much like him, and some the events of his life are more or less based on fact. Regardless of whether or not he’s your homeboy, there’s little point in arguing against the notion that, at the very least, he’s a compelling historic and/or literary character, not to mention being one of the most influential men of all time, regardless of who or what he was or was not. So a movie about him is a pretty big undertaking, and King of Kings goes about this Herculean task primarily by not focusing on Jesus.
We do get to see his greatest hits and usual highlights reel: the three wisemen and the manger, the meeting of John the Baptist, the pilgrimage into the desert, Sermon on the Mount, and needless to say, the Last Supper, crucifixion, and resurrection (but he doesn’t get to show off his watar-to-wine or water walking bits). But these are exactly how I describe them: highlights. With the exception of the Sermon on the Mount, they don’t take up much screen time and aren’t delved into too deeply. It’s almost as if the movie doesn’t know exactly what to do with Christ, like he’s too big and too intimidating a character to tackle. So we skip around with only a cursory touching on the big moments. Heck, other than being born, Jesus hardly even shows up for the full first third of the film, which deals more with King Herod, Roman governor of Judea Pontius Pilate, and the Roman general (I think he was a general) Lucius.
When Jesus shows up to do some preaching or work some miracles, it’s rarely shown in much detail. More often than not, narrator Orson Welles comes on and something more or less along the lines of, “And then Jesus did show up and perform some miracles and preach a spell.” On the other hand, we get long looks at the court of King Herod, at Brigit Bazlan as Salome doing her seductive dance (thank you Satan, or whoever was responsible for that sequence), and at Judeaic freedom fighter and political agitator Barabbas (Harry Guardino) making plots and launching guerrilla attacks on the Roman legions. Barabbas, in fact, becomes one of the two most interesting characters in the whole film, the other being the compassionate Roman soldier Lucius (Ron Randell). See the problem there? Yeah, in a movie about Jesus Christ, Jesus Christ really should be your most interesting character.
Instead, Jesus Christ is Jeffery Hunter, the very spitting image of the blue-eyed, blond-haired messiah that dominated the West for much of the 20th century. Hunter was definitely the hottest Jesus in film history until Mel Gibson made his Jesus torture-porn movie, but hot doesn’t make for interesting. It looks like poor Hunter was simply overwhelmed by the role. Rather than trying to conjure up any of the fire or charisma or passion (not that passion) that made Jesus the sort of man who could move thousands, Hunter simply glides glassy-eyed from one big set to the next. He’s not so much playing Jesus as he is wearing a robe and showing up on set to read passages from The Bible in a dull monotone. If you didn’t know who the character was already, you’d be utterly baffled as to why anyone would follow him. He’s non-dimension, completely devoid of charm or spark or anything that might make you think this Jesus guy, he’s something special all right. The only reason anyone would follow this king of kings is because the story demands it of them or they thought he was the Burger King.
I think another part of the problem is the movie is simply too scared to play it straight with Jesus. They err on the side of reverence to the point of dullness. He speaks without emotion. He seems to have nothing inside, because the script seems to think it’s safer to portray him in this otherworldly fashion than to deal with his humanity and passion (not that passion). Or maybe they’re of that group that considers Christ entirely divine and not human. What were they called? It caused a lot of problems for Justinian and Theodora in Byzantium. Remember? Unfortunately, my history falters at the name, and my book on Byzantine history is all the way across the room. Oh what the heck? There, are you happy? I got up and walked all the way across the room to look the term up, only to find out that that was my book on The Crusades. I don’t know where my Byzantium books are right now. The place is a bit of a jumble.
Anyway, you had the Orthodox Byzantine church that maintained Christ was human then divine, which makes sense to me and makes his story more compelling. The other faction believed he was entirely divine, which again in my opinion, makes his story less moving. A divine being on the cross almost seems like he’s only pretending to be in pain, while a human up there speaks more to my human side, especially when that side is getting poked by a spear that will eventually be used by Robert Patrick to defeat neo-Nazis. I don’t know, though. I’ve never tried to crucify a god, and I’m not looking to have the experience any time soon. So the people who made King of Kings either believed Christ was entirely divine and thus should show no human charisma and emotion, that the mere fact of his divinity is what sways people, or they simply believed that divinity was dull.
As much as the film falters in the story of Christ, if succeeds in many other areas, and is quite more effective if you think of it not as the story of the life of Christ, but the story of the times of the life of Christ. The movie is not without its wonderful moments and engrossing characters, chief among them as I said Lucius and Barabbas. Herod is there only to cower and simper, while Pontius Pilate is there only to be smug and condescending. Lucius, however, is a more complex character. A soldier in the service of Caesar, charged with maintaining the peace in volatile Judea, Lucius still shows interest in and compassion for the locals. His belief, and indeed that of Rome in general, is that Judea should be administrated without interfering with the local religions. Frankly, as long as they’re paying their taxes, the Jews can believe whatever they want to about Jehovah and Jupiter. As Lucius’ position brings him into contact with John the Baptist, and later with Jesus himself, he grows to admire Christ and the message of peace and understanding. He never betrays Rome, never takes up arms against the emperor, but he does eventually defend Christ with vigor at the sham of a trial before the crucifixion. He’s not a Christian, but he believes in the rights of others to be Christians.
On the other side of the conflict is Barabbas, who eventually got himself his own movie starring Anthony Quinn. Barabbas is a freedom fighter, a Jewish rebel who thinks Christ’s sermons are eloquent, but that freedom from oppression at the hands of the Romans will come only through armed insurrection. He is Bose Chandra to Jesus’ Gandhi (or rather, I suppose, Bose Chandra is Barabbas to Gandhi’s Jesus. Or something. You know what I mean). He sees Christ as a man with the same goal but different methods, and ultimately, as a convenient distraction to the Romans that will allow Barabbas and his men to launch a really pathetic little rebellion. Scenes with Barabbas lend the film a political tone, but just as it never seems to trust Jeffery Hunter with the role of Christ, neither does it trust itself to deeply explore the political struggles in Judea that serve as the backdrop to Christ’s story. It is perhaps Ray’s most daring move to cast Barabbas not as a thief and criminal as is so often done, but as a rebel and warrior. To me, as one interested more in history than theology, I would have been happy to see it dig more in this direction.
Other characters fare well also. Rip Torn plays Judas, who here I think gets a fare shake. It’s common among people who don’t sit around thinking about this stuff to simply see Judas as the great villain of Christ’s life, when the way I see it, he was actually the great facilitator who allowed Christ to become the messiah and martyr that changed the world. Certain groups of theologians even feel that Christ himself instructed Judas to betray him so that he may fulfill his destiny. In King of Kings, we see a Judas who believes that the key to Judea’s freedom lies somewhere in between the gung-ho war-waging of Barabbas and the peace and compassion of Jesus. He believes totally and without doubt in the power of Jesus, and thinks that if he can orchestrate a situation in which Jesus “feels the blade of a Roman sword against his neck,” then the Savior will finally break down and use his powers to free Judea from the yoke of Roman rule. As we all know, it doesn’t quite work out that way.
Other incidental cast members leave a little to be desired, and some are downright awful. But that happens. In particular, the portrayal of Mary (with her lilting Irish accent, no less) is puzzling. Like Hunter, she plays her part with a lack of emotion that borders on tedium. We get it, Mary. You’re holy. You think you could at least show a little emotion while your son is being nailed to a cross?
Production-wise, King of Kings manages to be an epic without an epic budget. Sets are big and opulent, the cast is large, and the scenery is sweeping, though it’s certainly more American West than it is Middle East. Miklos Rosza’s score is suitably bombastic and epic and moving. Rosza was the final word on epic soundtracks, and he’s in fine form here, though not quite top form. The writing is, as you can ascertain, uneven, and it takes liberties with The Bible when it has to, or when it departs from the source material and includes bits and pieces taken from other, later Biblical dramas. But all in all, it stitches together a story that is perhaps too big for the big screen, and does a decent job if you’re less interested in Biblical accuracy than you are in just getting a halfway decent epic. Even if you discount this whole Jesus thing, Nicholas Ray has assembled a thoughtful film that manages, I think, to pay proper if slightly boring respects to the source material while also giving the increasingly socially and politically aware audiences a little something more contemplative to chew on. Not subversive, by any means, but also not rote repetition of existing ideals.
Costumes are so-so, and another problem pestering this movie is that everything is so spotless and clean. Jesus’ robes look like they just came back from the dry cleaners, even after he comes in from his pilgrimage to the wilderness. A lot of other costumes have a stiffness to them that makes them look like, well, costumes, and not actual clothes. And while I don’t have the lust for blood and misery in the torture and crucifixion of Jesus that Mel Gibson seems to have, I’d still have to say this is the cleanest, least painful scene of a guy getting nailed to a cross that I’ve ever witnessed. Once again, chalk it up to the ratings code, Hunter’s weakness as an actor, or the film’s own timidness about really sinking its teeth into the meat of the story. In the end though, this is less a movie about his death than his life, and less about his life than the times, if you know what I mean.
Problems abound, but in the end, I still found this a plenty pleasing epic tale where the best parts are in the least epic moments and within not the story of Jesus, but in the many subplots and schemers anchored by director Ray’s cunning but not obvious look at power and the quest for direction in life. King of Kings, despite the weak portrayal of the actual king of kings, is still big, impressive, and possessed of enough multi-dimensional supporting characters to keep me both interested and entertained. And as far as cinematic Christs have gone, not many — if indeed any of them — have gotten it right, so we can forgive King of Kings its rather naive, outdated, and somewhat dull approach to the man. If you dig a good overblown Biblical epic, King of Kings isn’t the best, but it’s not a bad way to spend some time.
Monophysites! Those were the cats in Byzantium who didn’t believe Christ had a human portion, that he was entirely divine. There. That was going to bug me all night. Now I’m just going to worry that I got the entire thing wrong.
The horror boom in Japan didn’t have any one cause, but it did have one big ingredient that made it a success: young girls. Under normal circumstances, saying that young girls were a key to the success of anything horror related would mean that young girls, possibly in wet white shirts, were prominently featured in the film and probably died gruesome deaths. In this case, however, the young girls weren’t the ones doing the dying; they were the ones doing the buying. Someone somewhere had the bright idea to start running horror comics as a regular part of some very popular manga magazines (big, thick comic books the size of telephone books) aimed at teenage girls. What they found was that teenage girls love horror stories. It goes against conventional wisdom. In the West, horror has always been marketed to males roughly between the ages of thirteen and thirty. It was never seen as a genre for girls, most likely because the woman-hating misanthropes behind the films delighted in tormenting and degrading women every chance they got as a way of getting some weird little sort of revenge for having been snubbed at some point in their lives. Even when women were featured prominently as a story’s protagonist (as was often the case), most films were peppered with plenty of other female characters to shoulder the brunt of the film’s viciousness.
Horror in Japan was really no different, unless you see something positive in teenage girls getting raped by demons with forty-foot long multi-headed penises. It wasn’t exactly the kind of stuff that had young girls flocking to the theaters going, “Yeah, this really inspires me.” But where as the West continued to rake the ladies over the coals in horror, writers in Japan started trying something a little different. Chief among them was Junji Ito, who wrote horror comics in which teenage girls were the central characters but were not treated like or written as idiots and victims. Nor were they unbelievable super-women. They were regular girls, a bit on the smart side, and very believable. He placed these characters in the middle of wonderfully conceived and plotted tales inspired by the likes of HP Lovecraft and Edgar Allen Poe rather than the RL Stine tripe Americans were getting. In short, he target audience and his main characters were girls, and he didn’t treat either one like they were simpletons.
Added to the rise in horror manga popularity was the popularity of X-Files, which at its peak at least attempted to be smart and well-written. It inspired a legion of imitation shows in Japan, and all these ingredients combined in 1999 to form the horror classic Ring. It was a smash hit, and a new Golden Age of horror was born in Japan. Many of the films took their cue from Ito’s work (and many were in fact adaptations of his stories), featuring strong and believable female leads that would give girls in the audience someone for whom to root. Titanic proved that young girls are starved for movies that cater to them without belittling them, but that was a lesson completely lost on American movie makers, who went right on ahead making movies as if young, intelligent girls did not exist, or at least did not buy tickets to movies. Well, someone made Titanic one of the most successful films of all time, and it sure wasn’t me.
What really sets these Japanese horror films apart from the pack is that, while many are aimed at teenage girls, very few of them suffer as a result. A girl can watch Uzumaki and appreciate the young heroine, but it’s just as easy for a guy and for hardened horror veterans to appreciate the movie as well. Why? Because it’s simply a good movie, as are many of the films that came out in Ring’s wake. Although targeted at girls, that’s not their exclusive audience, and there’s nothing girlie about the movies. All they did in Japan is learn that if you make a good horror film that doesn’t degrade women, then girls will be interested in it, and girls have a lot of money to spend. It’s not so difficult a concept to grasp. Boy and girl slumber parties are exactly alike in that they always boil down to two things: talking about which member of the opposite sex you like, and swapping ghost stories or doing those “Bloody Mary” type party games. Boys have had their horrorlust indulged for decades. Now, at least in Japan, girls are finally getting the same chance.
Since Ring really started the boom, it was a given that there would be a sequel, not to mention plenty of rip-offs. Hot on the heels of the original’s stellar success, production began on a sequel called Rasen, aka The Spiral (not to be confused with Uzumaki, which is often given the English title Spiral). The film continues the ghost Sadako’s story as a friend of Ryuji’s (again played by Hiroyuki Sanada. Miki Nakatani reprises her role as his assistant from the first film as well) discovers her attempts to be reborn into the human world. Hideo Nakata, director of the first Ring movie, didn’t care for the development of the story in this direction. As a way of protesting this offshoot film, he set about making his own official sequel. Not too long after that, Ring 2 was born and Rasen lapsed into relative obscurity, never enjoying the overseas popularity of the two “official” Ring films, partly because no subtitled DVD, VCD, or VHS has yet to be released.
Ring 2 sustains the same clinical, George Romero style direction, but takes the story into fairly wild new ground as Mai Takano (a role reprised by Miki Nakatani) investigates the bizarre death of her teacher and possible love interest, Ryuji (played again by Hiroyuki Sanada). Aware that Ryuji was working on a strange problem with his ex-wife, and also having seen the expression on his corpse’s face, Mai’s curiosity is further piqued when Reiko, Ryuji’s ex-wife, disappears with their young child. Matters get even stranger when Mai learns that shortly after the disappearance, Reiko’s elderly father died under mysterious circumstances similar to those surrounding Ryuji.
An attempt to track down the whereabouts of Reiko leads Mai to the newspaper where Reiko used to work, though Reiko’s assistant Okazaki (Masahiko Ono) confesses that they have no idea where’s she’s gone to, either. Together, Mai and Okazaki follow a trail of clues and psychic visions (like Reiko and Ryuji, Mai seems possessed of some rudimentary form of ESP) that lead them to the sanitarium where one of the only surviving witnesses to one of these strange deaths is currently residing – the girl from the opening sequence of the first film, who saw her best friend attacked and killed by the ghost of Sadako. They also meet a crackpot scientist and friend of Ryuji who shares his former colleague’s interest in the supernatural, and using the young girl in his care, he’s devised a way to draw the supernatural energy, or curse, of Sadako out and hopefully put an end to the curse that has been propagating itself through a videocassette containing the psychic imagery of Sadako’s mind.
The trail also leads Mai and the doctor back to the island where Sadako was born, and finally to the hiding place of Reiko and her young son, Yoichi, who is soon revealed to have psychic potential that dwarfs that of his mother and father. He’s also well on the way to becoming a new generation Sadako, as a rage that has been building inside him since the events of the first film threaten to warp his development in the same way the tragic childhood of Sadako was warped by her incredible powers. Mai assumes responsibility for finding a way to save Yoichi from the same fate as befell Sadako, while she, the doctor, and Okazaki, struggle to find a scientific explanation and way of dealing with something that defies science.
Ring 2 does a lot right, but it also has some flaws that keep from ever achieving the overwhelming feeling of creepiness and desperation that made the original movie such a spectacular piece of horror filmmaking. Chief among its flaws is that it throws too much at the wall and fails to develop most of its ideas in a satisfying fashion. With all the pseudo-scientific mumbo jumbo being hurled about, the movie soon starts to feel like an episode of The X-Files, with too many theories being offered and not enough exploration of any single idea. Where as the first film was focused with an intensity rivaling the rage of Sadako, the sequel meanders from one idea to the other with no clear idea of exactly where it’s going at any particular moment. While it does help create an air of mystery and urgency, it’s not so successful that it makes up for the feeling that too much half-baked hypothesizing is going on. At times, the movie feels as much like a police procedural as it does a horror film, not unlike Exorcist III.
This movie also lacks the nail-biting, increasingly frantic race against time that kept the first film feeling like a thrill-a-minute ride even when it was moving very slowly. The “race against the clock” cliché is one of the most overused plot devices in film history, but the first film really made it work well. With that deadline removed from this film, and with the impetus for action being curiosity and Yoichi’s eventual development into a vengeful spirit, the threat is more vague and less pressing. It does share a common thread with the forgotten Rasen in that both movies are, in a way, about Sadako seeking a new physical manifestation. In the case of Ring 2, it’s by transferring her hatred to Yoichi. It’s just not as compelling an emergency, but I guess if I was Yoichi, I’d probably feel differently about that.
The thing that irked me most, however, was the off-handed way in which Reiko was handled. I like the fact that Ring 2 takes two fairly unimportant supporting characters from the first film (Mai and Okazaki) and turns them into the main figures this time around, but given that Reiko was the central character in the first film, she deserved much more consideration than she was given here. They either should have put more thought into her fate, or they should have left her out entirely. As it is, what eventually happens to her is poorly thought-out and executed in a way that fails to illicit any of the emotion that should have been generated by such a strong character. Again, I like her as a background character while the story moves forward with new characters, but I really just don’t like the somewhat feeble stuff they came up with for her.
Foibles aside, there’s still enough in this movie to keep it solidly on the “very good” side of the fence. Mai and Okazaki are excellent leads, and they perform superbly in the very difficult position of having to take over for two characters as solid as Reiko and Ryuji. The rest of the cast performs admirably, with little Rikiya Otaka once again proving that not all little kids in movies have to be precocious and annoying brats. He’s quiet and surprising subtle for someone his age, and the reason you can tell it’s subtlety rather than lack of talent Is because when he’s called upon to express rage, he does so in a disturbingly convincing manner that consists of some hate-filled looks and silence rather than the more predictable shouting and screaming.
There are also quite a few genuinely spooky moments even if the film as a whole fails to sustain the feeling for the entire running time. The movie begins with the revelation that Sadako lived for many, many years trapped in her well rather than dying. Anything that plays on our innate fear of being buried alive works well. Other effective moments include Mai finding herself trapped in said well with the ghoulish Sadako ascending the walls after her, and a few great second-long flashes of something appearing, like Sadako’s face while a picture is being taken of a clay reconstruction of her head. Probably the most effective scene in the movie besides Mai’s ordeal in the well is the scene in which she visits the inn from the first movie that serves as sort of the keystone for solving the tragic mystery of Sadako, and she witnesses the entire “mirror and hair combing” scene that was shown in flashes in Sadako’s cursed video. Mai’s stunned inability to even scream speaks volumes without saying a word.
It’s also impressive that they manage to drum up some new revelations about Sadako to further develop her as something more than just a hateful ghost out for revenge against anyone and everyone who happens to see her videotape. She continues to develop as a tragic main character, not just as a plot device. For the third film in the series, a prequel called Ring 0: Birthday, the series would rely on Sadako entirely, as the film focuses on her childhood and the events that lead to her transformation into a rage-filled spectre. None of the revelations about her are contrived or absurd, either. We’re doing much better than all that crap about Michael Meyers being the spawn of a druidic cross-breeding experiment, or Jason Vorhees being a little screaming worm parasite thing.
The revelations continue as supporting characters return for another dose of truth and uncovering of dark secrets. Once again, the old man at the inn plays an important part in the finale of the film, as the doctor attempts to use Yoichi’s rage to draw out Sadako (who sort of becomes imprinted on the minds of those so closely affected by her, like Yoichi and the girl from the beginning of the first film). As with Sadako, none of these further revelations are goofy and all make sense within the plot.
Although there is a lot of crackpot science being thrown about in the grand tradition of supernatural films, most of it, underdeveloped though it may be, is fairly believable within the context of the film and the fantastic. There have certainly been worse offenses committed under the banner of scientific explanation in horror films. Some of the ideas are fascinating to consider, chief among them how strong emotion can be transmitted through a variety of means, making even something as coldly technological as a videotape serve as a conduit for supernatural rage. A similar theory was also presented in the Hong Kong Ring rip-off A Wicked Ghost, and it’s something worth thinking about. Leave it to Japan to take spiritless technological things like a video cassette or a website (as in the incredible Kiyoshi Kurosawa film Kairo), and turn them into some of the scariest, most effective supernatural tools in film history.
Technically speaking, Ring 2 remains stylistically consistent with the first film. Hideo Nakata prefers to let the story do the work for him, adopting a minimalist style with long, static shots and very little in the way of camera movement and no wild flare. In that sense, I keep comparing him to George Romero. Both directors take a documentary-style approach to their direction, and with a less talented director, that could be mistaken for lack of talent. Nakata, like Romero, knows exactly what he is doing, however, and uses the plainness of his direction to establish a very real and believable world in which the incursion of horrific and fantastic elements becomes all the more disconcerting. Had he filled his film with flashy editing, special effects, and camera tricks, it would have been sapped of all its power. As with the first film, Nakata continues to prove that sometimes, less is more when it comes to allowing direction to intrude on the power of the story.
While Ring 2 fails to attain the level of the first film, which was a true classic, it’s still a damn good film, and once again it’s just refreshing to sit down and watch a movie that treats the subject matter and the viewer with intelligence. It gives us believable characters, normal people in extraordinary circumstance, who actually behave similar to how real people might actually behave. It’s mercifully free of any moment where the character does something so stupid it causes you clutch your head and groan in pain. It also doesn’t rely on cheap tricks, special effects, or gore, opting instead for that old school sense of dread achieved through the strength of the script and characters. You can’t watch this film without having seen the first one, but after you have seen the first one, Ring 2 exists as a worthy but not equal follow-up to one of the greatest films in horror history.
You can’t overstate the impact Bruce has had on modern pop culture. Stars have come and gone, names like Jackie Chan, Clint Eastwood, and Jet Li are all familiar marquee names, but Bruce exists above all of them. Take a walk down any street in New York and you will see half a dozen shops with some sort of Bruce Lee merchandise. T-shirts, posters, scrolls, black velvet paintings, statues, action figures, movies — pretty much anything. I even saw one of those blacklight posters featuring the “holy trinity” of Bruce Lee, Jimi Hendrix, and Bob Marley.
And these aren’t just kungfu film specialty stores or Chinatown curiosity shops. Blacks, Puerto Ricans, whites, Dominicans, Chinese, Vietnamese, you name it and their culture has embraced The Dragon. No other action film star occupies the spot Bruce has obtained in our society. He is a modern day Greek hero, a Jason or Perseus, a man whose legend has grown to epic proportions. So, the obvious question from many people is “Why Bruce Lee?” What was it about this brash, good-looking young guy that made him such a phenomenon? Why Lee and not Ti Lung? Why Lee and not anyone else in the world? The answer is equal parts timing, skill, charm, and mystery.
Bruce hit the scene at a time when a lot of people in both Hong Kong and the United States were desperate for an underdog hero, especially one who wasn’t white. The world was gorged on James Bond rip-offs and sanitized Westerns full of chiseled white guy good looks. The Vietnam War, Civil Rights movement, the Native American awareness movements that became things like the Wounded Knee siege — all these cultural elements were combining in an explosive wave of disillusionment with the way things used to be. The urban communities in America, who were hit especially hard by both the Vietnam War (since so many soldiers were minorities) and the frustration faced by the Civil Rights movement. With real-life heroes like Martin Luther King Jr. being gunned down, people were looking for heroes somewhere. Up until then Hollywood hadn’t been providing them with anything.
Then came Bruce Lee. It’s no coincidence that Lee hit the scene around the same time that black action stars like Fred Williamson, Richard Roundtree, and Pam Grier were starting to make a big impact on the scene. People were fed up with Bond and John Wayne. They wanted someone more modern, more bad-ass, and most importantly, they wanted someone to whom they could relate. Bruce wasn’t white. He wasn’t big. His characters were not rich or influential or successful. He was an everyman for all other men who could not see themselves in the previous set of American heroes. He was different, and he was the underdog.
In each of Lee’s characters, there was plenty for the disillusioned to identify with. The condescension and racism hurled at him in Fist of Fury, having to take shit from a corrupt boss in Big Boss — there were things people recognized, and things people loved seeing Lee overcome. His biggest film in the United States, Enter the Dragon was a wild James Bond type action-adventure film where the Asian was the hero rather than a silly sidekick or devious villain. It was also a movie where the black character (Jim Kelly) is a noble and heroic man of principle, while the white guy (John Saxon) is a sleaze. A lovable sleaze, but a sleaze never the less.
Bruce Lee gave people hope, goofy as that might sound, that they too could overcome the odds facing them in everyday life. They could rise above the poverty and hopelessness of their situation. When Lee died under mysterious circumstances, it cemented his place not just as a star, but as a legend. His mark on society, from his face on a t-shirt to the popularity of martial arts training as a way to cope with growing up in the inner city, will remain in place long after the names of hundreds of other stars have been forgotten.
So which of these films should be the first Bruce Lee film we review? His biggest, Enter the Dragon? How about his first, Big Boss? Or the one most everybody considers his best, Fist of Fury (aka Chinese Connection). I think we’ve explained the whole Big Boss, Fist of Fury, Chinese Connection thing, but just in case you forgot, here’s the deal: when Bruce Lee’s Hong Kong films were brought over to the US to capitalize on the success of Enter the Dragon, someone screwed up and got the titles confused. Big Boss, Lee’s first film, was mislabeled Fist of Fury. Realizing the blunder too late to fix it, distributors took the actual Fist of Fury (Lee’s second, and many say best) and retitled it Chinese Connection, probably to capitalize on the success of French Connection as well as Lee.
Since they were on a roll, they decided to also retitle Way of the Dragon, calling it Return of the Dragon and marketing it as a sequel to Enter the Dragon despite the fact that it was made before that film.
But that brings us to where we want to be, which is the movie we’ve chosen to be the first Bruce Lee film we review. We chose it because it seems to slip through the cracks a lot, and because it’s the only complete film that was written, directed, and choreographed by Lee himself. It’s an excellent movie that allows Lee to showcase not just his incredible martial arts skill, but also his ability as an actor. Most people like to write Lee off as a one-trick pony, perhaps the best martial artist to ever live but a pretty rigid actor. Those people obviously go along with hearsay rather than actually investigating the matter themselves. People who claim Lee could only act enraged and couldn’t handle comedy should pay closer attention to this film, in which Lee gets to shine as a comedian as well as an all-around kungfu bad-ass. Bruce even gets to do stuff that results in that “wah wah waaaahhhh” comedy music!
We begin at an airport in beautiful Roma — that’s Rome to you non-cosmopolitan types out there. Bruce, playing Tang Long, is something of a country bumpkin from the rural land outside Hong Kong. Right away, Lee is great at invoking a sense of sympathy for his character. I mean, we all know Lee is the baddest man to ever walk the planet, but he plays his scenes here so realistically awkward and embarrassed that you feel bad yet amused for his fish-out-of-water character. He goes to an airport lounge and, not being able to read the menu, end sup ordering about six bowls of soup. Of course, he is still Bruce Lee, so he saves face by finishing them all, which allows him to launch a series of “must go to the toilet” jokes that will be a sure-fire comedy hit with the kids for years to come.
Lee also mines comedy gold in the “goofy effeminate guy with bad toupee” department. Bruce was, in fact, a huge fan of the Dean Martin – Jerry Lewis comedy team and the many films they did together. While Bruce’s sense of humor is not quite as slapstick (and far less annoying) than Jerry Lewis, you can still see the influence it had on him. The main difference here is that Bruce is both the goofy, out-of-place Jerry Lewis and the suave, competent Dean Martin, depending on what the situation called for. Bruce definitely had a lot more depth than people gave him credit for.
After the soup skit, Bruce meets up with his cousin, played by the lovely Nora Mao (Fist of Fury, Big Boss), his frequent co-star. Nora had written her uncle back in Hong Kong to explain that they were having a lot of trouble with thugs at the restaurant in Rome. She expected him to send a lawyer, and instead he sent Tang Long, which Nora isn’t exactly happy about as Tang is ignorant of big city culture, especially in the West. Tang Long explains that, while he may be a bit dim, he can help out in other ways.
He gets to show everyone his “other ways” when the thugs show up at the restaurant to smash things up and convince the Chinese to sell their land. It’s always something like that, isn’t it? The Man and The Mob are always trying to build malls on land owned by kungfu schools, community centers, and restaurants. It’s a tried and true film formula, but it’s also a comment on gentrification. In my old neighborhood, you could make a movie about The Gap trying to buy up land belonging to community gardens and outreach centers. Same shit, different era. I think The Gap stuck mostly to financial strong-arming, though, rather than sending thugs to beat up a guy named Pops.
Realizing that the thugs, one of whom I swear is Oliver Platt, won’t listen to words, Bruce decides to speak with kungfu. He thrashes them soundly in a great sequence. Great not just because Lee is so fast and crisp with his art, but also because Lee’s character undergoes a wonderful transformation. When dealing with the restaurant and the city of Rome, Tang Long is lost and vulnerable. But when he steps into the back alley to beat the shit out of the no-goodniks, he immediately becomes confident and in control. Ass kicking is a universal language, after all.
In between visits by the thugs, who keep arming themselves heavier and heavier only to still get the shit kicked out of them by Bruce, the film takes full advantage of its Rome locations. Hong Kong movies that filmed outside of Hong Kong were still very rare in the 1970s, so Lee takes in as much of Rome as can be crammed into a few “travelin’ all around” montages. Then it’s back to the alley behind the restaurant to kick ass on some more thugs. This is a pretty weak-ass mafia, I must say. But I guess they’re not the big-time guys we see in films like The Godfather. After all, those guys are controlling international drug trafficking, arms smuggling, and resort casinos. These guys are trying to muscle out a restaurant. It’s sort of like how most leprechauns get to guard gold and countless treasures, but Lucky the Leprechaun has to guard a bowl of Lucky Charms cereal.
In a theme that is present in all of Lee’s Hong Kong films, he teaches other Chinese — other minorities — not to be ashamed of themselves or their heritage. When he arrives in Rome, the staff at the restaurant is practicing Japanese karate because they feel Chinese martial arts are weak and embarrassing. Once they see Lee in action, however, it fills them with pride and reinvigorates their interest in their own culture. This was an important theme for a film in 1972, and it’s a large part of why Bruce Lee became so popular. He fights for the right not to be ashamed of the color of your skin, and he shows that minorities can survive the pressures put on them by the established white majority. They can rise above racism by learning, relying upon, and believing in themselves.
Once the boss finally catches on that his thugs are a bunch of fat-ass losers, he hires some karateka bad-asses in the form of Bob Wall and Ing Sik-wang (Stoner, When Tae Kwan Do Strikes, Young Master). Wall is best known for his role as the right evil O’Hara in Enter the Dragon. After a while, Bruce gets sick of beating up the thugs, who just never seem to learn their lesson. So he goes to their headquarters, beats them up there, then does a very impressive kick in which he leaps up into the air and smashes an overhead lamp, completely without the use of tricks or wires. To accomplish the same simple but impressive kick these days would require Yeun Wo-ping to use ten miles of wires, pulleys, and CGI effects.
Pissed off about their light, the thugs hire their own kungfu bad-ass in the form of Chuck Norris. I know, I know. You guys here Chuck’s name and it makes you grimace and roll your eyes. Great. Now we gotta watch Lone Wolf McQuade. But take heart, li’l buckaroos. There is a vast difference between Chuck Norris the Bruce Lee opponent and Chuck Norris the Texas Ranger. For one, bash him all you want, but Chuck Norris was an amazing martial artist at his peak (which is when this movie was made, and why Bruce chose Norris). Legit martial artists and kungfu fighters all recognized Norris as possessing one of the fastest, deadliest spinning back kicks in the world. Judging Chuck’s abilities based on his American films is like, well, judging Cynthia Rothrock by her American films or Sammo Hung by his work on Martial Law.
The finale sees Lee face off against Norris in the maze-like arches of the Roman Coliseum, invoking the not-so-subtle image of modern-day gladiators. The ensuing battle is one of the best kungfu one-on-ones ever filmed, with the Benny Urquidez – Jackie Chan fight in Wheels On Meals being a distant second. Part of why the fight between Norris and Lee is so great is because it hurts. In 1972, kungfu film choreography was still pretty basic outside of Lee’s films, and a lot of the over-choreographed fights, while looking spectacular, lacked any sense of injury or power, especially when the guys would hit each other over and over with no real sign of damage.
When Lee and Norris hit each other, you can feel it. Their blows carry weight, and the weight shows. It’s obviously a result of two legitimate martial arts bad-asses being involved rather than two guys trained in Peking Opera, dance, or stage fighting. Of course, despite all the flesh-pounding-flesh action, the most painful scene comes when Lee uses Norris’ thick, Piltdown Man-esque coating of body hair (it’s possible he was one of the cavemen laughing at farts I talked about earlier) as a weapon, ripping out a big chunk of chest hair (he could have used a little off the back as well). Of course, ripping out a man’s chest hair makes you bad, but then proceeding to blow it into the man’s face makes you bad-ass. It’s the little things, you see.
There’s some end-of-the film shenanigans after the fight before Lee wraps everything up and heads back to Hong Kong. The film is absolutely superb. Lee shines as both an actor and a fighter, and his skill and charm should be more than enough to win over pretty much anyone. Watching this movie, you’ll have little question left in your mind why Lee has become to celebrated by so many different types of people. One could even take the Civil rights slogan “We Shall Overcome,” and apply it to the work of Bruce Lee.
Bruce’s direction is good. Nothing overly inventive or unique, but more than competent for a first-time director. It’s a bit raw at times, though he really shines at filming the fight scenes, which probably shouldn’t come as much of a surprise. Sammo Hung, in many ways a student and master of Bruce Lee’s, would be the one director more than any of the others who would realize Lee’s ambitions in filming and directing kungfu films. What Lee began in Way of the Dragon and never finished in Game of Death, Sammo would carry to fruition in films like Knockabouts, Prodigal Son, and Project A. Makes you wonder what the “Three Brothers” of Sammo, Yuen Biao, and Jackie Chan would have been like if it had been four brothers, and one of them was Bruce Lee.
Way of the Dragon, aside from being some of Lee’s finest stuff, is notable for launching the film career of Chick Norris as well. I don’t actually know if this is a good thing, but I guess it was good for Chuck. He went on after this film to play a bigger role in another Hong Kong actioner, Slaughter in San Francisco, aka Yellow-Faced Tiger. That movie gave him ample opportunity to throw back his head and laugh in an evil fashion while he stood with arms akimbo. He also got to kick people. From there, it was the big-time, as he went on to play heroes in one crappy film after another, thus endearing him to the American public. If you have to watch any Chuck Norris film besides Way of the Dragon, make sure it’s The Octagon, because that at least has some ninjas in it.
Chuck Norris and Bob Wall would reunite many years later to make the film Hero and the Terror, and even later to appear as themselves in Sidekicks, a film best left undiscussed. Bruce, of course, went on to make Enter the Dragon, the film that would become his ladder to the realm of modern-day legend and launch the kungfu craze in America. Lee’s contributions to the genre are sundry. He gave it it’s banner star. He gave it the refinement of fight choreography, which up until Lee had been stiff and stage-like. He gave it comedy and heart. He gave it international appeal. He gave it Bruce Lee. A man full of anxieties, flaws, genius, ambition, fear, and fearlessness. A man whose name and face would become ubiquitous.
I’ll be the first to admit that I’ve been pretty hard on the whole concept of CGI in movies. Part of this, as I’m sure you can surmise, is the old crank in me who still thinks special effects should be executed with miniatures, and stunts should actually be executed by living stunt people. But more than it simply being a reactionary current running through my brain, my distaste for CGI stems simply from the fact that it is so colossally overused. Movies like that Van Helsing thing or those wretched Star Wars prequels or the new Die Hard movies stick it in anywhere and everywhere, making their films so artificial while striving for some sort of sweeping realism that the end product completely loses the ability to astound or engage on even the most basic of levels. In effect, the movies mimic the experience of watching someone else play a video game. Plus, a lot of the effects just look crummy.
As I’ve gotten older, I’ve softened in some ways to certain uses of CGI. Used properly, it’s quite a potent brush in an artist’s arsenal, especially if it’s employed to detail or augment rather than dominate a scene. Alternately, some film makers have gone the opposite route and rather than making films that fail to be realistic because they employ too much CGI, they disregard any pretensions toward realism by using computer generated sets, characters, and effects to create a completely alien world in which special effects don’t have to worry about mimicking real life. Sky Captain and the World of Tomorrow is one of the first films to employ this style of film making, and since the aim is to create a world that is pure fantasy, even if it’s based on something recognizable as some concept of the real world (or in the case of Sky Captain a well-documented future that never came to be because we were too anxious to walk around with our gigantic t-shirts and pants down around our knees), I don’t really have any problem with the CGI.
Vying for the right to claim the title of “first CGI-staged adventure” is the French production Immortel, based on a comic book by Yugoslav-born graphic novelist Enki Bilal. Bilal, who moved to Paris when he was a lad, became a mainstay in the world of French science fiction comic books during the fecund decade of the 1970s, when artists like Moebius and many others were creating something of a renaissance around science fiction and comic books. Bilal’s first substantial work as a comic artist was Legendes d’Aujourd’hui written by Pierre Christin, a trilogy that was published between 1975 and 1977. He worked steadly as an artist and in 1980 began publishing his next notable trilogy, The Nikopol Trilogy, which he both wrote and drew. As I am an illiterate, the original graphic novels are a complete and utter mystery to me (they’re on the list to read, but so are so many other things), and so I’m left to judge this computer-generated science-fiction adventure purely on it’s own merits, and let me just say that despite some truly gorgeous art design (which is becoming a staple of CGI adventures and thus, less of an excuse for glossing over other short-comings), the merits of Immortel are few and far between.
Like Sky Captain, which for the record I loved, Immortel places a cast of live actors in a CGI world, in this case the New York City of the future where city planners and automobile manufacturers seem to have been heavily influenced by the Moebius designs used in Luc Besson’s The Fifth Element. As is often the case with comic book adaptations, we’re given almost no background as to how the world has become the way it is or why anything that is about to happen is going to happen. As viewers can discern from holographic graffiti that shows up from time to time, there’s apparently some sort of revolution against the growing ubiquity of genetic engineering, but this conflict seems woefully underrepresented in the movie if it is meant to be some sort of motivating factor for any of the action. Instead, we seem dropped into the middle of the story and expected to either already be familiar with everything because we read the comic, or we’re expected simply not to care because hey, pretty pictures. If it’s the former, then all I can say is why bother making a movie, especially one as expensive as this one apparently was, if no one is going to care about it except people who are already fans of the graphic novels? If your defense of the film’s atrocious writing is that you have to read the comic first, then the screenplay has failed. You should be able to construct a story that covers the basics.
We learn that for one reason or another a giant floating pyramid has appeared over Central Park, and everyone wonders what it could be. Inside, three very poorly rendered CGI Egyptian gods lounge about until one of them, Horus, departs for the mortal realm for reasons that aren’t entirely clear — though they seem to mostly involve him trying to get laid. I guess that’s as noble a motivation as any. Meanwhile, a blue-haired amnesiac named Jill (Linda Hardy) who we keep getting told isn’t human arrives in the city and is cared for by research scientist Dr. Elma Turner (Charlotte Rampling). Exactly who Jill is — or who Dr. Turner is — seems not to be important enough for the film to care very much about developing. All we know is Jill can’t remember something and a guy who dresses like Darkman shows up from time to time to utter those inane cryptic statements that are supposed to pass for wise and knowledgeable. Eventually, some guy named Nikopol (Thomas Kretschmann) falls out of a passing cryogenic prison barge and is revived by Horus so that Horus can use Nikopol’s body to go searching for a little sexy action.
And meanwhile still, some terrible-looking computer generated cop is investigating a series of serial murders, but I can’t remember exactly what the hell was going on with those. I think they were supposed to be people with whom Horus tried unsuccessfully to merge, resulting in their heads exploding. Horus/Nikopol eventually stumbles across Jill and decides she’s the one, which leads to a series of fairly casual rape scenes that aren’t played with nearly the gravity they should. As is often the case in movies, the woman who is raped ends up falling in love with the rapist, in this case Nikopol, who at least manages to convince her that it’s not entirely his fault since he has the lustful spirit of an Egyptian space god in his head. She falls for him despite the fact that he shows absolutely no personality whatsoever, and never once does anything interesting other than look good with his shirt off. Eventually, a hammerhead shark hitman tries to kill Nikopol, and everything ends with a big flying car chase and journey into some “cross-over point.”
The film is, to be kind, a disaster, albeit a somewhat attractive and interesting one. Sky Captain proved that you needn’t jettison a coherent story to have a beautiful movie, and it also proved that even one-dimensional characters can be fun. The characters in Immortel don’t even have one dimension. There is absolutely no depth to any of them, and we’re never given any reason to care about them or understand their motivations. They simply progress through the mess of a narrative because that’s what they have to do in order to get to the end of the movie. Who the hell is this John guy with the bandaged face? Who is Jill? What’s the deal with Horus? Don’t bother wondering, because the film never gets around to even providing a hint about any of the characters. About the biggest amount of development comes after Horus has raped Jill a couple times and, upon deciding it’s about time for him to hit the ol’ dusty trail, says something to the effect of, “Yeah, that was kind of dickish of me, wasn’t it? Oh well!” And then we’re supposed to maybe even like the man-god after that.
The best thing I can say about any of the characters is that Linda Hardy, who plays Jill, is beautiful. Not the best actress, but this probably isn’t the sort of movie by which to gauge her talent. Even experienced actors have a hard time performing in green screen CGI movies, and Hardy wasn’t a very experienced actor. But man is she gorgeous. I admit though that I have a thing for chalky white women with blue hair and lips. Admittedly, a fetish that does not find much of an outlet in the real world. I already had a thing for that gal on Farscape, a show that actually gave me two blue women. I guess that guy who plays Nikopol is all right too, but man alive is his character ever a drip. He’s the most boring and uninspiring revolutionary leader I’ve seen in many a film. He’s adept at reclining in bed and in bathtubs, which is probably what he should stick to.
One hot chick and one hot but boring guy can’t save a film this sloppy. With a hopelessly muddled and half-baked story (adapted and directed by Bilal himself, who should probably stick to writing comic books if this is an example of his skill as a script writer and film director), one can at least hope for some eye candy, and I mean besides Jill’s breast-revealing mesh top. The art design, as I alluded to earlier, draws heavily from The Fifth Element, which in turn drew heavily from Blade Runner and, given that Fifth Element director Luc Besson is French, probably just as heavily from the original Nikopol comic books. Immortel takes the same basic look and feel as the Luc Besson film but drains it of most of the color in favor of an icy blue palette. The backgrounds, vehicles, and Blade Runner wannabe costumes are all pretty good, but there are also a lot of CGI characters in this film, and they represent a major stumbling block in the overall visual impact. CGI work was apparently farmed out to a bunch of different studios, and the result is an uneven mishmash of skill levels that range from wonderful (sets), to average (the CGI detective, shark headed hitman, and a bartender) to downright embarrassing (a fat mayor and his assistant, plus Horus and the other Egyptian gods, who look like something out of an unpopular Playstation game circa 1996). Unfortunately, the worse the realization of the CGI character, the more time they seem to spend onscreen.
It probably goes without saying, but the conversion of French comic book dialogue into English language movie dialogue makes for some ripe lines, my favorite being Nikopol’s limply delivered hissy fit toward Horus. The closest thing I can think of to describe the dialogue is in some of those late 1990s Hong Kong films where they were fond of performing a lot of lines in English, but without a script written by someone with a native grasp of the language. As a result, everything sound stilted, much sounds laughable, and some things are just downright puzzling. In other words, it sounds just like that weird, awkward dialogue characters mutter to one another in video games, and is delivered with much the same listless lack of enthusiasm.
So what, if anything does this movie have going for it? Well, in its own deeply flawed way, it’s a fascinating failure. There’s certainly a lot at which to gaze, not the least of which would be the character of Jill herself. It’s an ambitious, far-reaching movie where just about nothing works. The dialogue is awful, characters are all but non-existent, and attempts at philosophy and meaning come out sounding even more half-baked than that new age hokum they spewed out in the second Matrix movie before everyone prepared for the life-or-death war by raving all night long. Immortel proves that a much-revered graphic artist doesn’t necessarily make a good filmmaker. I really don’t know what fan reaction to the film was, though I’d have to give them the benefit of the doubt and say they must have seen what a mess it was along with the rest of us. I gather that not much from the original graphic novels made it into the “story” of this film, but since the graphic novelist himself is the creator of the movie, there’s no one to blame but papa. He showcases a keen eye for design and some truly gorgeous shot composition, but it takes more than that to make a movie.
And yet, as you’ve probably guessed, I still lean toward saying you should check it out. I’m always fascinated by ambitious films that fail utterly to achieve the lofty goals they set for themselves. And what better place for poorly realized grandiosity wrapped in pompous claptrap and aspirations of greatness than a big, expensive sci-fi CGI film based on a supposedly important comic book by a French guy? But you know what? They gave it a go, and the train wreck they produced is an interesting train wreck to explore. It’s frustrating that a potentially great movie is buried somewhere amid this mess, but you can at least spend some enjoyable time sifting through the pieces. And heck, if nothing else, you can treat the whole movie as some really boss van art, or just sit and stare at Linda Hardy.
Release Year: 2004 | Country: France | Starring: Linda Hardy, Thomas Kretschmann, Charlotte Rampling, Yann Collette, Frederic Pierrot, Thomas M. Pollard, Joe Sheridan, Corinne Jaber, Olivier Achard, Jerry Di Giacomo | Screenplay: Enki Bilal, Serge Lehman | Director: Enki Bilal | Music: Goran Vejvoda | Cinematography: Pascal Gennesseaux | Producer: Charles Gassot