Batman Returns

Year of release: 1992.                     Directed by Tim Burton.                Starring Michael Keaton, Michelle Pfeiffer, Danny DeVito, and Christopher Walken.

The first (brief) review I wrote of Batman Returns began as follows: “Everything about this film can be explained by simply remembering this is not Batman film, it is not a superhero film, it is a Tim Burton film. And it is a Tim Burton film about three psychopaths with parent issues who costume play while endangering the lives of every resident in Gotham City.”

If you’re wondering who the three psychopaths are, they are Danny DeVito’s Penguin, Michelle Pfeiffer’s Catwoman, and Michael Keaton’s Batman. I believe Batman murders four people in this film—two of whom he kills upon his first screen entrance. DeVito’s grunting, grotesque, and strangely sex-starved Penguin with his bizarre revenge plot is the obvious villain, and while Pfeiffer’s sinister Catwoman is a far cry from the sympathetic Selina Kyle of later screen adaptations, her unresolved parent issues and ticking maternal clock make for a perfectly explosive femme fatale to foil both the Penguin and Batman.

While the Penguin is the obvious villain, Christopher Walken’s business mogul Max Shreck rivals him for control of Gotham City in a game of politics where they continually shift between allies and enemies. Have I mentioned that Keaton’s emotionally repressed Batman and Bruce Wayne is barely in this film? It’s vastly superior to Burton’s 1989 Batman for that alone, and the little we see of this stoic caped crusader only serves to reinforce that he’s as unhinged as his two nemeses.

I, and others, have included Batman Returns on the list of great Christmas movies, because it is set completely around Christmas. For a holiday about the Incarnation, reconciliation between heaven and earth, and a time of general peace and good will on earth, a movie about sexually repressed psychopaths with traumatic childhoods taking out their anger and neuroses on an entire city populace as they all navigate a late-stage capitalist hellscape controlled by one equally corrupt, but boringly idiotic, man simply because he has money, may not seem like a normal choice for festive cheer. However, if there ever were an in absentia depiction of a world that needed a savior, this is it.

A later and more beloved film about the Dark Knight calls him the hero we deserve, not the one we need. In Batman Returns, it’s a stretch even to call him a hero. There is a case to be made that Catwoman is the actual hero here given she sacrifices one of her nine literal lives to murder Shreck, and as the character who bears the brunt of capitalism’s oppression, her insanity has the most natural causes behind it. For the record, I would not make that case—this film has no heroes in my book—but while this incarnation of Catwoman is more evil than later ones, it is possible to say she’s more righteous and realistic than any other character.

Pfeiffer delivers the lines of a repressed and rebellious femme fatale with such camp and passion that the psychopathy of all the major characters comes into focus around her. The contrast of her two entrances into her pink, one bedroom apartment so perfectly captures the transformation of a bachelorette longing for partnership with a burned-out bitch determined to screw over those who have made her life hell, which is noted through the changing set design of her bedroom.

Catwoman’s shifting hatred between Shreck and Batman, may seem unreasonable, but as a psychopath, why should she be expected to think reasonably? As she says, “Life’s a bitch, and so am I,” and she sees to it to dish that bitchiness out to anyone who gets in her way. Also, as both Schreck and Batman are two filthy rich capitalists, they are more similar than not. Thankfully, Batman Returns does not have the handwringing over billionaires using their wealth to save a city as Robert Pattinson’s Batman did. Nor does it entertain any questions about Batman being a hero or a villain as Nolan’s trilogy did, despite Keaton’s Batman being one of the most unethical screen versions of the superhero. It takes the comic book conventions at face value and runs with them, along with running with its own bonkers premise—including, but not limited to, the scene where Pfeiffer self-grooms her leather catsuit and deepthroats a parakeet to intimidate the Penguin.

In the age of the MCU and a general cinematic obsession with realism, I cannot begin to describe how refreshing this straightforward, pulpy camp is to watch. From the practically un-choreographed fight sequences to villains randomly pointing guns in the air to everyone pausing to watch the acrobatics of whom they’re fighting, the lack of realism makes this fantasy world a delight. I’m still not sure I’d call this Burton’s best film, although it is unquestionably a contender, but it is without a doubt the most Tim Burton film ever.

There’s something tragically appropriate about a Christmas film calling a corrupt capitalist the Santa Claus of a city, which is how Shreck is introduced. While Santa is a myth with a tangential relationship to the true meaning of Christmas, there is a rite of passage for many children when they learn the truth about Santa and Christmas presents. In Batman Returns, the orphaned Batman, the rejected Penguin, and the estranged Catwoman were all clearly deprived of healthy, formative relationships with their parents, and letting those family tensions erupt over Christmastime at the cost of an entire society is a delightfully campy masterstroke.

Even more fittingly, in a world that needs a savior, or has lost any spirit of Christmas, mistaking capitalist greed for generosity, which the citizens of Gotham do as they lionize Shreck, makes this tragic hellscape all the more quintessentially Burtonesque. The Gotham police’s reliance on Batman is yet another wish for more money to save the day. The commitment to this campy tragedy escalates perfectly until the only way to wake up from the nightmare is to see mommy kissing Santa Claus. And at that point, as innocence is shattered, no amount of presents or money can solve childhood trauma or capitalism’s injustice. So that’s when you get a cat. Merry Christmas.

Personal recommendation: A+

Rebecca

Year of release: 1940       Directed by Alfred Hitchcock. Starring Joan Fontaine, Laurence Olivier, Judith Anderson, and George Sanders.

The two movies that made the most vivid impression on me as a child of ten or twelve were Howard Hawks’ screwball comedy Bringing Up Baby and Hitchcock’s melodramatic thriller Rebecca, his only film to win best picture. They are two of the few favorite films from my childhood that I continue to find endlessly rewarding regardless of how many times I rewatch them.

When you rewatch an old favorite that you haven’t seen in a few years, there is always the possibility that tastes have changed and what once connected powerfully with you will fail to do so now. At the same time, favorite movies from early teenage years are bound to leave a more lasting impact. The wonder and awe of childhood is still strong, but the cusp of transitioning into adulthood and a slightly greater awareness gives the films a unique power. For an entire generation those films were Star Wars and Raiders of the Lost Ark. For my generation it was The Lord of the Rings. For me personally it was Bringing Up Baby and Rebecca.

At eleven years old, or however old I was when I first watched Rebecca, the mood and atmosphere blew me away. I had no idea why. It might have even been the first Hitchcock film I saw. (I want to say that was Rear Window, but I’m not sure.) Either way, it was the first Hitchcock film to make an impression on me. (Vertigo made a similar impression, but that was a few years later.)

Watching Rebecca now, after having read Daphne du Maurier’s novel and watched most of Hitchcock’s filmography, the film is not only a masterpiece of Hitchcock’s techniques, but also a masterpiece in adaptation and how to bypass the production code. The biggest change from the novel, necessitated by the production code, is the reveal that sets up the third act. Hitchcock maintains the most important element that the new Mrs. de Winter (Joan Fontaine) learn the truth about Rebecca and the shadow hanging over the film be redirected. At the same time, he softens the circumstances surrounding her death while still maintaining a necessary amount of culpability and guilt.

The shadow cast by Rebecca and the nature of her death is apparent from the first shot of the film—a long tracking shot up the drive to Manderley, the fictional estate of Maxim de Winter (Laurence Olivier)—accompanied by the famous line, “Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again.” A dreamlike aura pervades the film, from the whirlwind romance where Maxim meets the nameless protagonist (maintained from the book’s first-person point-of-view), marries her, the couple returns to Manderley, and the new Mrs. de Winter tries to adopt to a lifestyle where everyone compares her to the illustrious Rebecca, including herself. All of this is aided by Franz Waxman’s score, which fluctuates in mood as if shifting between a dream and nightmare.

Only at the reveal which initiates the third act of the film do Maxim and his wife begin to wake up. For the two-thirds of the film leading up to that moment, the protagonist and the audience have taken for granted that she is the “wrong woman” to live at Manderley and attempt to replace Rebecca. She unquestionably is, but the way in which she is drives the mystery and suspense. Fontaine’s performance brilliantly emphasizes the anxiety and self-doubt that makes the protagonist seem to be in an indescribable danger. The falsely accused wrong man is a common Hitchcockian trope, and the application of it by the protagonist to herself is what gives the seemingly blissful Hollywood romance between Olivier and Fontaine an undercurrent of unease.

The first person to stoke that unease is Mrs. van Hopper (Florence Bates), for whom our protagonist works as travel companion. Mrs. van Hopper’s blithe dismissal of Maxim’s love for his new wife as loneliness feeds his wife’s self-doubt, which only becomes worse when she meets Manderley’s intimidating housekeeper Mrs. Danvers (a magnificent Judith Anderson).

Anderson perfectly maintains the cold demeanor of a housekeeper whose love for her deceased mistress exceeded all normal bonds. Rebecca was not only an idol for Mrs. Danvers, and her character is an iconic instance of queer-coding, and one that Anderson masterfully plays up with a deliberately unfeminine performance, serving as a contrast to the perfect lady we hear of Rebecca being. Mrs. Danvers keeps the spirit of Rebecca alive not only though her meticulous and reverent upkeep of Rebecca’s former room, but also through her subtle undermining of the new Mrs. de Winter. She is certainly not the most iconic Hitchcock villain, but her rigid clinging to the past makes her one of the most sinister ones.

The film itself is steeped in the past, making Mrs. Danvers a natural extension of the world into which Joan Fontaine enters. The grandiose estate, the opening dream of the past, and the constant reminders of Rebecca’s death by cuts to the sea with its crashing waves all combine to make Rebecca’s presence inescapable. When Fontaine enters that world, her presence inevitably starts to change it. The suspense as to whether she will succeed or whether it will destroy her is some of the greatest Hitchcock ever crafted.

When we reach the final act of the film—an inquest regarding the nature of Rebecca’s death—the truth is known to the viewer, and there is a fear it will be known to the world as well. If the lives of the wealthy are inherently subject to voyeurism, then Joan Fontaine’s protagonist has truly become one with Maxim in allowing herself to be subject to public scrutiny along with him. There’s only one way for them to escape the presence of Rebecca, and it is forced on them by the film’s end.

None of that would have been apparent when I first saw Rebecca nearly two decades ago. What was apparent was the memorable opening shot, Judith Anderson’s terrifying and dynamic performance, the constant threat to a happily ever after romance, and the always increasing suspense. Hitchcock brilliantly uses all those elements while also providing so many additional layers to this film, and while it may or may not be his best work, it is easily my favorite film of his.

Personal recommendation: A+

My Cousin Rachel

Year of release: 2017              Directed by Roger Michell.                Starring Sam Claflin, Rachel Weisz, Iain Glen, Holliday Grainger, and Pierfrancesco Favino.

Compare and contrast the following sentences. “They used to hang men at Four Turnings in the old days.” “Did she; or didn’t she? Who’s to blame?” One of them is the opening to a masterpiece of 20th century literature, which brilliantly sets the stage for a world balanced between beauty and menace with an aura of perpetual ambiguity, wracked by guilt, inner torment, and memories. The other is the opening line of a film adapted from the Wikipedia summary of the same novel.

I will say right now, that on a technical level, this adaptation of Daphne du Maurier’s My Cousin Rachel is not a bad film. A couple clumsy edits aside, the cinematography is (mostly) gorgeous, the production design is exquisite, the acting is competent, and the directing passable. None of that makes up for the utter ruination of the novel, which as full disclosure, is one of my three favorite books.

The problems begin with the vapid opening line, which heavy-handedly suggests the conclusion of the story rather than introducing us to Philip (Sam Claflin) and giving us a background to make him sympathetic even as he makes reckless decisions throughout the course of the story. That background, which takes nearly eighty pages in the novel, is bull dozed through in about ten minutes as a prologue before the title card. That pacing barely relents for the remainder of the film.

We see throughout the film that Philip is a rash imprudent man, but since the film races through the story with equal recklessness, we never learn why. Thus we never understand the full tragedy or motivation behind his often conflicting actions.

We learn Philip was orphaned as a young boy, and his wealthy older cousin Ambrose took him in, despite the church ladies insisting a young boy needs to grow up around a woman, which is a hurried way of acknowledging Philip’s sexism and difficulty in relating to women. We do not see any of Philip’s fond or troubled memories with Ambrose that we do in the book, and the film completely omits the crucial detail that Philip worshiped Ambrose, embodying both his virtues and his faults.

The film then rushes to its next plot point to check off: Ambrose fell ill and went to Italy to recover. There, despite his self-affirmed perpetual bachelorhood, he fell in love with Rachel (Rachel Weisz) and married her. Then, Ambrose wrote one more letter to England in which he implored Philip to save him from Rachel who was poisoning him. Philip set out for Italy immediately, consumed with hatred for his murderous witch of a cousin, only to learn Ambrose had died of a brain tumor that made him paranoid and irrational.

Shortly afterwards Rachel comes to England to meet Philip, and when he sees her, his resentment instantly melts. In the scene where they first meet, Weisz embodies du Maurier’s title character so perfectly, that for a brief moment, I was almost swept away along with Philip and tempted to forgive the film its faults, but then it went and butchered her most crucial scenes by rushing through them, which undermined the gravity of Philip’s former antagonism.

The biggest problem with this film is that it seems to think that fidelity to the novel merely consists of hitting all the major plot points. With that it fundamentally misunderstands Daphne du Maurier. No one reads a du Maurier novel primarily for its plot. The biggest weakness of her breakthrough novel Jamaica Inn is the thin and kind of predictable plot. Nonetheless, that novel was successful because of its foreboding atmosphere, generating sympathy for its conflicted protagonist thrown into unethical situations against her will, and because of the way it powerfully painted the Cornish countryside as simultaneously dangerous and liberating. Foreboding atmosphere, morally compromised yet sympathetic protagonists, and a love for the Cornish countryside by the sea are the three things that made du Maurier the great writer she was. This film is interested in none of them.

It needs to be mentioned that Philip’s relationship with Louise (Holliday Grainger), the daughter of his godfather and estate manager Mr. Kendall (Iain Glen), and her unreturned affection for him is also glazed over, which makes her presence at later climactic scenes irrelevant. More damningly, it makes the film’s coda, which is not in the book, appalling not only for the way it downplays the horror of the story, but also for its sexist treatment of Louise and exoneration of Philip.

The greatest strength of du Maurier’s novel My Cousin Rachel is the perpetual ambiguity that hangs over the story. Did Rachel murder Ambrose, or did he have a brain tumor? Is she just careless with money, or is she hiding dark secrets for which she needs money? And finally, is she plotting to murder Philip, or not? The film takes very clear sides, so clear that the attempt to turn the tables is completely unbelievable. In stark contrast, the book builds its atmosphere of horror and tragedy by constantly allowing the reader to second guess himself. That sort of subtlety is as foreign to the film as Rachel’s mysterious Italian friend Rainaldi (Pierfrancesco Favino) is to England.

The last half hour of my screening was permeated with snickering from the audience. I could hardly blame them; the plot points which made sense in the novel, considering the guilt and uncertainty plaguing Philip, seemed ludicrous here with the film’s one sided approach to the central conflict. If there ever was an example of how to ruin a piece of source material while adhering to its major plot points, this would be it.

There will be worse movies I see this year; there have already been worse movies released. There will be none that I hate more than My Cousin Rachel.

 

Personal Recommendation: D-

Content advisory: Two non-graphic sexual encounters, an anachronistic obscenity, and a mild aura of menace.                 MPAA rating: PG-13

Suggested Audience: Teens and up.

 

Dark Shadows

Year of Release: 2012     Directed by Tim Burton.  Starring Johnny Depp, Eva Green, Bella Heathcote, Michelle Pfeiffer, Chloë Grace Moretz, Gulliver McGrath, Jackie Earle Haley, and Helena Bonham Carter.

Dark Shadows marks the eighth collaboration of Tim Burton and Johnny Depp.  It is not their best work, but it is a far cry from their worst.  Depp plays Barnabas Collins, cursed by the witch Angelique Bouchard (Eva Green) whose advances he spurned.  She turned him into a vampire and vowed to destroy all future descendants of the Collins family.  When Barnabas returns one-hundred-ninety-six years later, his family is falling apart and the family business is nearly ruined.

This is natural material for Burton, and both he and Depp clearly enjoy themselves.  The art direction and set designs are impressive, colorful, and engaging without going over the top the way that Alice in Wonderland’s sets were an out of control smorgasbord of unique colors and shapes.  The gothic design of Collinwood is remarkable and strikes a good contrast and balance between the two time periods.  Burton’s recreation of the 1770’s and the 1970’s were amusing .  He gets solid performances out of a mostly familiar cast.  Michelle Pfeiffer is commanding as Elizabeth Collins Stoddard, the matriarch of the family.  Helena Bonham Carter is eerie as the selfish Dr. Julia Hoffman.  At one point, I did wonder about having Carter and Pfeiffer switch roles, but I think it was best the way Burton cast it.  Chloë Grace Moretz is sullen and brooding as Carolyn, the secretive daughter of Elizabeth.  Bella Heathcote captures the innocence of Vicky, and Eva Green is seductive and conniving as the evil witch.

The film runs one-hundred-thirteen minutes, which is a little long.  The propulsion of the film is Burton’s eccentricity, solid cast performances, Depp’s occasional humor, and Elfman’s score.  Everything is good, but altogether it may not have enough meat to carry the film for much longer than one-hundred minutes.  It would be sort of like constructing a meal out of gourmet salads and ice cream.  It is enjoyable, but does leave one desiring a bit more.

While Dark Shadows is a film that I personally enjoyed and would certainly be willing to watch again, I would not disagree with anyone who disliked it.  The film is a marked improvement over Alice in Wonderland, which was mostly devoid of any of Burton’s trademark quirkiness.  Perhaps there is too much quirkiness in Dark Shadows creating an uneven pacing and disproportionate balance between comedy and horror.  That certainly could isolate most viewers, especially those less fond of Burton’s oeuvre, or those less familiar with it.  However, this Burton admirer found the film to be an enjoyable change of pace that hearkened back to some of Burton’s best works, such as Beetlejuice, Edward Scissorhands, and The Nightmare Before Christmas.

(Or maybe after immediately watching Black Swan, anything is an enjoyable change of pace.  But I doubt that is why I enjoyed Dark Shadows.)

Many critics have complained that Burton and Depp never find a balance between gothic horror and campy spoof.  Barnabas is certainly a fish out of water in the 1970’s, and the film reflects his odd and futile attempts to fit in with society.  I thought that those attempts were humorous rather than isolating, but again, I would understand if the jokes were not to someone else’s taste.  Danny Elfman composed a melancholy gothic theme for Barnabas and the 1770’s that strongly contrasts with the pop music selected for the later time period.  After the prologue, the film cuts forward two-hundred years away from the cursed Barnabas to Vicky who wishes to make a new start to her life.  The switch in the underscoring is appropriately an equal contrast.  The dichotomy between the two styles of music is similar to dichotomy between the gothic horror and the comic awkwardness.  Just as Elfman’s music helps them fit together, Burton and Depp manage to keep all the elements together in an enjoyable mix of horror and comedy, spanning two centuries.

The film is a must see for anyone who is a fan of Tim Burton.  Anyone else who is interested should probably wait until it comes out on DVD.

Content Advisory: Sexually suggestive scenes and dialogue, implied oral sex, fantasy violence – some of it gory, a suicide, and brief crass language.                       MPAA rating: PG-13

Suggested Audience: Adults.

Personal Recommendation: B-