Blood wasn't the only thing that sucked

The original Nosferatu has a story that's possibly even more interesting than that of the film itself. Not only is it one of the finest examples of the German expressionist era in film and a further example of the fragility of the early art form, after most copies were ordered to be destroyed until a few were later (ahem) unearthed and has since been preserved in various other forms, but it's also a shining example of copyright infringement and an attempt to not pay creators what they're owed. Prana Film, a short-lived production company, didn't want to pay for the rights to Bram Stoker's novel, Dracula, and thus ordered their screenwriter, Henrik Galeen, to change minor details (like Count Dracula becoming Count Orlok and half the story taking place in Germany, rather than England) in an attempt to claim that it was an original story. Stoker's widow, Florence Balcombe, promptly sued after its 1922 release and all copies of the film were ordered to be destroyed by the court. Thankfully, not all of them were, so we can still see the film today and appreciate F. W. Murnau's storytelling technique and innovations in the medium and with the vampire concept, in general (like suggesting that they're destroyed by sunlight, rather than just typically trying to avoid it.) So, there's a space for the film in the history of the medium, even if it was an attempted ripoff. Indeed, the story of its production is fascinating enough that Elias Merhige and Steven Katz collaborated on Shadow of the Vampire about 25 years ago, which is a fictionalized retelling of the filming of Nosferatu which involves some suspicion among the crew as to whether Max Schreck, who plays Count Orlok in the original film and is played in this reexamination by Willem Dafoe, is exactly what he says he is...

So, it was kind of exciting to learn that Robert Eggers was going to attempt a genuine remake of the F. W. Murnau film. I wasn't blown away by The Lighthouse, but I was willing to give it a chance because the latter wasn't terrible and because of my attachment to the original film, which I've seen three times, including at our Michigan Theater, accompanied by the organ to add to the eeriness of its overall tone. Well, in Eggers' new version, tone is definitely an issue because the one he was apparently aiming for was loud, overwrought, and lacking any of the subtlety of the original. You would think that, at the very least, the one upside would be the ability to take advantage of modern production techniques and technology for the visuals, but even those come across as a lesser version of the 1922 film because they're not really used to convey anything interesting. The fascination with Murnau's version was the use of the vampire's shadow to convey threat and accomplish things from a distance and Eggers duplicates that here but it lacks the jittery charm of the original, such that I found myself pining for Coppala's homage to it in his Bram Stoker's Dracula from 33 years ago, if only because it was clearly an effect and didn't look so perfectly clean and manufactured as the version employed by Eggers.

But that's kind of a minor detail because the main problem was simply how loud and abrasive everything was, from the acting to the score. It seems like the instruction given to the cast was that, since they were in a film set at the beginning of the Victorian era (1838), everyone had to act as if they needed a fainting couch at the ready because their next line might drain them of the will to live (kinda like a vampire...) The gushing and exhalation was constant. It was akin to watching an endless series of Loveswept novel covers, one after the other. I thought that it was a cute twist to have Dafoe included in the cast for this film as a seeming nod to Shadow, but I also kind of hoped that his gravitas and capacity for eeriness with just a glance or two might ground it in something akin to Murnau's version. Not so much. He was chewing as much scenery as anyone else and, in a film where the main villain is constantly biting people, that becomes more of a meta description than I care to make. And everything about this production was at that level of OTT. One of the worst parts was the score. This film can easily be summarized by the phrase "orchestral crash" because there were so many of them that the constant din became a genuine annoyance. You really don't need that many strings to announce that someone has once again rushed to a window in anguish/horror/plaintive longing/whathaveyou yet again. We've been there. You use music for atmosphere but here it might have been used as a way to keep people awake. Those of us who had no issue with that just found it irritating.

But that inability to keep people interested is a major issue, as well. I was distinctly bored about 2/3 of the way through the film and was restraining myself from checking the phone to see how much longer this might take. Part of the problem for me is certainly that I've seen this same story (and read the book) so many times I honestly can't count them. I know I've seen Murnau's version three times. I've seen Tod Browning and Bela Lugosi's version multiple times, as well. And then there's Coppola's and the Universal derivations of the Lugosi picture (often with Lugosi reprising the role) and on and on. I don't want to say that once you've seen one version, you've seen them all, but the novel has kind of been woven into the cultural fabric, such that seeing it reworked for the dozenth (and more) time isn't going to be mindblowing. With that in mind, it's fair to say that trying to do something slightly innovative with the story might not be a bad idea. But this was bog-standard vampire flick from the very outset, but made worse because it genuinely lacked any of the sense of style that the Prana film or any of the Universal films brought to the screen. There are no moments here that you would point at in the manner of Max Shreck's hand along the wall or Lugosi's penetrating stare and say that it's something that will become iconic or an instant identifier for this film. Instead, the identifier is going to be Lily-Rose Depp falling onto a bed again while we hear the orchestra telling us what's happening right in front of us. For the fifth time in the last ten minutes. So, I cannot recommend this one at all. Find the original streaming somewhere and play something like Danse Macabre in the background if you want an experience with some genuine atmosphere.

Batman: TAS, episode #41: If You're So Smart, Why Aren't You Rich?

There were a number of basic differences in this episode from many of what's come before. Not only was the visual style somewhat different, as we open in a suburban office park that has sunlight and pastel colors, as opposed to the grim shadows of Gotham City, but the title also didn't give a clue to the villain/problem of the story. The casual phrase that has been used to suggest that only money matters in modern society (as well as to implicitly justify the rapaciously wealthy ("He's obviously a genius because he's rich-!")) doesn't really clue us into what might follow, until we see a worker in the pastel maroon building of Competitron see his nameplate come off the door with the letters "E. Nygma" imprinted on it. This is the first appearance of the last of The Batman's "big" opponents to appear: The Riddler. The latter has never been one of the more interesting of the rogues' gallery, largely because he lacks either mystery or tragedy in his origin. He's mostly just a guy out for revenge, unlike stalwarts like The Joker, Two-Face, or Mr. Freeze. But he also provides room for a lot of gimmicks, which is often seen as one of the downfalls of the comic series in the 40s and 50s, before Neal Adams and Denny O'Neill took over in an attempt to return the lead character to his roots (and compete with Marvel.) In fact, the best presentation of The Riddler was probably in the TV series, Gotham, where he was shown as Edward, withdrawn forensics expert, long before he was walking around under a green bowler.

But there are some interesting references in this episode that could easily have been calling out typical corporate culture of the US at the time (and now) but also could have been sly references to Warner Bros' own past. Daniel Mockridge boasts that not only is the company the real source of the profits generated by Nygma's game design, Riddle of the Minotaur, but that he also convinced the latter to sign a work-for-hire contract, giving the company total control of the game and all its revenue, which is why they can fire Nygma in the opening scene. This is ripped right from comic book reality, in which work-for-hire was the standard, such that the brilliant characters and stories that were created for publishers and which earned them millions, not just from the comics but from merchandising, granted none of that largesse to the people who had actually created them until the 80s began to change that pattern. The most notorious case was with the other big name of DC Comics, Superman, who was created by Jerry Siegel and Joe Shuster. In the late 70s, when Richard Donner's Superman was finally bringing the character back to the big screen, the assembled media kept asking DC: "Who created Superman?". The response was always: "DC Comics created Superman.", just like Mockridge insisted. Later, of course, both Siegel and Shuster were found living in poverty while their creation had earned DC and its parent companies uncounted millions over the decades. They had signed a work-exclusive contract and, after they got out of the army in the 40s, were let go. In the end, DC was shamed into paying them $35k/year until they died. Bob Kane, creator of The Batman, OTOH, had signed no such thing and, in fact, had made it part of his contract that any publication of the character always had to have the label "Created by Bob Kane", which it still does to this day.

After we see Bruce Wayne attempting to buy into Competitron, supposedly to bring jobs to Gotham, we also see him expending great effort to rescue the wealthy Mockridge from the clutches of The Riddler, which is a contrast to his usual endeavors defending those who can't defend themselves. So, along with the visual style, it's a bit of an interesting thematic departure for our hero. That visual style change extends to the major fight scenes, as well, since The Batman and Robin mix it up with hired thugs under the lights of a nightclub that create quite the visual spectacle in our usually more staid presentation and later are jousting with golden griffons and their artillery explosions. As with a few other episodes, we're left to wonder at a couple scripting shortcuts, in that when The Riddler takes over Gotham Light & Power, it also knocks out the Batmobile's systems. Also, our introduction to The Riddler just took place and yet he insists that both of our heroes abandon their "utility belts" before entering the maze of the minotaur. This was definitely a script aimed at the more experienced Batman fan, since the assumption of knowledge about the main villain and his knowledge about our heroes is seemingly expected. That's also why I think the references to the contract situation were also very much "insider jokes", in that the older members of the audience would understand the references, while the younger members might at least be tempted to ask about the injustice being cited on their screen. In that respect, it's a tip of the hat once again to the writers and producers, not least for being able to get this past the heavy hand of the parent company.

Contrast in binging results

While we were off during the holidays, we decided to binge a couple series because the time and opportunity were both there. The first one was Clarkson's Farm. Now, full disclosure: I largely detest "reality" TV because most of them are simply setups to create drama out of nothing. Presenting people in real situations will almost never be interesting enough to retain an audience unless you're an actual documentarian with an actual story. For this stuff, something always has to be manufactured. This was never more evident than when I had the misfortune to be sick a few years back and, even worse, decided to watch a couple of the Storage Wars-type shows (which may have included the actual Storage Wars. They were all so pedestrian that I don't remember.) Somehow, no matter where the nominal leads of the show went, there was always a "villain/huge rival" person that would be the primary opposition in bidding on abandoned storage units. It was obviously a setup to create situations that would have normally been Man from Mundania from the very outset. Your "reality" TV was clearly scripted. Even when there's not an obvious writer, it's usually quite evident that the producers are selecting "random" contestants by their personalities that will doubtlessly conflict, thus generating the aforementioned "drama." Perhaps it's because of Jeremy Clarkson's showmanship and experience (I have never seen Grand Tour or Who Wants To Be a Millionaire?), but Clarkson's Farm never seemed to require that. The people involved range from perfectly mundane (most of them) to rather unusual (Gerry, the wall-repairer and nominal "head of security") but Clarkson does such a good job of playing off of them that you don't feel like you're being spoon-fed anything. So, not only was it often hilarious, usually involving Jeremy's acerbic relationship with his primary contractor and assistant, Kaleb, but it was also incredibly educational. We learned more about modern farming in a few hours of watching this show than we probably could have in a week's worth of straight documentaries. It also did a great job of making rather pointed statements about climate change and Tory government incompetence without hitting you over the head with them. You lived the experience just like Jeremy does. Now, clearly, Clarkson is in a much more advantageous position than your typical farmer and his poor business decisions would probably be a death knell for the average farm if he weren't already a millionaire and wasn't being paid handsomely by Amazon to show his wild ideas either taking fruit or not (mostly not), so it's not like this is precisely "reality" TV, either. But he does spend a lot of time muttering with his land agent, Charlie, about the cost of things and how the farm- and farming, in general -just isn't sustainable in England. He also acknowledges his situation regularly (i.e. he probably couldn't do this if there weren't a film crew following him around.) We burned through the 24 available episodes with 8 more incoming in May.

After we finished that, we poked around for something else on Amazon and came across Goliath, a legal drama helmed by Billy Bob Thornton. Billy plays Billy McBride (convenient), a genius lawyer who apparently founded a legal firm that became high-powered enough in the span of ~20 years to be deeply in bed with major defense contractors. But Billy lost his taste for the big show and drank himself to near-oblivion, such that he now lives in a motel somewhere near the beach in California. He gets recruited to be the front man by another lawyer wanting to do a quick settle-and-cashout on a wrongful death case against one of the former firm's major clients. This, of course, morphs into a vast conspiracy that provides the apparent reasoning for making this into a TV series, rather than a one-off film. In addition to BBT, the cast is relatively star-studded (William Hurt, Maria Bello, Molly Parker) but the writing is... not, primarily because the entire basis of the series is kind of half-assed to begin with. We made it through 3.5 episodes, with the last .5 being under duress because I was already pointing out that a) no one in the series other than Billy is actually an interesting character and he is mostly because he's BBT; b) nothing in the plot or the action even graces the concept of what legal work is like; and c) that plot is completely paint-by-numbers. In all three episodes, there was a setup for a crisis, the crisis, the furthering of that crisis, and then its immaculate resolution. Said resolution was always ascribed to Billy's panache, encyclopedic knowledge of the law, and the use of every shortcut by which to execute the exercise of that knowledge. This is compounded by the fact that every character in this story already knows this about Billy and predicts that he'll do exactly as he does, at which point he does exactly that. He never makes a mistake because the plot doesn't allow room for mistakes. That might require another 10 minutes of screen time and that would disrupt the pattern that's been established. It's like how you could watch episodes of Star Trek: The Next Generation and know exactly where they'd hit the plot points (problem, heightened problem, crisis, resolution) at each commercial break. Just as an example of the detachment of this series, despite having apparently drunk himself to seeming ruin, Billy lives in the most nicely-appointed "cheap motel" rooms (two of them) that you'll ever see because I guess we can't have a genuinely burdensome living situation because that might require actual writing about a human character and would detract from the "cool" legal maneuvers that Billy is required to do in each episode that also largely take place off-camera...? It's like watching Deus Ex Machina, the Series. Do not bother.