It could happen there.

Witch Hunt (1994)

IMDb meta-data is a runtime of 1h and 40m (it felt longer), rated at 5.5 by 1,800 (drug-addled) cinematizens. 

Genre: Noir fantasy.  

DNA: Hollywood. 

Verdict: Skip it.

Tagline:  The tortoise outpaced it.

Intended as a sequel to Cast a Deadly Spell it suffices to demonstrate the superiority of that film to this one. Yikes.

This was watching cement dry, and wishing a dog would run through it to break up the monotony.  

The original pitch idea would have been interesting but the execution was execrable.  What idea?  Set in early 1950s Hollywood the unscrupulous Senator Joseph McCarthy campaigns against, not communism in La La Land, but magic. (See Cast a Deadly Spell.) He is so unscrupulous that he plans to burn witches alive at his campaign rallies.  (That might have seemed far fetched in 1994, but it is now all too easy to imagine this will appeal to the planners of the next Republican convention.)

I won’t labour the threadbare production values.  The non-sequiturs. The dead ends.  I will mention that a dead bored Dennis Hopper mouths his lines in a monotone, with frequent glances at his watch.  

There were some good moments, but too few for redemption.  The late Julian Sand as the Irish villain was a delight, perfectly polite and never threatening, yet menacing all the same.  Hypolyta Kropokin was a dignified witch who seemed to forget her hexography at the crucial moment.  And the female lead had a poignant backstory that emerged at the end, without any fit to the plot, such as it was, in which she got to act.  There was also a corker of a special effect at the Drive-In Theatre. In short, it has moments, but these dots did not connect up into a whole.

The truth is out there…. Or is it?

Out There (1995)

IMDB meta-data is runtime of 1h and 38m, rated 5.3 by 537 cinematizens.

Genre: Sy Fy.

DNA: USA.

Verdict: Trailer trash prevails.

Tagline: The truth is out there. 

One-hit wonder photographer collects old cameras and occasionally they have film in them, which he develops, invariably family snaps.  After a particularly bad day, for diversion he buys a Box Brownie from a yard sale, a camera of no interest but a salve to his bruised ego on the day, and, yes, it has film in it, and, yes, he develops it, and…..these are not family snaps.  

The Brownie film, conveniently dated to August 1969, shows, yep, an alien abduction of two good ole boys who were out deer hunting in the primeval forest dark and deep. Conscientiously, the snapper tries to interest the Air Force in investigating, but Project Blue Book, which was never a book and not blue, has been closed.  No budget for checking every cockeyed hysterical claim. Then he tries selling them to a news agency executive who laughs them off as fakes.  

Fakes they may be but strange things start happening around him, and off he goes with the now grown-up daughter of one of the supposed abductees who never did return home.  The plot is a Möbius strip that keeps returning to the point of origin, until…!  

There are many smiles and few laughs along the way, and some star turns by some stars, including a caricature of Jean-Paul Sartre, and Tiffany Case. (See the full cast list.)  

Unpretentious, unassuming, diverting, and sharp with an appealing cast and some complicated plotting.  Moreover, it has a nice story about — believe it or not, Ripley! — Richard Nixon. 

Pedants corner: yes, I know why it was called blue.  Do you?

Yep, it’s magic!

Cast a Deadly Spell (1991).

IMDb meta-data is a runtime of 1h and 36m, rated 6.4 by 4,900 cinematizens.

Genre: Noir plus.

DNA: Hollywood and Vine.

Verdict: I ate it with a spoon!

Tagline: It’s magic!

LA 1948 where the latest trend, everyone is doing it, is magic.  That is MAGIC. It’s the newest technology of the day activated by a snap of the fingers or an incantation. Most of it, most of the time is white magic, little conveniences, but where there is white…there is also black. Very.

Gumshoe Gus Grissom is on the case, using the nom de noir Phil Lovecraft.  And what a case it is, the recovery of an overdue book purloined from Croesus.  Phil may not be sharpest number in the phone book, but he is clean and honest.  

Clean? He doesn’t use magic! That puts him in the same minority today that eschews mobile phones and scanners: as they are technophobes so he is a magicophobe.  That makes him the right man to recover this book of the dark arts, because he won’t be tempted to use it.

Off he goes with his $40 a day and gas money, encountering a unicorn and, even more rare in Hollywood, a virgin.  Everyone is up to no good apart from his landlady Hippolyte Kropotkin.  That name, like many others draws on the Mythos of H P Lovecraft for the cognoscenti.  

The screenplay has gaps but the direction is confident and brisk to keep things moving, and move they do.  Part tribute like Dead Men Don’t Wear Plaid and part pastiche like Chinatown, and wholly original.  Recommended to all Noiristas

Pedant’s corner: yes, yes I know about Prince Kropotkin. I read his book Mutual Aid. Bet you haven’t.

Charlie’s duds.

The Return of Charlie Chan (1972). IMDb meta-data is a run time of 1h and 37m, rated 5.7 by 177 cinematizens.  

Charlie Chan and the Curse of the Dragon Queen (1981). IMDb meta-data is a runtime of 1h and 35m, rated 4.0 by 1,400 cinematizens.   

Verdict (1): Return to Sender – Insufficient postage.  

Verdict (2): I rooted for the Dragon Queen.

Red or White? It makes a difference.

White Russians, Red Peril:  A Cold War History of Migration to Australia (2021) by Sheila Fitzpatrick.    

Good Reads meta-data is 584 pages, rated 3.76 by 17 litizens.  

Genre: History.

Verdict: Helluva story well told.

Tagline:  Count your lucky stars. 

Post War Europe was a mess. Millions of displaced persons (whose countries had disappeared or had been destroyed), millions of refuges who had fled westward ahead of the Soviet advance, millions of Prisoners of War freed, all these remained. Nor was this human disaster limited to Europe because many Russians had decamped to Manchuria, first in 1917, and then again in 1930s, and later.  When I hear the term ex-pat ‘White Russians’ I think of those Tsarists who went to Harbin.  

But the reality is so much more complicated than that, and the author sets it out with admirable clarity.  A Displaced Person (many freed from slave labour and death camps) had a certain status because they had nowhere to go. Could Ukrainians be stateless since there had not been a sovereign Ukraine? Was Jewish a nationality or a faith? 

A refuge who fled west had a homeland that was ready and willing to take them, but many, perhaps most, did not want to go back to Poland, Belorussian, Russia, Hungary, or Armenia.  Many of these people had been in the same slave labour or death camps.  Then there were the POWS on whom there will be a comment below. 

Then there are semantics. ‘Belorussian’ could be translated as ‘White Russian.’  But these white Russians had nothing in common with those in the Far East.  These eastern white Russians who had weathered Japanese occupation of Harbin (where most had congregated) with the advent of the Chinese Communist, who had agreed to repatriate them to the USSR, where their fate was certain.  

All of this definitional and semantic differentiation may seem trivial but at the time it had life-and-death consequences.  

Into this maelstrom of misery Australia, Canada, the USA, and to a lesser extent England, along with several Latin American countries and the future Israel offered respite.  The Australian Labor government had decided with the concurrence of the Opposition to recruit immigrants to increase the population against the vicissitudes of the future.  (One outcome of that immigration was the gigantic Snowy River Engineering Project.)    

Needless to say many of the displaced persons, refugees, and POWs tried to manipulate the process to their personal salvation and some officials had a blind eye, whereas others demanded cash or kind. Many Ukrainians claimed to be Polish, but Poles who did not want to return to Poland.  Many POWs claimed to be forced labours from Belorussia.  Among all these unfortunates there were a small number of both ardent Nazis trying to escape the consequences of their deeds, and Soviet agents charged mainly with ferreting out Soviet citizens for return (and retribution) and later with spying on the West.  

Altogether a devil’s brew, but as the Minister of Immigration at the time, Arthur Caldwell, recognised it was a unique opportunity to recruit citizens for Australia.  His subsequent infamy as the proponent of White Australia is tempered in this account.  

The original targets for antipodean recruitment were British, on the assumption that a sunny new life would be more appealing than the bomb damaged and crippled United Kingdom.  This proved to be a very small pool, and most who presented themselves were the lame, halt, and blind.  Most £10 Poms stayed home. 

Then the circle was enlarged to Northern European. Vague, yes, but it came down to appearance.  This pool was if anything even smaller since for a time Germans were excluded, though some claimed to be Dutch or Danish.  Though it did include Baltic peoples from Latvia, Lithuania, and Estonia, and even some Finnish POWs held by the Soviets who passed themselves off as Germans to get west and then transformed themselves into Estonians. Those Balts came back to haunt the Labor Party, but that is another story. 

The next expansion was European and now appearance became explicit.  If an applicant looked European, then that was it.  Of course, not all Europeans look ‘European,’ whatever that is in the eye of the beholder.  Interviewers were reluctant to admit to Australia anyone who would look different.  Such a person would be stared at on the street. Would probably be denied work and accommodation.  Rather than seeing immigration leading to social change, the aim to cement White Australia into place unchanged.

Even so Caldwell made an effort to recruit Jews, but the local opposition from the press and other political parties put paid to that effort.  He feared jeopardising the whole program if the immigration of Jews was explicit, so he scaled those efforts back.  A judgement call.  

For most of the immigrants Australia was not the first choice. But it was the choice available and needs must.

In sum, about 20,000 Russians made in to Australia, one way or another.    

As well done and comprehensive, as the book is the petulant sniping on Good Reads is enough to put me off dinner.  

***

The pygmy historical revisionists repeatedly castigate Winston Churchill for returning Russians who came into Allied hands at the surrender of Germany in May 1945.  There were several hundred thousand Russian POWs in this situation, many of whom did not wish to return to the motherland, and even more determined not to do so were nearly a hundred thousand others who had sided with the Germans to fight the Soviets (Ukrainians, Cossacks, Belorussians, Armenians) in German uniforms.  Those returned meant a grim fate. The lucky ones went to the Gulag and many others were simply murdered on the spot of their repatriation.  

Armchair historians with unerring hindsight rail against this return.

The backstory that they never bother to add to the equation goes like this.  It was agreed by the Allied powers that they would return each others’ citizens at the end of the hostilities.  Signing up to that was part of Stalin’s price to enter the war against Japan. (At the time, estimates were that there would be up to a million US casualties in invading the Japanese home islands with ten times that many Japanese. Bringing the Soviet Union into that war, so it was hoped, would reduce that number and might even convince the Japanese to give up. And at the time no one knew if the atomic bomb would work, i.e., explode, or suffice to compel surrender.)  

By May 1945 the Soviets held a great many Allied personnel, twenty thousand Americans and a like number of Brits among others, who had been imprisoned by the Germans in Czechoslovakia and Austria. To get them back, the Soviets citizens held by Western powers had to be surrendered.  

I just watched a You Tube video by a self-appointed historian on the return of the Cossacks where the story is slanted to condemn the British.  No reference to Japan, and only the vaguest reference to Allied prisoners, who certainly would not have been returned had the Cossacks not been repatriated, one way or another.  

The future isn’t all it is cracked up to be .

The Man from the Future (2011) O Homen do Futuro

IMDb meta-data is runtime of 1h and 46m, rated 7.0 by 7,100 cinematizens.

Genre: Sy Fy.

DNA: Brazil.

Verdict: Tiremos o chapéu

Tagline: Zero is something!  

Fired by idealism Zero sets out to invent a cheap and green energy source only to create by accident a time machine. With it he decides to go back and correct his life for the better.  

If only he knew what ‘better’ was.

In so doing he obeys the law of unintended consequences the first time. So he tries again…with even worse results. Then he remembers that old Doris Day song, ‘Que sera, sera.’ 

The journeys to and from the past are full of twists and turns, played with high energy. The acting from the two principals is superb. He is barely recognisable from one iteration to the next, and likewise his lady love (who does a star-turn as a hardened convict).  

***

The film is set in a pristine, ultra-moderne Brazil that has touches of Brasilia, but it is not expressly so situated, well, at least not to my ears and eyes.  We watched a Wondrium documentary a few weeks ago about Brasilia so that makes me an expert!

I would be glad to find more genre films from Brazil. I used an episode from City of God (2002) to illustrate Thomas Hobbes on the state of nature a long ago.  

Punch!

Punch the Clock (2016) A Repartição do Tiempo 

IMDb meta-data is 1h and 40m, rated 6.0 by 140 cinematizens. 

DNA: Brazil.

Genre: Sy Fy.

Verdict: McKinsey management par excellence.

Tagline: Suspicions confirmed!

The central patent office in Brasilia is a national disgrace. The work routine is so slow that it takes more than eight years to approve a fully documented simple submission. Its staff members draw comics, smoke dope, sleep off last night’s drunk, fornicate, watching telenovelas, flip through an enormous pile of glossy magazines, use the office phones for personal long distance calls, anything but work.

The result is a mountainous backlog. Meh. 

Then the media attacks and it is time for desperate measures. The manager feels the political heat to do something. Consulting his McKinsey manual, his first thought is to redo the façade of the building to deflect attention, but turns out that is the wrong move.  Then thanks to an invention that looks like a punch clock for employees buried deep in the basement awaiting patent approval is a device that clones individuals.  

Aha! Fresh from a McKinsey seminar, manager has a brilliant idea.  He will trap his staff members in the hidden bomb shelter below the building and enslave them to work, while populating the office with clones who can continue to do nothing.  The slaves below have to work to get food and water. In the bomb shelter one of the employee suffers a terminal allergic reaction from exposure to work for the first time.   

Those imprisoned try to escape. The upstairs clones slowly realise something is amiss when work gets done. 

***

It is a merciless critique of rule-bound bureaucracy that emphases everything but getting the job done. The desperate phone call to emergency services is a cackle, but too convoluted for summary.  The gist of it is no matter what is said, the response is that it is someone else’s responsibility.  Call another number. (The joke is that the same operator answers all the numbers in the run-around.)

This also applied to the Mutt and Jeff police officers who eventually arrive and interview the informant, not about the crime, but about the definition of the situation to see if it is really their responsibility.  The arguments about definitions reminded me of too many seminars where we never got to the point.   

The machine is referred to as a time machine but it is easier to explain with cloning.  

Signal

Signale – Ein Weltraumabenteuer (1970)

IMDb meta-data is 1h and 30m, rated 4.4/10 by 240 generous cinematizens.

Genre: Sy Fy.

DNA: East Germany and Poland.

Tagline: Bland on bland.  

Verdict: Painful. 

In the middle of the Twenty-first Century a Red spaceship near Jupiter reports…alien radio contact, maybe, but then it goes dark.  Another craft is dispatched with a hastily assembled crew to investigate.  

That may sound promising.

What follows is…a slow, meandering trip without any sense of urgency as when the crew of the rescue vessel plays with a robot or makes home movies for fun.  

Didn’t they read the script?

As the end of runtime draws near, they find the mangled remains of the first ship which was hit by the screenwriters old friend, the meteor shower, and rescue the crew who emerge from an elevator where they were stuck for just over an hour. None is comatose. None is mangled.  None is on a stretcher.  None is swathed in bandages. None has blast burns or collapsed lungs. None is dead, Jim.

The end.

There is no further mention of the alien contact.

***

Iron Curtain Sy Fy was always more cerebral and scientific, to be sure, than the Western counterpart of space cowboys but it was also usually more credible than this pleasure cruise. It does show its Red credentials in that everything is a team effort, from the very large group of survivors to the rescue ship. No impetuous individuals of the James Kirk ilk are to be found.

However – and this is a unique event – the captain of the rescue ship faints from the pressure of his duties. Yep. What is even more impossible to believe is that when he reappears on the bridge everyone obeys him, instead of pointing and laughing at him.   

Can you picture Captain Kirk swooning from his weighty duties?  Go on, just try.

Fortunately, when this captain swoons, everyone else just carries on, almost as if he were irrelevant.

Speaking of Star Trek, there is also an anticipation of Counsellor Troi here in that the medical doctor also monitors the mental health of the crew, but then doctors have always done that. Check out the Caine Mutiny

The Don

The Man Who Killed Don Quixote (2018).

IMDb metadata is 2h and 12m, rated 6.3 by 22,000 cinematizens.


DNA: Spain via UK.


Genre: Serio-comedy.


Verdict: Dreamy.  


Tagline: The Life of Brian Quixote.  


In the interest of making a film, a director convinces a shoemaker that he is Don Quixote!  To some degree he also convinces other amateur actors in the village where he shoots the film that they are the characters they portray.  When the film is done he leaves.


By coincidence returning ten years later he finds, during his absence, that the illusion has become reality or is it a fantasy, that he gets caught up in.  Adventures follow.


***


I found it diverting, amusing, entertaining, touching, and puzzling, but many IMDbasers went nuclear on it, evidently because it is not the movie they would have made, if they had made a movie. Uh huh. Ditto some professional reviewers.  It’s a love child of Terry Gilliam, hence the tagline above.  


The village is ‘Los sueños’ and that says it all: The Dreams.  I also found it far too long. Still it offers in addition to the list above a spectacle, with surprises along the way.  


I read an abridgement of the first volume of Don Quixote in a Euro Lit class as an undergraduate and I have never been tempted to return to it. While I enjoyed this outing, I remain content with that situation.  

Excellent

Erich Brown, Murder by the Book (2013).

Good Reads meta-data is 224 pages rated 3.63 by 369 litizens.

Genre: Krimi; Sub-species: Period piece. 

DNA: Brit.

Verdict: More!

Tagline: That old trope again.

Hero writes murder mysteries in 1955 London.  A demobbed soldier he tried investigative work immediately after the war with an army buddy but soon found writing about crime was easier and paid better than dealing with it, or dealing with wayward husbands or wives. In fact he found that he was good at writing and enjoyed it.  Now forty years old and unattached (his wife was killed in the Blitz) he is as unsure with women as a pimply teen.  Hard to credit that but there it is.

Then his agent needs some investigative work and some muscle applied and Hero enlists himself and his contacts from his own days on the street. What seems to be blackmail at first turns out to be far worse when the bodies start falling, and the way they fall.  

The suicides, accidental deaths, and natural deaths of a series of British crime writers just like Hero prove to be murders.  Moreover, a closer examination of each case reveals them to be bizarre and contrived.  Then the murders become more explicit, and Hero realises there is something familiar about a couple of them.

Spoiler ahead! Read on only with your eyes closed.

Someone is murdering them in a manner described in their novels! 

***

The characterisations of the several authors is delightful, and varied from aristocratic hauteur to wealthy bon vivant to deadpan drone to Cockney bantam and several steps between.  

London 1955 is a faint background, but it is very credible, even if everyone drives a car and finds a parking place.

Warning though, I found the pace slow, very, but I kept going because it was so well done.  I also found Hero’s hesitation and confusion about Marie Dupré artificial and likewise her patience with him.  He had been married and survived combat. Surely he would have more salt, while she must have had many suitors. Still together they make a likeable duo. I will certainly read another in the series of nine. Later: Mission accomplished.  Read all nine.

Murder at the Chase, Murder at the Loch, Murder Takes Three, Murder Takes A Turn, Murder Served Cold. Murder by the Numbers, Murder at the Standing Stone, and Murder Most Vile.

The late Eric Brown was one of those one-man industries with a list of books so long I grew weary reading it. He published about sixty novels, 150 short stories, and another trove of chapters in anthologies.