A House's Burden of Murder

A young woman inherits a cosy old retirement home in 1982's Next of Kin. And that's the word for this movie: cosy. I found it really pleasant to settle into this big old Victorian estate with beautiful wallpaper and carpets with the beautiful young woman who inherited it. Sinister things start happening around her, and it's pretty effective. According to the Wikipedia entry, Quentin Tarantino compared this movie to The Shining. I don't think it builds quite that sense of dread--again, my overriding experience was "cosy". But I can see something of The Shining in the way it subtly introduces creepy elements and unobtrusively puts a threat onscreen. I could tell I'd have enjoyed the movie more if my internet weren't still shit. But it's a good thing Criterion allows the viewer to manually change the resolution. Usually I watch Criterion at 540p. Last night I was forced to go all the way down to 240p. So it was a little muddy but at least it wasn't constantly stopping and loading. I find flow more important than resolution. The cinematography is really good, though, with lots of pitch black shadows, always serving to emphasis or draw proper attention to subjects. The only times it was difficult to see anything was when the protagonist was also having difficulty seeing. The film stars Jacki Kerin, who doesn't even have a Wikipedia entry. But she's terrific in the role, coming off as really panicked and unhinged, with just the right, subtle hint of madness. Next of Kin is available on The Criterion Channel. Twitter Sonnet #1637 Reversing hides were jelly 'neath the roof. The walls were walked a stair a day for weeks. The prints desist, displacing ev'ry hoof. The birds exchanged a bag of extra beaks. The swirling circle slows the movie time. So solid methods turned the tide to red. For drinking blood, we eastern mountains climb. The people of believed in living dead. Deceptive baths were waiting back in mind. Resurgent vans were waiting out the yard. A sugar house was sweet as melon rind. Another turn demands a wild card. The cosy house was stocked with danger beer. We travel light to make the boozy mere.

Where the Green Pumpkins Grow

Happy Halloween, everyone, from where it's happening now, Japan. This is my third Halloween in Japan and now I'm working at a junior high school that, I was surprised to find, really embraces the holiday. When I started there a couple weeks ago, I found a massive Halloween display at the entrance presumably created by the handmaking club or art club. There are crocheted jack o'lanterns everywhere--orange ones, despite the fact that I can't get orange pumpkins in Japan. I've heard it's possible to get them in some shops in Osaka or Tokyo but I haven't had opportunity to search. No-one I've talked to has ever seen them and some people don't believe me when I say they taste different from the green Japanese pumpkin, or kabocha.

This school also has an English club, which is a nice extra outlet for me since, at this school, it seems many of the Japanese English teachers are exceptionally afraid of having a native English speaker in the classroom (it's really not hard to see why Japanese English is a joke around the world). I showed the club the Sleepy Hollow segment of The Adventures of Ichabod and Mister Toad, just as I showed a class at a different school last year. Once again, I found they were able to understand it well enough despite not understanding most of what Bing Crosby says.

I wasn't able to stream a movie last night because my internet was running very slow. So I had to rely on what I have on tap and watched Francis Ford Coppola's Dracula yet again. But it's such a sumptuous film, it always makes for a satisfying meal. And it's hard to think of a sharper contrast, as far as production design, to Malignant. The effort Malignant couldn't manage for entire rooms is poured into the tiniest nooks and crannies of Coppola's Dracula. Just look at all the details in Lucy's bedroom:

There are details of character, like the hatboxes on the bookcase, and details of idiosyncrasy, like that glorious headboard and the cupid lamp. It's a feast.

"Mal. Bad. In the Latin."

I'd heard 2021's Malignant was bad. And considering how much I disliked the other James Wan movies I've seen, Saw and The Conjuring, this made sense. But I watched it anyway. It turns out it is bad.

Wan evidently decided to make this is his ode to giallo films but doing so only serves to emphasise his deficiencies as a filmmaker. When one compares a luridly, colourfully lit scene of garish violence in a Mario Bava film versus one in Malignant, one notices about Malignant primarily its cheap ass production design.

From a peculiarly gigantic holding cell with spotless walls and floor, to a house interior that looks like a department store display section, there was clearly no effort or imagination at work.

Composer Joseph Bishara can't match the extravagant energy of Goblin or Ennio Morricone. So when Wan decides to layer his score as a constant grove for scenes, placing odd emphasis on moments that don't seem especially important, it just seems silly and slightly confusing.

No-one gives a good performance in the film, either, with the exception of contortionist Marina Mazepa.

And when she first crawled backwards into frame, her tangled black hair veiling her face, my main thought was, "Sadako sure casts a long shadow." If The Ring had been a weak imitation of a giallo, it might have looked something like this.

As for the writing, Wan relies entirely on a plot gimmick to lend his story interest. And it's a plot device--spoilers--already seen before in Brian De Palma's Sisters, among other films--the secret, evil, conjoined twin. Really, it's Doctor Jekyll and Mister Hyde, if there were no psychological depth to Jekyll or Hyde or any particular thematic or psychological significance to their pairing.

Some critics say that Malignant is intentionally bad. If so, mission accomplished. Mr. Wan, if you intended that I should be bored by your movie, you did it.

Malignant is available on HBOMax. I'm ending my subscription now that House of the Dragon's over, hopefully I can find something better to go out on.

Diminishing Damnation

Years ago, a friend told me the only good scene in 1976's The Omen is near the beginning, when Damien's nanny kills herself. Now that I've finally seen the movie, I'm inclined to agree.

There are a number of good performances in the film. Gregory Peck, David Warner, and particularly Patrick Troughton as a priest in a constant state of panic and dread, are all fantastic. But the whole film is hampered by one central problem--we never get an impression of Robert's (Peck) relationship with Damien (Harvey Spencer Stephens).

Part of the reason the nanny suicide scene works is that it's natural at that point in the film that we don't know much about the main characters. The film establishes a normal five year old's birthday party. It's quite jarring when a woman just established as a caring and apparently normal nanny is suddenly standing on a balcony and proclaiming her love for the boy before hanging herself.

But after this, as Robert slowly investigates warnings and clues, the lack of any established relationship between himself and his adopted son diminishes the internal dilemma he's supposed to be wrestling with. I can understand if maybe they wanted to minimise the use of a child actor in horrific scenes, but scenes of the two bonding normally would have helped tremendously. Some scenes of Robert trying to understand Damien's behaviour by relating it to his own childhood or getting impressions from a psychologist would have been nice. Damien really needed to be more of a character in this film.

The Omen is available on HBOMax.

Twitter Sonnet #1636

A dizzy road exists beyond the ground.
A sea of tar consumes the endless man.
The oiled line would scream beneath a sound.
A louder noise than all the guns of Pan.
A pair of quiet ties have sought a neck.
But only one can turn the chest to straw.
The veins convey a drowsy type of wreck.
The sleeping dog can dream its razor paw.
Admit the heavy socks were moral feet.
A truth was facing time for stealing toes.
Defined in loss we kept a pace to beat.
Without a foot the bunny chose to pose.
The awkward dog was nothing bad to fear.
The menace dies in weakly watered beer.

City of Aliens

Who's to say space aliens aren't pursuing bloody vendettas on the streets of L.A.? 1987's The Hidden offers such an explanation for a series of crime sprees throughout the city perpetrated by previously peaceful citizens. Kyle MacLachlan plays the agent sent to stop the killer. It's a surprisingly decent action film, though generically shot. There are two future Twin Peaks stars in the film. Along with MacLachlan, Chris Mulkey also appears in the film, though briefly. He plays the first in a series of hapless human hosts the alien uses for its crime sprees. The film opens strong, with Mulkey walking into a bank with a shotgun, slaughtering folks before stalking off to his ferrari with sacks of loot. There's a good car chase, the likes of which cgi has made extinct, before he's gunned down by the cops. But this is not the end. Thomas Beck (Michael Nouri) is the detective in charge of the case. He's ruffled when a man claiming to be an FBI agent called Gallagher (MacLachlan) strolls in and starts giving orders. But the two become grudging buddies throughout the film as Beck can't help coming to the conclusion that there is one killer using multiple human hosts. The film also stars Claudia Christian, who I know mainly from Bethesda games (I've been playing a lot of Skyrim recently, by the way). She plays the most interesting of the evil alien's hosts, a stripper whose breasts the alien can't stop playing with. You can't fault the alien for its taste. It also blasts most of Concrete Blonde's debut album from car stereos over the course of the film. I'd have expected Guns N' Roses or something but I dig it. The Hidden is available on The Criterion Channel.

Prisons of Metal and Mind

Andor continues to impress me. Last night was the first in another three episode arc, this one written by Beau Willimon. So this one is primarily setup, introducing new characters and situations. In the process, the show once again feels like the first true expansion of the Star Wars universe in years.

There were two big guest stars this week, both having appeared in Star Wars movies before; Forest Whitaker and Andy Serkis.

Whitaker reprises his role of Saw Gerrara from Rogue One. The conversation he has with Luthen Rael was another fascinating development on the character of the Rebellion. First I liked the two of them dancing around who's responsible for Aldhani. It shows just how cautious Rael is with Saw, and with good reason. The second thing I liked about their dialogue is how vehemently Saw refuses to work with a Separatist. Of course, the character was introduced on The Clone Wars in which his sister died fighting the Separatists. But the dialogue also calls back to some of the great political episodes of The Clone Wars in which Padme reaches out to old friends among the Separatists, showing this conflict really is more complicated than good guys versus bad guys. Rael correctly points out that a Rebel effort can't be sustained with Saw's puritanism.

Serkis, meanwhile, plays Cassian's supervisor and fellow prisoner, Kino Loy, a far cry from Serkis' previous Star Wars character, Snoke. Unless he ends up being Snoke somehow, which would be kind of funny. But in the span of this episode, with all the security details and the dialogue among the prisoners, Willimon really makes this feel like a prison with a culture among its inmates and guards. I suspect it'll be the fact that Cassian keeps his mouth shut about Aldhani while in prison that convinces Rael not to have him killed.

I figure Vel and Cinta will have something to do with his escape. The brief dialogue the two have in this episode is really sweet and it occurred to me theirs is the first lesbian relationship between main characters in Star Wars. It's nice it doesn't just feel like a token inclusion, they really feel like they have something together that's really going to be tested by the war.

Andor is available on Disney+.

Low Wattage of the Doctor

What is the base value of cameos from former Doctor Who actors? "The Power of the Doctor", the Doctor Who special from a couple days ago, kind of answers that question. Bringing in some heavy hitters from the series' long history and pairing them with another empty Chris Chibnall script and unfeeling direction from Jamie Magnus Stone, it has about the emotional impact of watching security footage of Doctor Who actors signing autographs.

It was also Chibnall's final episode as showrunner as well as Jodie Whittaker's final episode as the 13th Doctor. In case you've somehow avoided the only news anyone's been talking about regarding Doctor Who lately, the special ends with spoiler Whittaker regenerating back into David Tennant, who will play the 14th Doctor for returning showrunner Russell T. Davies. They even took the unusual step of having his costume regenerate. I guess Davies doesn't even want to deal with the 13th Doctor's costume.

Much like the conclusion of last year's Doctor Who season, Chibnall handled having several insubstantial plots running simultaneously by putting clones of the Doctor everywhere, in this case she's a hologram that somehow shows up on everyone's eyeballs. And if you thought that was a flimsy plot device, how about Graham randomly showing up in a volcano with no explanation? Or the Master impersonating Rasputin for no reason? Or concocting an elaborate plan that basically amounts to wearing the Doctor's clothes?

As publicised, Ace and Tegan, companions of the Seventh and Fifth Doctors, respectively, appear in the special, introduced as UNIT consultants. Chibnall awkwardly plunks exposition into their dialogue to establish the decades since they'd seen the Doctor, apparently serving no purpose other than to place Big Finish stories outside the canon, stories that happen to have been better written than anything Chibnall's ever dreamed up. As a Doctor Who fan, I was excited to see so many actors returning--and it turned out to be a lot more than just Tegan and Ace. And there is some value in the chemistry these actors bring with them. But these same actors are in the better written, less rushed, Big Finish audio plays. I started to get the feeling that Chibnall's departure wasn't just overdue, it's like taking a gun out of a child's hands.

Okay, that's hyperbole. This boring special doesn't deserve anything so colourful.

There are other problems. Dan, the character who barely qualified as a companion, leaves without emotional impact. The whole "Thazmin" thing seemed to be utterly forgotten. It all just felt so damned rushed, like they had no proper teleplay, just an outline. Hopefully this is the last we'll see of this kind of thing.

Doctor Who is available on the BBC's iPlayer in the UK and HBOMax in the US.

Twitter Sonnet #1635

A lonely spider hunts to clean a home.
A shadow man discerns a crooked watch.
With sev'ral legs the saviour's wont to roam.
Without a word the pixels poured a scotch.
The purple paste could hold a pint of teeth.
The knee would pull apart a leg to walk.
Above the noble skull she wove a wreath.
Balloons escort the tongue at home to talk.
The grassy arrows wilt to black at night.
The melon bought at desert's edge was dry.
A stone that's barely human couldn't fight.
The paper came to sell but cuts would buy.
Familiar faces line the pummelled rack.
To swiftly cram a past in ragged sack.

My Kingdom for a Dragon

So now we have look over at Team Black and Red in last night's House of the Dragon. It's also the season finale, though it somehow didn't feel like it. Still, I'm puzzled as to why some people feel the episode was disappointing.

I liked the big action sequence at the end. Those two dragons fighting was pretty great. I still wish they had arms and lances (yes, I'm still holding out hope for a good Dragonlance adaptation). But that huge, elder dragon contrasted with the little whippersnapper dragon, stalking each other in the storm like Kirk and Khan, was terrific.

But the episode began with another grueling stillbirth scene and I thought maybe they should call this House of the Miscarriage. Once again, it seems like the showrunners are presenting an argument for why it's more practical for men to rule. First Rhaenyra going into premature labour prevents them from immediately fleeing Dragonstone, then she emerges from her physical trials to demonstrate she shares Princess Rhaenys' wishy-washiness. I think Ryan Condal tried his hardest to explain why Sara Heiss didn't have Rhaenys kill the Greens last week--Rhaenys says something about how it wasn't her war to start. But, as Daemon more shrewdly sees, the war has clearly already begun and that was actually Rhaenys' opportunity to put an end to it.

Rhaenyra, surprisingly, is shaping up to be more Henry VI than Henry V. Hopefully by next season Emma D'arcy will be able to work up some of that old aggressive Milly Alcock magic.

House of the Dragon is available on HBOMax.

The Original Cat Person

This year will mark the 80th anniversary of the release of Cat People. I watched it again last night, I think it'd been five or six years since the previous time. It occurred to me it's kind of the opposite of Dracula, a story partly inspired by fears of sexually aggressive eastern Europeans. The main character of Cat People is a monstrous eastern European because she's afraid to have sex, even with her husband.

Every time I watch the movie, I wonder how anyone could see Irena as the villain, though. But people definitely did. I've watched it with people who accepted implicitly that she's a wicked monster. Sometimes I forget how easily so many people slip into expected perspectives.

For my money, Alice is the real villain. Oliver's an infuriating lunkhead and she exploits it. When he has the foolishness to tell Irena's rival about her fear of physical intimacy, Alice makes a significant choice of psychiatrist to recommend:

Didn't I suggest Dr. Judd? I met him on the Commodore's boat. The way he goes around kissing hands makes me want to spit cotton, but I guess he knows all there is to know about psychiatry.

She guesses. So all she actually knows about this psychiatrist she's recommending to treat a woman with a fear of sexual contact is that he's prone to inappropriate sexual contact.

Dr. Judd's the only character Irena actually kills, after he's kissed her without permission. Except, did she kill him? The character returns in Val Lewton's The Seventh Victim. Most people call this a continuity problem but maybe Judd just wasn't as dead as he looked.

In any case, the fact that many, maybe even most, people see Irena as the villain heightens the tragic comedy in scenes where Oliver, Alice, and Judd solemnly talk about what to do about Irena, after she's already made it clear to Oliver she doesn't like him discussing her private business with others. Honey, this is your song:

Cat People is currently available on HBOMax.

From Seas to Theatres

It's spider season here again in Kashihara.

This morning I finally had time to read the latest Sirenia Digest, number 200. For this issue, Caitlin R. Kiernan created a story about stories. Not an unusual matter for her but it's particularly appropriate for a commemorative issue of a monthly digest of stories.

One scene of the protagonist dreamer glimpsing a variety of fish reminded me of Salman Rushdie, in one of his own famous postmodernist commentaries. Other parts of the new story from Caitlin, "A Travelogue for Oneironautics", reinforce the impression of a story commenting on stories. The dreamer and another character, a naked woman in a sailcloth, traverse a sea of red water, and both are unable to access their identities or motivations. The dreamer seems more interested in making the attempt than the woman, who seems content or resigned to her own ambiguity. This dynamic is repeated as the scene shifts to different locations and time periods, with the woman being replaced in separate occasions by a sort of werewolf and then a talking dog. And always, as is so often the case in Caitlin's fiction, the protagonist seeks answers from a conversation partner unwilling and/or uninterested in providing them. That in one case this is symbolically portrayed as a kind of violence to the dreamer, in the case of the werewolf, has an intriguing implication of how the refusal to divulge information may be a kind of harm. It brings to mind the lyrics to The Beatles' "I'm So Tired".

It's another nice and haunting story for the Digest. May there be many more.

Twitter Sonnet #1634

A case was tossed beside the road for beer.
Some extra paint would never catch the eye.
A park contained a bloody mob of deer.
The offered cookie fell beneath the sky.
The cans of ships were fresh as evening grapes.
A morning stew was fit to shave a beard.
Remembered treks could fill the ancient tapes.
There's something strange to see but never weird.
The peaks of Peck were dark above the glare.
A devil boy detained the sternest man.
A Doctor told the captain, take the stare.
The empty words combined to feed from Pan.
A faceless man has stumbled 'pon a mug.
The tangled brain was used to weave a rug.

The Inexorable Fire of the World

An ugly, middle aged man and his handsome ward journey into Africa, ultimately encountering the beautiful and powerful She. This is H. Rider Haggard's astonishing and brilliant 1887 novel.

Earlier this year, I bought a 1928 collection of Haggard's novels that includes Cleopatra (1889), She (1887), King Solomon's Mines (1885), and Allan Quatermain (1887), for some reason in that order, not in order of first publication. I wasn't aware of this when I dived right into Cleopatra, which I found to be mostly disappointing. Aside from a few descriptions that conjure a Lovecraftian sense of the sinister and ineffable, the meat of the book is a silly love triangle between Cleopatra, a handmaiden, and the attractive male protagonist they both have the hots for. I assumed She was written after Haggard had analysed all the problems inherent in Cleopatra because She also has a love triangle between a powerful queen, a maiden among her subjects, and an improbably attractive young man. Only, in She, it's brilliant. Imagine my surprise when I learned Cleopatra was actually published two years later.

There are a few, underlying reasons why She works and Cleopatra doesn't. The most important is the protagonist, Horace Holly, the ugly man. That's not my opinion, it's his, and the several other characters who comment on his appearance, including the eponymous She, Ayesha. In lost the tribe of humans with yellow skin and European features, descended from a long lost, mighty civilisation, Holly earns the nickname of "baboon". The novel starts off with a description of Holly and how, "at the wrong side of forty," he's comfortable having given up on women, even jovially calling himself a proud misogynist. He's clearly not entirely serious about this from the way he describes specific women in the story, always with courtesy and respect, except for the one who tries to murder his servant. He's not merely the opposite of the simplistically strong, handsome priest in Cleopatra, he has ambiguities that come off as complex instead of insubstantial. I suspect this is due to Haggard's writing the novel in six weeks, "in a white heat, almost without rest." Here's a demonstration of why Kerouac was onto something when he advocated spontaneous writing. One result is that Haggard's philosophical, scientific, and political opinions are rendered those of Holly, subject to being challenged organically by circumstances, rather than being forced as a controlling hand on the narrative.

Holly describes a brief philosophical debate between himself and Ayesha.

“Ah!” she said; “I see—two new religions! I have known so many, and doubtless there have been many more since I knew aught beyond these caves of Kôr. Mankind asks ever of the skies to vision out what lies behind them. It is terror for the end, and but a subtler form of selfishness—this it is that breeds religions. Mark, my Holly, each religion claims the future for its followers; or, at least, the good thereof. The evil is for those benighted ones who will have none of it; seeing the light the true believers worship, as the fishes see the stars, but dimly. The religions come and the religions pass, and the civilisations come and pass, and naught endures but the world and human nature. Ah! if man would but see that hope is from within and not from without—that he himself must work out his own salvation! He is there, and within him is the breath of life and a knowledge of good and evil as good and evil is to him. Thereon let him build and stand erect, and not cast himself before the image of some unknown God, modelled like his poor self, but with a bigger brain to think the evil thing, and a longer arm to do it.”

I thought to myself, which shows how old such reasoning is, being, indeed, one of the recurring qualities of theological discussion, that her argument sounded very like some that I have heard in the nineteenth century, and in other places than the caves of Kôr, and with which, by the way, I totally disagree, but I did not care to try and discuss the question with her. To begin with, my mind was too weary with all the emotions through which I had passed, and, in the second place, I knew that I should get the worst of it. It is weary work enough to argue with an ordinary materialist, who hurls statistics and whole strata of geological facts at your head, whilst you can only buffet him with deductions and instincts and the snowflakes of faith, that are, alas! so apt to melt in the hot embers of our troubles. How little chance, then, should I have against one whose brain was supernaturally sharpened, and who had two thousand years of experience, besides all manner of knowledge of the secrets of Nature at her command! Feeling that she would be more likely to convert me than I should to convert her, I thought it best to leave the matter alone, and so sat silent. Many a time since then have I bitterly regretted that I did so, for thereby I lost the only opportunity I can remember having had of ascertaining what Ayesha really believed, and what her “philosophy” was.

Haggard also was evidently in disagreement with her but he presents her argument as perfectly rational, he gives it justice, and doesn't waste time trying to mount an argument against it that's beyond his ability. Three great things are happening here:

1) Holly functions in this story, and for this story, extremely well because he's "down-to-earth". Just as the humanity of Indiana Jones contrasts with and emphasises the effect of the supernatural. In She, this is again and again a virtue, and the wonders that would have become dull through the eyes of Cleopatra's narrator remain wonders when seen through his eyes.

2) Haggard is chewing on the same problem as Dostoevsky and Herman Melville and countless other great 19th century writers--the conflict between the amoral, rational, Napoleonic strongman, and good old, self-sacrificing, Christian virtue.

3) Unlike the silly teenager Haggard turned Cleopatra into, Ayesha genuinely seems possessed of great wisdom and intellectual acumen. She has wrestled with, and continues to wrestle with, difficult questions.

Before the climax of the novel, I tried to forget that I've seen the Hammer film version (which I fondly remember but doesn't compare to the book). I asked myself, what fate can Ayesha get away with? Does she have to die? She does commit murder from purely selfish motives, a remarkable thing contrasted with other parts of the book where she muses on the value of ruling without passion. But when you really think about the circumstances surrounding the woman she kills, the harder it is not to sympathise with Ayesha. She waited two thousand years for her lover to return, only for him to marry a girl almost immediately after meeting her. The story thereby becomes a true tragedy--she's responsible for her doom, but we can take no pleasure in it being meted out.

It's easy to see why HP Lovecraft called She "remarkably good." Evocations of ancient and gigantic things are brilliantly laid down by Haggard. A fascinating encounter with an ancient statue representing Truth is both a sobering testament to human mortality, the underlying motives of all human endeavour, and another reflection of the book's exploration of unattainable sexual fulfillment.

“Who is she?” I asked, as soon as I could take my eyes off the statue.

“Canst thou not guess, oh Holly?” answered Ayesha. “Where then is thy imagination? It is Truth standing on the World, and calling to its children to unveil her face. See what is writ upon the pedestal. Without doubt it is taken from the book of Scriptures of these men of Kôr,” and she led the way to the foot of the statue, where an inscription of the usual Chinese-looking hieroglyphics was so deeply graven as to be still quite legible, at least to Ayesha. According to her translation it ran thus:—

“Is there no man that will draw my veil and look upon my face, for it is very fair? Unto him who draws my veil shall I be, and peace will I give him, and sweet children of knowledge and good works.”

And a voice cried, “Though all those who seek after thee desire thee, behold! Virgin art thou, and Virgin shalt thou go till Time be done. No man is there born of woman who may draw thy veil and live, nor shall be. By Death only can thy veil be drawn, oh Truth!”

And Truth stretched out her arms and wept, because those who sought her might not find her, nor look upon her face to face.

Carl Jung cited Ayesha as an illustration of anima, and this statue of Truth is like another step deeper into that journey. The impression of woman existing in the man's mind, and all the complicated desires and frustrations that entails, is used to illustrate the relationship between all humanity and something brilliant and unattainable, always beckoning just on the other side of an impassible gulf.

So this is one hell of a book.

He Kills People

A serial killer comes to stay with a dysfunctional pair of siblings. Things go badly in 1986's Henry: Portrait of a Serial Killer. Michael Rooker, in his debut role, stars as the title character, giving a thoroughly effective performance in this sad, slightly surreal, and disturbing film.

Becky (Tracy Arnold) asks him if what her brother, Otis (Tom Towles), told her was true. Did Henry really kill his mamma? With some evident discomfort he admits, yes, he stabbed her. He goes on to describe the events and impressions leading up to him finally shooting the woman. "I thought you said you stabbed her," says Becky, innocently confused. "Oh, yeah," says Henry.

It's not that he made up the murder--he definitely went to prison for it--it's that he doesn't seem to care that much about the details. You can see real rage in him when he talks about it, but the event itself means little. Michael Rooker does a great job showing credibly how Henry's bizarre disconnection can coexist with a vehement passion.

He develops a complicated friendship with Otis, built on shared, vicious stupidity. When Otis accidentally breaks his television, he and Henry go to a shop and have an amusing, ridiculous bartering session with the salesmen before finally murdering him. Henry seems genuinely protective of Becky when Otis tries to sexually assault her. But if this is any sign of humanity in Henry, it's a tiny flicker.

Poor Becky. She really doesn't understand what's going on. Feeling flirty, she changes her shirt in the room with the two men for no reason, asking them to turn around. But the amusing part is when she shows them her big surprise is a T-shirt with "I Love Chicago" written on it. Henry, evidently unable to read even this, asks her what it says. This sad comedy makes everything all the more tragic.

Henry: Portrait of a Serial Killer is available on The Criterion Channel.

Andor Can't Go Home Again

It's so nice to spend all day anticipating a show and then to have that show meet and exceed those expectations. Last night's Andor continued to satisfyingly add more complexity to the Star Wars universe. I'm so happy this show exists.

It's great to finally get a fleshed out character in Mon Mothma. She's the leader of the Rebellion, she ought to be as developed at least as Palpatine, but ever since she was briefly introduced in Return of the Jedi, hardly any attention had been given to her. Most people didn't even realise who she was when they first watched Return of the Jedi. I suspect most writers felt she would be a simplistic paragon, but even if she is, Andor shows the complicated path she has to navigate is a fascinating one.

We get a good impression of how intimately the battle is tied to her life. Her husband belongs to the opposing faction and the normal issues around a mother dealing with a teenage daughter are subtly complicated by these deadly, pervasive politics. Meanwhile, Mon Mothma is making a tentative alliance with a banker, a desperate move of trust with the ultimate aim of gaining unfettered access to her own money. So often in other Star Wars stories, money is a thing that fluctuates on plot convenience, but in Andor it actively drives part of the story, as it should.

Cassian has an idea he's going to take his cut from the heist and quietly retire with his mother and his droid. We get some scenes that demonstrate how lucky the show is to have Fiona Shaw playing Maarva. She shows the complicated, difficult levels of meditation and decision she has to go through to ultimately get to the point where she and Cassian must part. It's genuinely painful when he leaves at the end, promising to come back, and it's clear both characters believe they'll never see each other again. It's doubly painful because Maarva is inspired by the heist Cassian was a part of and he's not yet come to grips with his feelings about the Empire. He's a practical man, but in this, Maarva has the clearer vision. The detail about her husband being executed by the Empire was brilliant and adds another dimension to Cassian choosing to call himself Clem for the heist.

The Empire tightens its grip, levying heavy taxes and deploying Star Destroyers. But this is part of Rael's plan, for as the Empire tightens its grip, to borrow a line from Princess Leia, the more star systems may slip through its fingers.

Andor is available on Disney+. Please, please watch it.

Twitter Sonnet #1633

The crowed spaces fell above the wyrm.
A brittle bible flew upon the breeze.
A ribbon current swirls within the urn.
The foot questions spread among the bees.
The dancing skull was free to find a home.
A house exchanged a chicken coop for meat.
Beyond a couple years, we chucked the dome.
Sufficient life was found in royal feet.
A pepper faded placed below the chalk.
The dust became a spray of tiny stars.
The black was green when writing boards could talk.
You'll find the strangest sleeves behind the bars.
The money routed round the thorns was spent.
Another heist emerged to pay the rent.

Where Goes Your Head?

Is the goal of any political faction ultimately to make its opponents' heads explode? 1981's Scanners makes a convincing argument that this might just be the case. It's one of the most famous, and financially successful, early works of David Cronenberg, a director I've long admired. Yet Scanners is among his films I've watched only infrequently. I don't think I'd seen it in more than fifteen years before I watched it last night.

Mainly I think it's because, any time the mood might strike me to watch Scanners, I inevitably think, "Yeah, but I could watch Videodrome instead." Videodrome takes the underlying ideas of Scanners so much further. It has the commentary on the subliminal influences integral to political movements and ties it effectively to visual media. It removes distance between the viewer and the protagonist by making us party to his hallucinations, and we join him in being unable to distinguish between reality and fantasy--as well as being unable to distinguish between fantasies meant to titillate him and those meant to manipulate him.

Sex is present in Scanners but on a much, much more subdued level. Early in the film, we only see male Scanners, people with the ability to psychically join their nervous systems with another human. And the film's hero, Vale (Stephen Lack), is first seen wielding these powers as a weapon against an unsuspecting woman, albeit involuntarily.

He can hear her making disparaging comments about him, prompting him to reflexively "think about her". It's an elegant and sinister illustration of how a meme can work, even without any intentions from its creator and/or deployer. But where intention ends and accident begins isn't exactly clear, is it?

Cronenberg has said that he doesn't believe in spirits or the soul, he believes that the body is entirely physical. This makes sense of the fact that Vale is able to hack into a computer with his mind. But it's not quite the effective fusion of technology and biology we'll see later in his films.

While it may be no Videodrome, at least I haven't watched it ten billion times, so I was able to have something slightly closer to a fresh experience watching it last night. Ah, to be young and new to the filmmography of David Cronenberg again.

Scanners is available on The Criterion Channel.