In the labyrinth of cinematic history, there exists a peculiar subgenre that both revels in and critiques the very notion of confinement: the women-in-prison film. “Caged Heat,” Jonathan Demme’s 1974 directorial debut, stands as a curious artifact within this realm. It is a film that attempts to straddle the line between exploitation and social commentary, yet often finds itself ensnared in the very clichés it seeks to transcend.

Imagine a tapestry woven with threads of institutional oppression, unchecked authority, and the visceral quest for freedom. These are heavy themes, weighty enough to anchor any serious drama. Demme, with the audacity of a novice and the ambition of an auteur, endeavors to infuse these elements into a genre not typically known for its subtlety or depth.

At the heart of Caged Heat lies an exploration of power dynamics, particularly the unsettling ways in which authority can corrupt and dehumanize. The casting of Barbara Steele as the prison’s warden is quite a subversion. Steele, renowned for her roles in Gothic horror, brings an eerie gravitas to the role. Her character is not the archetypal male oppressor but a woman wielding power with a cold detachment, challenging the audience’s preconceived notions about gender and authority.

The film touches upon the disquieting realities of unethical medical practices and the psychological toll of incarceration. Scenes of forced shock therapy and invasive medical examinations are jarring, almost surreal in their intensity. These moments hint at a deeper critique of the prison-industrial complex and the ways in which institutions can strip individuals of their autonomy and humanity.

Yet, for all its aspirations, Caged Heat cannot escape its foundational trappings. The film often indulges in gratuitous nudity and hyper-sexualized portrayals of its female characters. Slow-motion sequences of inmates showering or engaging in borderline exploitative scenarios serve as stark reminders of the genre’s baser appeals. The juxtaposition of these elements with the film’s loftier themes creates a dissonance that is difficult to reconcile.

One might argue that this very dissonance is intentional—a commentary on how women’s bodies are commodified and controlled both within and outside the prison walls. However, the execution lacks the finesse required to fully realize such a complex critique. The film oscillates erratically between earnestness and exploitation, leaving the viewer uncertain about its true intentions.

The pacing is uneven, with moments of intense introspection abruptly giving way to action-packed sequences that feel almost farcical. Dreamlike vignettes are interspersed throughout, rich with symbolism yet oddly disconnected from the core narrative. These artistic flourishes suggest a director eager to experiment, to push the boundaries of conventional storytelling—even if the results are a mixed bag.

Caged Heat fails to fully commit to a singular vision. It is neither a straightforward exploitation film nor a cohesive social commentary. Instead, it occupies a liminal space, hinting at potential depths without ever truly diving in. This half-measured approach renders the film less impactful than it might have been had it embraced one direction wholeheartedly.

Moreover, the very existence of the women-in-prison genre raises questions about society’s voyeuristic tendencies. Why do audiences gravitate toward narratives that place women in positions of vulnerability and subjugation? Caged Heat doesn’t provide answers, but it does reflect a cultural moment—a time when such stories were not only accepted but proliferated.

It’s worth noting that Demme would go on to direct films of significant acclaim, honing his craft and exploring themes with greater nuance. “Caged Heat,” then, can be seen as a formative work—a canvas upon which Demme experimented with ideas and techniques that he would later refine.

In the final analysis, Caged Heat is a film that intrigues but does not satisfy. Its ambitions are evident, and there are glimpses of what could have been a profound exploration of systemic injustice. However, these glimpses are overshadowed by formulaic genre conventions and an overreliance on sensationalism.

For those interested in the evolution of Jonathan Demme as a filmmaker, or in the idiosyncrasies of 1970s cinema, Caged Heat offers a window into a particular time and place. But as a standalone work, it falls short—a mosaic of mismatched pieces that never quite coalesce into a cohesive whole.

I watched this as Andy and I covered it as our latest member bonus on The Next Reel’s Film Podcast. Learn more and subscribe to the show here. Thank you!

★★☆☆☆

I haven’t been to many arena shows, but of the total, three of them were Prince. They’re incredible. Twenty thousand screaming fans, pulsating lights, the deafening roar of amplified music. This, the very essence of a modern pop spectacle, is the setting for M. Night Shyamalan’s latest thriller, “Trap.” It’s a promising premise, a high-concept thriller with a built-in ticking clock. And yet, as does a punctured balloon, the film quickly loses its air, leaving behind a limp, floppy, unsatisfying experience.

“Trap” follows Cooper, played by a game but ultimately misused Josh Hartnett, a seemingly ordinary dad attending a Lady Raven concert with his daughter. But Cooper harbors a dark secret: he’s the Butcher, a notorious serial killer. The authorities, aware of his presence, have set a trap, turning the concert into a high-stakes game of cat and mouse. That’s the set-up. That was also the trailer.

The problem with “Trap” isn’t the concept itself. It’s the execution, which feels appropriately clumsy for Shyamalan, whose recent films have all carried a similar set of frustrations. The film suffers from a series of baffling creative choices, starting with the perplexing decision to reveal the central twist early on. This deflates any sense of suspense, leaving the film meandering through a series of increasingly improbable scenarios.

Shyamalan employs a distracting technique throughout the film, having his actors stare directly into the lens during key moments of dialogue. This awkward fourth-wall breaking (I don’t know what else to call it), rather than adding intrigue, pulls the viewer out of the story. It’s a stylistic flourish that feels both unnecessary and detrimental to the film’s overall tone. In a thriller, where immersion is crucial, this technique feels particularly jarring.

And then there are the performances, which, with the notable exception of Ariel Donoghue as the daughter, range from wooden to unconvincing. Hartnett, despite his efforts, struggles to embody the duality of his character. The script, lacking in nuance, offers little support, and the direction seems to exacerbate the stiffness. There’s a palpable disconnect between the words on the page and the emotions on screen, leaving the performances feeling hollow and inauthentic.

Even the film’s strengths are ultimately undermined by its weaknesses. The concert setting, initially promising, is poorly utilized. The cinematography, oddly fixated on the arena’s jumbotrons, creates a sense of distance, robbing the scenes of their potential energy. And the music, while effectively capturing the pop concert vibe, feels disconnected from the narrative.

The truth is that we never needed to meet Lady Raven at all. We didn’t need most of the third act. The film strayed from its shallow roots when it left the arena, a setting so perfectly unsettling I’m stymied how the filmmakers were able to misuse it so.

“Trap” is a film that feels trapped by its own limitations. See what I did there? Nailed it. It’s a missed opportunity, a thriller that lacks thrills, a suspense film devoid of suspense.

In revisiting Phillip Noyce’s 1992 thriller Patriot Games, I’m hit with a curious paradox: a film both undeniably engaging and … strangely hollow. Like a meticulously crafted Swiss watch, all the pieces are present and functioning, yet the overall effect lacks any real resonance. This isn’t to say the film is bad, per se. Noyce orchestrates the action sequences with a palpable tension, particularly the chilling home invasion scene, escalating dread without resorting to gratuitous gore. Donald McAlpine’s cinematography, known for its dynamism in films like Predator, here finds a more restrained authority, expertly capturing the claustrophobic terror of a family under siege.

However, the film’s clockwork precision also reveals its limitations. The narrative, adapted from Tom Clancy’s novel, feels streamlined to the point of simplification. The intricate geopolitical machinations of the book are reduced to a binary conflict of good versus evil, with little room for the moral ambiguities that have—from time to time—made Clancy’s work otherwise compelling. This simplification extends to the characters as well. Harrison Ford, taking over the role of Jack Ryan from Alec Baldwin, delivers a competent performance but lacks the youthful impetuosity that Baldwin brought to the character in The Hunt for Red October.

The supporting cast fares somewhat better. Sean Bean is captivating as the vengeful IRA operative, his simmering rage palpable in every scene. Richard Harris, however, is underutilized as the IRA leader, his considerable talents wasted on a thinly-written role that serves primarily as a mouthpiece for exposition. Ann Archer, as Ryan’s wife Cathy, is similarly underserved, her character relegated to the worried spouse trope.

I can’t help but wonder if the film’s flaws are a product of its time. The early 90s, still basking in the post-Cold War glow, were a period of unabashed American exceptionalism, and Patriot Games reflects this sentiment wholeheartedly. The film is a paean to American heroism, with Ryan embodying the ideal of the citizen-soldier, compelled to defend his country and family against the forces of chaos. This unwavering patriotism, while perhaps appealing to some, ultimately undermines the film’s dramatic potential. The villains are cartoonishly one-dimensional, their motivations reduced to a simplistic desire for revenge. The complexities of the Irish conflict, so richly explored in films like The Wind That Shakes the Barley (albeit from another time in the country’s history), are glossed over in favor of a black-and-white morality play.

The film’s climax, a chaotic boat chase, further exemplifies this tendency toward oversimplification. While visually impressive, the sequence strains credulity, pushing the boundaries of realism to the breaking point. It’s a fitting end to a film that prioritizes spectacle over substance, leaving us entertained but ultimately unmoved. Patriot Games is a perfectly serviceable thriller, but it fails to capture the depth and complexity of its source material. It’s a missed opportunity, a case of what could have been.

★★★☆☆

The Cold War. Remember the Cold War? I was just a kid throughout and I’m sure at some level, I imagined that if we had sent blankets, we could have warmed them up. What we had instead was a prolonged, icy standoff between two superpowers, each clutching enough nuclear power to turn the planet into a cinder. It was a time of paranoia, of whispers in dimly lit rooms, of shadows moving just beyond the periphery of vision. And within that context, a specific, almost anthropological, curiosity emerged: the submarine thriller.

The Hunt for Red October, John McTiernan’s 1990 adaptation of Tom Clancy’s breakout novel, isn’t just a good submarine thriller. It’s a perfect submarine thriller. It scratches an itch I didn’t know I had, a yearning for a specific kind of tension, a claustrophobic cat-and-mouse game played out in the crushing depths of the Atlantic.

The film’s brilliance is in its explosions (natch), and its action sequences (so good), but in equal measure in its quiet moments. It’s in the hushed exchanges between Sean Connery’s Captain Marko Ramius and his officers, the subtle shift in Alec Baldwin’s Jack Ryan’s eyes as he pieces together the puzzle of Ramius’s intentions. It’s in the hum of the submarine’s engines, a constant, low-frequency thrum that vibrates through the audience, a physical manifestation of the pressure cooker environment these men inhabit.

Baldwin, in an early career-defining role, embodies Ryan’s intellectual agility. He’s not a seasoned field agent; he’s an analyst, a bookworm. He is potential. Later films struggle with finding the same balance in the character that Baldwin captures out of the gate.

Connery. What can be said about Connery that hasn’t already been carved in cinematic lore? The beard, the swept-back silver hair – it’s a follicular masterpiece, a testament to the power of a good grooming regimen, even in the face of impending nuclear war. This is Connery at his most Connery-esque, a performance for the ages.

McTiernan’s direction is masterful, balancing the technical intricacies of submarine warfare with the human drama unfolding within the steel confines of Red October. The film’s pacing is impeccable, slowly ratcheting up the tension until the final, breathtaking climax. The underwater sequences are particularly impressive, even by today’s standards, standing as a testament to the ingenuity of the pre-CGI era.

The Hunt for Red October is a Cold War thriller. It’s a study in leadership. It’s a meditation on loyalty. And it’s a thrilling exploration of the human capacity for both good and evil.

The matchstick is an unremarkable object, easily overlooked, readily discarded. Yet on the desert planet Pluke, it is a prized possession. It’s a symbol of wealth and power, the very engine of the economy. This is the central paradox of Kin-dza-dza!, a 1986 Soviet film that uses the seemingly trivial to illuminate the profound.

The film follows two unwitting Muscovites, Uncle Vova, a foreman with a worldview as solid as a concrete slab, and Gedevan, a sort-of violinist with a head full of melodies, who stumble through a portal to Pluke. It’s a world of rusty spaceships, telepathic aliens, and a rigid social hierarchy. It’s here, amidst the sand dunes and scrap metal, that Daneliya, the film’s director, constructs a brilliant, if slightly off-kilter, social experiment.

For example, take the word “Ku.” On Pluke, it is the linguistic equivalent of a Swiss Army knife, a single word deployed to express a multitude of meanings. It’s a testament to the power of context and a demonstration of how meaning is shaped not just by words themselves but also by the subtle cues of intonation and body language. I suspect it’s also a sly commentary on the doublespeak and empty rhetoric that permeated Soviet society.

These sand-blasted eccentrics, the inhabitants of Pluke, are divided into two castes: the Chatlanians and the Patsaks. The distinction, determined by a flashing light on a handheld device, is arbitrary and nonsensical. Yet it dictates every aspect of their lives, from the clothes they wear to the rituals they perform. It’s a stark reminder of how easily humans can be manipulated and how readily we embrace even the most absurd social hierarchies.

But Kin-dza-dza! isn’t just a political satire. It’s a film that explores the universal human experience, our longing for connection, and our search for meaning in a world that often seems devoid of it. Adrift in this alien landscape, Uncle Vova and Gedevan become stand-ins for all of us, grappling with the complexities of human interaction, the challenges of communication, and the search for belonging.

The film’s genius lies in its ability to blend the fantastical with the familiar. The spaceships, cobbled together from junk, are a testament to human ingenuity, a symbol of our ability to create something from nothing. And the landscape of Pluke, desolate yet strangely beautiful, becomes a mirror to our own world, reflecting our anxieties about environmental degradation, social inequality, and the uncertain future of our planet.

Kin-dza-dza! is a film that rewards close attention but doesn’t demand it. It’s a film that challenges our assumptions, provokes our thinking, and stays with us… or it’s an afternoon on a playground. It’s a testament to the power of storytelling, the enduring appeal of the strange and the wonderful. Or, it’s just plain fun.

★★★★☆

Okay, here we go. That’s right, I’m still working my way through my Halloween reviews. It is, at last, the Season of the Witch.

Every now and again, we get these moments in which filmmakers take audacious leaps, diverting from the expected to explore the uncharted. “Halloween III: Season of the Witch” is one such endeavor—a film that steps away from the familiar path of its predecessors, attempting to redefine a burgeoning franchise. Directed by Tommy Lee Wallace, this 1982 installment eschews the iconic Michael Myers entirely, opting instead for a standalone narrative that intertwines ancient rituals with modern technology. Bold choice.

At its core, the film presents a tantalizing premise. Dr. Daniel Challis (Tom Atkins) and Ellie Grimbridge (Stacey Nelkin) find themselves embroiled in a sinister plot orchestrated by the enigmatic Conal Cochran (Dan O’Herlihy), owner of the Silver Shamrock Novelties factory. The company’s Halloween masks, embedded with fragments of Stonehenge and infused with dark magic, naturally, are set to unleash devastation upon unsuspecting children nationwide. It’s a narrative that fuses capitalism’s exploitative tendencies with the lurking dread of technological overreach—a concept satisfyingly prescient for its time.

Despite the ingenuity of its storyline, “Season of the Witch” struggles under the weight of its franchise’s legacy. By the time of its release, I wager audiences had grown accustomed to the silent menace of Michael Myers speed-walking in the shadows. The first two “Halloween” films had firmly established a formula—a slasher archetype that fans eagerly anticipated. To then pivot so drastically in the third installment was jarring, leaving viewers disoriented and, apparently, disappointed. Had this narrative been introduced as a second film, or even as an entirely separate entity unburdened by the “Halloween” moniker, it might have been received with greater enthusiasm.

The film’s thematic ambition is certainly commendable. It sits at the intersection of ancient pagan rituals and contemporary consumer culture, highlighting how mass media can become a vessel for nefarious purposes. We get it. The unsettling imagery of children donning cursed masks, entranced by hypnotic television broadcasts, though, that’s a stark commentary on blind consumerism and the vulnerabilities of youth. This blend of folklore and science fiction creates an atmosphere thick with suspense and moral inquiry.

While the overarching idea is innovative, its execution sometimes feels constrained—more suited to a small-screen production than a feature film. The narrative pacing mirrors that of episodic television, reminiscent of series like “Friday the 13th: The Series” or, in later years, “Warehouse 13.” There are moments where the story seems stretched, filling time rather than organically developing. The characters, though competently portrayed, lack the depth needed to fully anchor the audience’s emotional investment.

Moreover, the film’s shift from horror to a blend of science fiction and thriller elements dilutes the tension that the original “Halloween” films cultivated mostly effectively. The palpable fear evoked by an unstoppable, silent killer is replaced with a more abstract menace—a corporate conspiracy rooted in mythology. This transition demands a different kind of engagement from the viewer, one that not all were prepared to embrace at the time.

In retrospect, “Halloween III: Season of the Witch” should be appreciated for its daring vision. It attempts to expand the horizons of the franchise, introducing an anthology approach that could have offered fresh stories centered around the Halloween season. This was a concept ahead of its time, anticipating the modern appetite for limited series and standalone narratives within shared universes.

However, context is crucial. In 1982, audiences were not primed for such a departure. The expectation was set, and the deviation was too abrupt. The film’s potential was overshadowed by the shadow of Michael Myers—a testament to the character’s indelible impact on horror cinema.

“Season of the Witch” is a film caught between innovation and expectation. Its forward-thinking threat and social commentary are noteworthy, offering a narrative that, independent of its franchise, might have garnered greater acclaim. While it may not fully coalesce into a seamless cinematic experience, it remains an intriguing artifact of genre experimentation. For those willing to set aside preconceived notions and engage with its unique blend of horror and science fiction, there’s value to be found in this misunderstood chapter of the “Halloween” saga.

★★★☆☆

Ahhh, the hospital. The eerily quiet, sparsely populated Haddonfield Memorial. A place where the antiseptic smell of disinfectant struggles to mask the creeping dread that permeates every linoleum-tiled, barely-lit corridor. This, my friends, is the unlikely stage for Halloween II, Rick Rosenthal’s 1981 sequel to John Carpenter’s slasher primer.

Now, sequels, as we know, can be tricky business. They often fall flat, a pale imitation of their predecessor. But Halloween II, I’ll argue, manages to avoid that particular sophomore slump. It’s not a reinvention of the wheel, but it’s a surprisingly sturdy follow-up.

The film picks up precisely where the first left off, with Laurie Strode, our traumatized babysitter, whisked away to Haddonfield Memorial. Dr. Loomis, meanwhile, is still on the hunt for Michael Myers, a man so dedicated to his craft that six bullets and a two-story fall seem to have only mildly inconvenienced him. Loomis remains, shall we say, a character of singular focus. He’s less a psychiatrist and more a self-appointed, slightly unhinged, Michael Myers stalker-cum-exterminator.

But the real shift here is the environment. The sterile, fluorescent-lit halls of the hospital replace the shadowy suburban streets of the original. And this, I think, is where the sequel finds its footing. There’s a different kind of tension at play, a claustrophobia that ratchets up the suspense. Michael, lurking in the shadows, becomes a phantom menace, a bogeyman sans surgical scrubs.

Of course, the film isn’t without its flaws. The plot, while serviceable, isn’t exactly groundbreaking. And yes, some of the acting is a touch enthusiastic. But there’s a certain charm to the film’s B-movie sensibilities. The kills are more graphic, more visceral, a clear nod to the burgeoning slasher trend of the early 80s.

And then there’s the sibling twist. The revelation that Laurie and Michael are related is a “bold choice.” It’s the kind of narrative hand grenade that can either explode brilliantly or blow up the entire movie. Here, it’s more of a slow burn. It adds a layer of intrigue, a hint of Greek tragedy to the proceedings. But it also raises questions. Does it demystify Michael? Does it diminish his terrifying blankness? The jury’s still out on that one.

Ultimately, Halloween II is a solid, if not spectacular, sequel. It capitalizes on the strengths of the original while carving out its own niche in the slasher landscape. It’s a film that understands the power of atmosphere, the chilling effect of a quiet hallway, a darkened room. And while it may not reach the heights of its predecessor, it’s a worthy addition to the Halloween canon.

★★★☆☆

There’s a magic, an alchemy, that occurs when disparate elements collide and coalesce into something greater than the sum of their parts. The Beatles, four lads from Liverpool, individually talented, but together, a force that reshaped the fabric of popular music. Or consider the unlikely circumstances that led to the invention of penicillin, a chance discovery that revolutionized medicine. Jason Reitman’s “Saturday Night,” a film chronicling the tumultuous birth of “Saturday Night Live,” is neither as resonant as The Beatles, nor as consequential as penicillin, and even so, it captures the essence of creative combustion, this lightning-in-a-bottle moment where talent, ambition, and dumb luck converge.

“Saturday Night” doesn’t just tell a story; it immerses you in the pressure cooker of Studio 8H, circa 1975. The clock is ticking, relentlessly counting down to the moment of truth, the live broadcast premiere. Lorne Michaels, played with a compelling blend of nervous energy and quiet determination by Gabriel LaBelle, is the eye of the storm. He’s the conductor of a chaotic orchestra, a ringmaster trying to corral a menagerie of outsized personalities and unpredictable events.

Reitman constructs a narrative that mirrors the very structure of the show it celebrates. The film unfolds in a series of vignettes, a whirlwind of backstage encounters, creative clashes, and near-disasters. We see the nascent “Not Ready for Prime Time Players” – Chevy Chase’s preening arrogance perfectly captured by Cory Michael Smith, Dan Aykroyd’s manic brilliance embodied by Dylan O’Brien, John Belushi’s volatile genius simmering beneath Matt Wood’s performance.

Having watched the first episode of SNL just before viewing the film, I was struck by the meticulous attention to detail, the almost obsessive commitment to recreating not just the look and feel of the era, but the very spirit of those early broadcasts. From the costumes to the set design, from the cadence of the dialogue to the grainy texture of the 16mm film, Reitman transports us back to a time when television felt raw, unpredictable, and genuinely exciting.

But Saturday Night is more than just a nostalgic trip down memory lane. It’s a nuanced exploration of the creative process, a testament to the messy, unpredictable, and often frustrating journey of bringing an idea to life. The film doesn’t shy away from the challenges, disagreements, or moments of self-doubt. It acknowledges the inherent tension between artistic vision and commercial realities and the delicate balance between collaboration and compromise.

And in the end, it’s this honesty, this willingness to embrace the complexities of the creative process, that makes “Saturday Night” so compelling. It’s a film that toasts not just the triumph of “Saturday Night Live,” but the enduring power of human ingenuity, the remarkable capacity of individuals to come together — transcend almost all ego — and create something truly extraordinary.

★★★★☆

Here we are, a return to my journey to watch the Top Four of my Letterboxd friends lists. This is a bit of a cheat; even though it does fall next in line on Nick Langdon’s row of praise, it’s not new to me. This is a third watch, though I’ve never actually reviewed it. This Top Four hooliganry makes for a perfect excuse to do just that.

Hundreds of Beavers is a bracing slap of icy lake water to my face. A glorious, improbable, black-and-white paean to slapstick, it’s a film that feels both ancient and utterly new. It’s Buster Keaton wrestling not just with inanimate objects but with a horde of beavers clad in those unnervingly blank-faced mascot costumes. It’s unfolding not in dusty vaudeville halls, but in the biting, snowy wilderness of the American Midwest. It is the strange, beautiful landscape of Hundreds of Beavers.

Director Mike Cheslik, with co-writer and star Ryland Brickson Cole Tews, has crafted a film that operates on uncut id. It’s the primal ooze of creativity and a testament to the sheer joy of making something sensationally weird. The plot, such as it is, follows Jean Kayak (Tews), a hapless applejack salesman thrust into the unforgiving wilderness. He must learn to survive, to become a trapper, to conquer… well… all of the beavers. And also some sociopathic raccoons, a pack of wolves, and a persnickety trader.

But plot is merely the scaffolding upon which Cheslik and Tews hang a dizzying array of visual gags. The film is a masterclass in physical comedy, a symphony of pratfalls, chases, and escalating absurdity. Tews, with his super-elastic limbs and face, is a revelation. He channels the spirit of Chaplin and Keaton, while adding a distinctly modern and manic energy. The beavers, meanwhile, are a force of nature, a furry, chaotic collective that embodies both menace and hilarity.

The film’s aesthetic is as striking as its humor. Shot in crisp black and white, it evokes the silent era while embracing a distinctly DIY aesthetic. The special effects, created entirely in After Effects as I understand it, are deliberately lo-fi, adding to the film’s ramshackle charm. This isn’t slick Hollywood polish; it’s the rough-hewn beauty of a hand-carved wooden toy. And like a well-crafted toy, Hundreds of Beavers is designed for pure, unadulterated play.

Yes, the film’s 108-minute runtime probably should have been trimmed. Yes, some gags land harder than others. But these are minor quibbles in the face of such joyful filmmaking. Hundreds of Beavers is a film that reminds me what fun it is to make movies, to experiment, to laugh and showcase unbridled silliness. It’s a film that dares to be ridiculous, to be utterly, gloriously itself. In a world that often feels too serious, too predictable, Hundreds of Beavers is a much-needed dose of joyful chaos. It’s a film that will leave you grinning, gasping, and perhaps even wondering if you, too, should don a beaver costume and run amok in the snow. Sign me up for a sequel.

Roger Corman’s A Bucket of Blood, a film seemingly as unassuming as its protagonist, Walter Paisley, packs a surprising punch. Like a perfectly mixed cocktail, it blends dark humor, biting satire, and a dash of Grand Guignol into a potent 62-minute brew. While some of the ingredients might have aged slightly, the overall concoction remains intoxicatingly effective.

Dick Miller, bless his cotton socks, delivers a performance of captivating awkwardness as Walter. He embodies the “adorable doofus” archetype with such conviction that we initially find ourselves rooting for him, even as his actions become increasingly disturbing. This is where the film’s brilliance lies: it mirrors the insidious nature of ambition and how easily the desire for acceptance can morph into something monstrous. Walter’s transformation, though swift, is compelling, echoed generations later in the tragically comedic descent of figures like Breaking Bad’s Walter White. In their own darkly humorous ways, both Walters stumble into infamy, driven by a potent cocktail of insecurity and ego.

Corman masterfully skewers the pretensions of the beatnik art scene, portraying its denizens as a collection of posers more concerned with appearances and the next paycheck than genuine artistic expression. Their desperation for validation, for a piece of the cultural pie, is palpable, making them both amusing and pathetic. This satire, though rooted in the anxieties of the late 1950s, still resonates today, offering a timeless commentary on the fickle nature of fame and the absurdities of the art world.

Despite being filmed in black and white, A Bucket of Blood is surprisingly vibrant. Corman uses evocative language and imagery – the recurring motif of the “yellow door,” the stark contrast of blood against monochrome – to paint a vivid picture in the viewer’s mind. This clever use of language compensates for the lack of color, creating a world that feels both real and slightly surreal.

The film’s brisk pacing is a virtue. At a mere 62 minutes, it never outstays its welcome. Every scene serves a purpose, propelling the narrative forward with an efficiency often absent in today’s bloated blockbusters. While I admire the tight narrative focus, I can’t help but feel certain threads could have been further explored. The landlady, for instance, hints at a deeper, more complex story that remains tantalizingly just out of reach.

While the practical effects initially impress, particularly the detail in the early clay sculptures, the quality noticeably dips towards the climax. Walter’s final creation feels rushed and almost amateurish. Whether this was a budgetary constraint or a deliberate choice to reflect Walter’s deteriorating mental state is open to interpretation, but it does slightly detract from the overall visual impact.

These are quibbles, minor flaws that do little to diminish the film’s overall impact. A Bucket of Blood is a self-assured piece of filmmaking, a darkly comedic gem that knows exactly what it wants to be and achieves it with aplomb. It might not be a film that stays with you long after the credits roll, but it certainly offers a fun and frivolous reflection on the nature of art, the allure of fame, and the terrifyingly thin line between adoration and obsession. It’s a bucketful of brilliance, and one well worth dipping into.

Jean-Luc Godard’s Breathless (À bout de souffle), released in 1960, is a cinematic insurrection that challenged conventions and inspired a generation. Revisiting it today, I wonder whether its revolutionary spark still burns so brightly.

Breathless tells a simple tale. Michel Poiccard (Jean-Paul Belmondo), a suave yet morally ambiguous small-time criminal, models himself after the hard-boiled heroes of American noir, particularly Humphrey Bogart. After impulsively shooting a policeman following a car theft, Michel flees to Paris. There, he reconnects with Patricia Franchini (Jean Seberg), an American student selling newspapers on the Champs-Élysées and aspiring to be a journalist. As Michel tries to cajole Patricia into escaping to Italy with him, they navigate a complex relationship filled with existential musings, self-doubt, an undercurrent of disconnection, and so many goddamned cigarettes.

Godard’s characters are not heroes in the traditional sense. They are emblematic of a generation grappling with post-war ennui.[1] Michel’s flippant disregard for authority and Patricia’s introspective uncertainty capture the zeitgeist of a youth disillusioned by traditional values. Their conversations meander through philosophy, love, and identity, often feeling more like spontaneous improvisations than scripted dialogue. This sense of authenticity is both the film’s strength and its weakness.

Godard employed jump cuts—a jarring editing technique that broke scenes into disjointed fragments. Legend has it that these cuts were a practical solution to reduce the film’s runtime, but they became a defining feature, lending the movie a pulsating rhythm that mirrored the erratic heartbeat of its protagonist. The handheld camera work and on-location shooting imbued the film with a documentary-style realism, breaking away from the crisp and polished productions of the time.

While these innovations were revolutionary in 1960, they have since been absorbed into the grammar of modern filmmaking. Today’s audiences, accustomed to rapid editing and shaky cameras, might not fully appreciate how radical these techniques were. The once-subversive style now feels familiar, even tame.

Thematically, the film delves into existentialism—a reflection of Godard’s own philosophical leanings. Patricia’s internal struggle epitomizes the search for meaning in a seemingly indifferent world. “Am I unhappy because I’m not free, or not free because I’m unhappy?” she muses. The dialogue blurs the line between profound and pretentious, risking the alienation of viewers seeking emotional engagement rather than intellectual contemplation.

Belmondo’s portrayal of Michel is undeniably charismatic. He embodies the archetype of the anti-hero—charming yet flawed, reckless yet vulnerable. His incessant mimicry of Bogart is both an homage and a commentary on the influence of cinema on personal identity. Seberg’s Patricia is more enigmatic. Her cool detachment makes her actions, especially the ultimate betrayal, difficult to parse emotionally. Is she a femme fatale, a confused romantic, or simply adrift? The ambiguity is intriguing but ultimately leaves me craving a deeper connection.

Breathless also serves as a meta-cinematic experience. Godard peppers the film with references to other movies. This self-awareness was innovative at the time, inviting viewers to question the nature of storytelling and reality. However, for modern audiences, these references might feel esoteric, diminishing their impact.

Reflecting on Breathless today, its legacy is undeniable. It paved the way for the French New Wave and influenced countless filmmakers worldwide. The idea of the director as auteur—crafting a personal vision with the camera as pen—gained prominence through Godard’s approach. The film challenged industry norms, showing that constraints could fuel creativity rather than hinder it.

But innovation does not always equate to timelessness. While Breathless remains a vital piece of film history, its resonance with contemporary viewers may be more intellectual than emotional. The improvisational style, once fresh, feels aimless. The existential dialogues, while thought-provoking, does not compensate for the lack of narrative drive.

Breathless is a film that must be appreciated within its historical context. It’s a cinematic landmark—a whisper of rebellion that echoed loudly in the halls of tradition. For enthusiasts of film history and those interested in the evolution of cinematic language, it is essential viewing. But for the casual moviegoer seeking a gripping story or deeply relatable characters, it might leave one … well … a bit breathless in its abstraction.[2]

★★★☆☆

This film, this Folie à Deux, it’s a peculiar beast. A glittering, unsettling thing, like a shard of glass embedded in a velvet glove. It lures you in with the promise of spectacle, of Joaquin Phoenix’s raw, visceral performance – a performance so compelling it almost makes you forget the monstrous nature of the character he inhabits. And the camera, oh the camera! Lawrence Sher, the cinematographer, paints with light and shadow, capturing the textures of decay, the grotesque beauty of a face contorted in laughter or rage. Every pore, every fleck of makeup, is rendered with a precision that borders on the obsessive. It’s a feast for the eyes, even as it makes your stomach churn.

Phoenix, of course, is magnificent. He doesn’t just play Arthur Fleck, he is Arthur Fleck, inhabiting the character’s brokenness with a ferocity that’s both terrifying and mesmerizing. There’s no praise for the Joker himself, the man is a void, a black hole of malevolent energy, but Phoenix’s portrayal is a masterclass.

And then there’s the music. The film flirts with the musical genre, offering glimpses of what might have been. There are moments of genuine brilliance, particularly one show-stopping number that finally scratches that Joker itch, a twisted, theatrical expression of his fractured psyche. The concept, using music to explore Arthur’s descent into madness, is intriguing, but the execution feels hesitant, as if the filmmakers were afraid to fully commit to the bit. They dip their toes into the waters of musical theatre, but never fully immerse themselves. A missed opportunity, perhaps.

The film grapples with interesting ideas, particularly the susceptibility of the masses to charismatic figures, regardless of how warped their message might be. This thread, established in Joker, continues here, with the city teetering on the brink of chaos, a reflection of Arthur’s own internal turmoil. The film’s interpretation of the pseudobulbar affect, introduced in the first film, adds another layer of complexity, blurring the lines between genuine emotion and involuntary outbursts. We are left questioning the authenticity of Arthur’s feelings, just as the citizens of Gotham are misled by his chaotic performance.

But here’s the rub: it feels like they filmed the wrong movie. So much of the narrative is bogged down in legal and procedural elements, courtroom dramas and psychiatric evaluations. While the city burns outside, the film keeps us trapped within the confines of a Gotham courtroom and Arkham Hospital. I yearned to see the chaos unfold, to witness the city’s reaction to this asshat of an anti-hero, this criminal clown who has become a symbol of their discontent. Instead, we’re stuck in institutional hallways, listening to legal jargon. And every time the narrative shifted to Harvey Dent, played by a disconcertingly polished Harry Lawtey, the illusion shattered. He looked like he belonged on a yacht with daddy, not in the grimy, corrupt world of Gotham. Even the eventual glimpse of his origin story, intriguing as it was, couldn’t quite redeem the jarring miscasting. Each cut to Dent pulled me out of the film, a stark reminder of the artifice of it all.

And Lady Gaga, a force of nature, a global music icon, is strangely underutilized. Given the film’s musical leanings, her presence felt almost perfunctory. It’s as if the filmmakers didn’t quite know what to do with her talent.

It’s rumored the film cost upward of $150 million. $200 million? More? I’ll be damned, but I can’t figure out how that money was spent on screen.

Now, for the spoilers. That final shot. Joker on the ground, and behind him, a figure emerges from the shadows, the true agent of chaos. It’s a chilling moment, a suggestion that everything we’ve witnessed has been a prelude, a distorted origin story for the Joker we know from the comics. This reframing retroactively improves the first film, transforming it from a standalone character study into the first act of a much larger, more sinister narrative. It feels like a long con, a cinematic sleight of hand, and I, for one, am willing to be fooled. The idea that this was all planned, that the filmmakers knew where they were going all along, is far more satisfying than the alternative. It elevates the entire project, turning it into something far more complex and intriguing than it initially appeared. Even if it’s a lie, it’s a beautiful lie, and I’ll gladly embrace it.

We’re talking about the film on The Film Board this weekend, show released next Tuesday.