Reaction Shots

James Whale may be best known as the director of “Frankenstein” and “The Bride of Frankenstein”, but he also directed plenty of classics and well-received films outside the horror genre. He also lived openly as a gay man. I mention this because it has some bearing on how “The Old Dark House” can be viewed. After “Frankenstein”, Universal wanted more of the same from the genre and from Whale. He had shot “The Impatient Maiden” in 1932, but it does not seem to have made much of a mark on cinema (Whale claimed he took the job to keep busy.) “The Old Dark House”, though, was where Whale could have some serous fun.  On the surface, it’s a kitschy creeky, though not haunted in the strict sense, house story. Two sets of strangers seek safe haven in a remote manse populated with an eccentric family and their mute, possibly homicidal servant Morgan (played by Boris Karloff who was having a major spat with his soon to be ex Whale.) When I first watched it on a cruddy transfer from VHS, it was

I will preface less than complimentary reviews with some variation of the sentence “No one sets out to make a bad movie” from now until I quit writing reviews or until I quit watching movies that suck. I will do so because it is, for the most part, true. There are exceptions where filmmakers haven’t cared whether a film is good or not or where the goal has been to make a bad movie. “Cannibal Apocalypse” comes to mind. A variety pack of trash I’ve seen where it’s painfully obvious that no one gave a shit (I bought a four DVD set of Direct to Video garbage shot in New Jersey and Pennsylvania that I wish I still had just to show people; no, I don’t remember any of the titles and mercifully I remember very little of any of the “films” themselves except that one - I shit you not - literally had handmade signs describing what the set was supposed to be; “Gas Station”, for instance…) also lingers. Then there are just plain lazy flicks that I detest because they are just that - lazy. All of A

As the day draws closer, I really am increasingly inspired to watch as much “horror” as I can. Following my inclinations, I am bouncing across eras and the past couple of days, I decided to head back to 1932. Carl Theodore Dreyer’s “Vampyr” was shot over a longish period the previous year with Dreyer’s aim to make a film unlike any other. He succeeded admirably. Unfortunately, contemporary audiences and critics were not just unkind, they were antipathetic toward the enterprise so much that it was considered a minor work and best forgotten. Fortunately, it is now recognized as a work that transcends the genre and is now very much remembered. I’ve seen it three or four times and each time, it grows deeper for me, particularly as an example of oneiric cinema. It is often lumped in as a piece of expressionism, and a case could be made for it; but not the German expressionism of, say, Wedekind or Pabst, much less the proto-Expressionsim of Murnau. But Dreyer shares a sense of the dreamli

I had great hopes for “Amsterdam” and it is not a complete failure or waste of time but geez, Louise, where is the editing? And the writing? And why do we wonder why John David Washington, a remarkable actor is bled dry of charisma? What is Rami Malek really doing? At least, Christian Bale and occasionally, Margot Robbie are having fun. Robert Deniro even rises to the moment for a bit as an upstanding Gregory Peckish type character. Hell, I even got a kick out of Michael Shannon and Mike Meyers; no, really. Mike Meyers!   But as an ensemble, no one seemed to click.  Oh, and Chris Rock is a blast.  And Taylor Swift! Alas, poor Taylor, Horatio. I knew her (she’s only in the film for a sneeze before …spoilers, should I? Nyah, I don’t care that much about spoiling the movie; I just kind of want to get through this.) Speaking of Taylors; Anya Taylor-Joy tries to do something, too, but I’m just not sure what. “Amsterdam” is or should have been a rich journey of a puzzle box of a mo