I ❤️ Genre is a new series written by Jeremy Kolodziejski providing retrospectives and analyses of frequently unknown gems of the strange and unforgettable genre cinema that he loves sharing with others. On a fateful day in 1993, British screenwriter Stewart Raffill, known for The Ice Pirates as well as Paul Rudd’s favorite movie Mac & Me, was approached by a man who owned several movie theaters in South America. He informed Raffill that he had access to a giant animatronic Tyrannosaurus Rex. He asked if Raffill could direct a film prominently featuring the T-Rex. I think anyone could relate to this opportunity. Who wouldn’t want to make a movie featuring a giant robot T-Rex? Especially in the early 90s when a certain film about Dinosaurs broke box office records. (I’m of course referring to the Roger Corman-produced Carnosaur , unless there’s another dinosaur film I’m forgetting about.) However, there was a catch: Raffill only had access to this animatronic beast until the end of that month. He had to write, produce, and direct an entire 90-minute feature in two weeks. He remained resourceful, filming in his hometown, using a local crew, and he managed to produce an entire film within those two weeks. He did not even let a forest fire (which was occurring during the film) stop him, and he incorporated its orange haze into the background of a few shots of the film. That film became Tammy and the T-Rex. What did Raffill come up with in such a short time period? Well, it’s a film that contains, in a word, multitudes. Not only does it contain dinosaur attacks, but also lion attacks, grave robbing, brain swapping, evil horny nazi scientists, dinosaurs making phone calls, and men settling their differences with a testicular throwdown. It even features a title called the wrong name (reading as Tanny and the Teenage T-Rex for some inexplicable reason.) The movie is a wild ride from beginning to end. Now, Tammy and the T-Rex could have very easily become an unmitigated and forgotten disaster not worth discussing or even mentioning nearly 30 years after its release, and for a long time, that was the case (I will get into that later). However, it’s not the film’s insane set pieces or its bizarre sense of humor that makes Tammy and The T-Rex so memorable and rewatchable, although that helps. While Raffill was casting the film, two young actors who had yet to star in any film miraculously walked through the door and (in my opinion) saved the film. These two young actors were Paul Walker and Denise Richards. You can tell while watching the film that even without the benefit of hindsight, these two actors were meant to be movie stars. Their charisma and watchability are so potent you can’t help but be engrossed by such a deranged premise. Richards has to act alongside a robotic T-Rex that can barely move, and yet, she remains so charming that she sells their relationship enough to get you weirdly invested in its outcome. When Tammy and the T-Rex was initially filmed, it was intended to be an R-rated horror comedy, filled with gory special effects of people getting dismembered and eaten, as well as a whole extended brain surgery sequence. These special effects certainly are not up to the quality of the likes of Tom Savini or Stan Winston, but they are gross and cheesy enough to be effective for the tone the movie is going for. However, right before its release, the film’s producers got cold feet, cut out all the blood and gore, and tried to repurpose the film as a family comedy. It did not get a theatrical release, going straight to VHS, making that version of the film the only known version for nearly 25 years, where it remained in mostly obscure corners of VHS collectors and hardcore dinosaur fans. In 2019, the miracle workers at the restoration and distribution company Vinegar Syndrome discovered the original uncut version of Tammy and the T-Rex, restored it in 4K resolution, and released it for all to see. Now Raffill’s original film is fully available in all its gorey glory. If you are looking for something to watch with a bizarre sense of humor and an almost randomly occurring story with two future breakout movie stars, you can’t go wrong with Tammy and the T-Rex. It’s even available in its entirety to watch through the video game High on Life , idly playing in the player’s living room. Not the most ideal way to watch a film, but it is there! Jeremy Kolodziejski Jeremy is a long-time supporter of and contributor to the Story Screen Fam, as well as the entire Hudson Valley Film community, as a writer, filmmaker, film worker, and general film fan. You can find him sifting through the most obscure corners of horror, martial arts, comedy, noir, and crime drama cinema, always on the hunt to discover something new, strange, and exciting.

A Celebration of a Force of Nature It's wild to me that Bohemian Rhapsody - the musical biopic about the life of Queen frontman Freddie Mercury - has already hit its 5th anniversary. Released on November 2, 2018, in the United States, the film chronicles the story of Queen’s formation in 1970 through to their famous 1985 Live Aid performance at Wembley Stadium. It's wild to me that it's been five years since its release because I remember the anticipation I felt about it like it was yesterday. In fact, I wrote about it here, for Story Screen, five years ago in my article about South Asian representation in media . I remember my elation when it was announced that Rami Malek was cast as Mercury, especially given that the industry buzz for so long was that Sacha Baron Cohen was in the top running for the role. Casting Cohen would have been infuriating, regardless of his superficial physical resemblance to Mercury, because it is offensive - period, end of story - to have a white actor play a character of Indian origin. Malek's casting was not a 100% perfect choice, but given that Mercury was born to a British Parsi family it was pretty damn close; Parsis are an ethnoreligious group within India that adhere to the Zoroastrian religion, and are descended from Persians who migrated to Medieval India during and after the Arab conquest of the Persian Empire. Rami Malek is the child of Middle Eastern immigrants. Freddie Mercury (born Farrokh Bulsara) was the child of Indian immigrants who descended from the Middle East. Sacha Baron Cohen is a white man. Brownface is not okay. I'll stop pounding on this drum now; I think you get my point. The film is not without its flaws; there are some timeline discrepancies in the film regarding when certain Queen songs and albums were released and which tours they were on and when - the kind of stuff that would be very annoying to music history pedants like me. The film does seem to very strongly suggest that Mercury was gay when by all accounts he was bisexual. I'm not a fan of the film’s bi-erasure and the entire story of how Queen ended up participating in Live Aid seems to have been invented in cold cloth to ratchet up character drama. In the film, Mercury comes back to his band after working on a middling solo career, hat in hand, apologizing for being an egomaniac and implores them to agree to participate in the benefit concert, and they really make him beg for it, whereas in real life, by all accounts, the band had already agreed to reunite to do the show without all of this behind-the-scenes melodrama and weren’t having petty squabbles about it. I wonder about the need to invent character tension for tensions' sake, I wonder why these timeline liberties were taken, and I wonder about the bi-erasure, mostly because Queen’s guitarist Brian May, and drummer Roger Taylor, were heavily involved in the film's production. They were there, they knew and loved Freddie Mercury, and it seems puzzling to me that they would be okay with that level of dramatic liberty taken with a story that is as much about their lives as it is about Mercury's. Despite these quibbles, what makes this film such a joy to watch are its performances. Malek quite simply disappears into the role of Freddie; he captures his speaking patterns, mannerisms, and incomparable physicality with such ease. His performance is astonishing, and the Oscar he received for it was well-deserved. But while Malek carries the film, it's worth noting that the producers did an amazing job in casting the rest of Queen - Gwilym Lee looks and sounds exactly like May, from the wacky perm to his politely bemused-yet-affectionate attitude towards Freddie's flamboyance. Ben Hardy captures Taylor's bad-boy attitude and intense drumming style with great aplomb. Joe Mazzello nails bassist John Deacon's quintessential pragmatism, unfussiness, and impeccable precision (all qualities in any good bass player - as a bass player, I know of which I speak!). The four actors together have incredible chemistry and they really feel like a band - a band of exceptional and visionary musicians, a band of brothers, a true family who loves each other, not despite each others' quirks and foibles, but because of them. It's heartwarming to see how kind and gentle and supportive May, Deacon, and Taylor were when Mercury informs them that he has been diagnosed with AIDS because we know that that's how they were in real life. They were a band that was loudly groundbreaking when it came to musical inventiveness and exploration, and they were also quietly groundbreaking in that three straight rock-n-roll lads from London were so accepting of their friend and frontman's sexuality and his struggles to fully accept himself. This film is a celebration of those unique qualities that made Queen the musical and pop cultural force of nature that it was. The end of the film is a near-recreation of their famous Live Aid set, and I remember sitting in the theater watching it back in 2018, feeling choked up by the nostalgia of it all - which is absurd, because I was only three months old when Live Aid happened and till that day in the theater, I had only seen Queen's Live Aid set on YouTube. But that's the thing about Freddie Mercury - his voice, that magnificent, four-octave range - was and is a voice that captured the hearts of people all over the world, and echoes on and on, even three decades after his death at the age of 45. Far too young. AIDS was a guaranteed death sentence back when Mercury was diagnosed with it - and it was considered a guaranteed death sentence for most of my childhood as well. It's wild to me that we now live in a world where that is no longer the case - where it is now treated as a chronic condition that can be managed with medication and lived with indefinitely. If Freddie Mercury had survived long enough to benefit from the significant advances in medical research and the treatment of AIDS, I am certain that we would still be watching Queen do world tours along with their contemporaries like the Rolling Stones, Bruce Springsteen, and Paul McCartney. I've seen the Stones, Bruce, and Paul live in concert many times. But what I wouldn't give, as a musician of Indian origin myself, for an opportunity to see Freddie Mercury live, to hear that glorious voice and feel that unstoppable charisma. It sadly won't ever happen, but there's always YouTube - and there's always Rami Malek, channeling him so wonderfully in this film. It's not 100% perfect, but it's pretty damn close. Reeya Banerjee Staff Writer Reeya is a musician and writer based in New York's Capital District. Her debut album, “The Way Up,” was released on January 27, 2022. She can frequently be seen in her car on the NYS Thruway cursing traffic on her way to the Hudson Valley for band rehearsals or to Brooklyn for recording sessions. In her other life, she works as a staff accountant for a management company that oversees veterinary practices nationwide, enjoys watching Law & Order SVU returns while eating gummy bears, and has a film degree from Vassar College that she does not use.

The Barbenheimer experience during troubled times It’s a sociocultural fluke of world-historic proportions, and I admit that I want it to answer for more things about this supremely fucked-up moment on our planet than it possibly could. The unintentionally simultaneous, epiphanic release of both Barbie and Oppenheimer quickly morphed into a Barbenheimer meme well before the films’ concurrent theatrical debut on July 21, courtesy of Sean Longmore’s brilliant, deeply faked Barbenheimer poster . This gave way not long afterward to no less curious international irruptions of the Barbenheimer experience, including an authentically historic dustup among Wikipedia editors over whether there should actually be a standalone Barbenheimer page defining the phenomenon (they ultimately decided to keep the page up five days before the films’ release) and a crossover into reality different from those found in Barbie ’s plot occurred at an Oppenheimer screening in India which accidentally projected that film along with subtitles for Barbie . The buzz was irresistible, leading to a combined domestic box office take of $246 million for the two films’ first weekend. Predictably, Barbie took a commanding lead with $162 million but Oppenheimer came in decisively in second place, bolstered by a sizable portion of their overall audience proudly taking in both films as the unlikeliest double-feature in recent memory, and subsequently posting about it on social media. As day follows night, this led to a blizzard of commentary about Barbenheimer, ranging from predictable business news panegyrics praising their initial box office take as one of the biggest domestic opening weekends ever, to Richard Lawson’s even-handed itemizing the “lessons” Hollywood may learn, or not (like I say: even-handed), for Vanity Fair . Even Francis Ford Coppola was moved t o opine about Barbenheimer in a story posted to his Instagram profile , where the renowned director admitted that, while he has “yet to see [either Barbie or Oppenheimer],” he insisted that “the fact that people are filling big theaters to see them and that they are neither sequels nor prequels, no number attached to them, meaning they are true one-offs, is a victory for cinema.” That Coppola was compelled to remark on the films without actually having watched them speaks volumes to something compelling about both films and their composite Barbenheimer identity, but also to a pronounced sense of cultural exhaustion this early into a new century, when the twin successes of a movie about a popular doll and a respectful, big-budgeted historical drama can feel radical and potentially transformative. The sober docudrama and the multi-generational corporate brand turned on its blonde, pink head; an implicit plea for feet-of-clay integrity in a corrupt world and, all of its self-aware attempts to subvert itself while fully meta-acknowledging those attempts notwithstanding, arguably the single greatest instance of product placement in American history — the Barbenheimer binary goes well beyond Lawson’s claim that we are only dealing with a “big girl movie and a big boy movie,” much less with films which owe nothing to franchises or superheroes. While the meme is already well in the rearview mirror, both films continue to dominate the box office, having already raked in $2 billion collectively worldwide and climbing. Socioculturally, we’re just starting to unpack these films and their collective impact; something about their collisions with fantasy and reality, if articulated in diametrically opposite ways, has caught on in this disconcerted moment. Barbie is, vastly and unsurprisingly, the more popular and multi-generationally relevant of the two, both as a film and a statement on behalf of, among other things, female empowerment — it’s fair to ask if Oppenheimer would have anything like its current impact without it. There is an undeniably shared intelligence at work behind both films, something that extends to their dispositions toward their subject matters, beginning with genuine respect. But Greta Gerwig’s direction of Barbie comes leavened with considerable, distancing irony, a trace of her origins and the long path Gerwig has traveled since she co-wrote and starred in films by herself, Joe Swanberg and other members of the so-called “mumblecore” movement in the earlier part of this century, which proudly stood in opposition to rote American cinematic conventions. Over a decade later, Gerwig is writing and directing prestigious adaptations like Little Women and now Barbie , bringing her own microindie-honed sensibility and discursive non-linearity to bear in often surprising, brilliantly funny ways. But these qualities cannot help but occasionally boomerang their way back to their savvy creator, given the inescapably commodified nature of her subject. Similarly, Oppenheimer director Christopher Nolan has his own indie origins and showy non-linear inclinations but shifted into major mainstream success much earlier in his career with Memento and the Dark Knight trilogy/franchise. Nolan’s respect for his subject here is also more conventional, less ironic, one that sits comfortably with his other films like The Prestige and Dunkirk in their fidelity to the past and world-historical “big themes.” But trouble sets in early; consider Barbie ’s opening sequence. Ostensibly a gender-reversed homage to the opening sequence of 2001: A Space Odyssey (a sequence, let’s recall, titled “The Dawn of Man”) where Barbie, embodied for the first time in the film by the brilliant Margot Robbie, serves as The Pink Monolith, one that compels the assembled girls from another era into doll smashing, an unnerving inversion whose implications it’s hard to imagine a writer-director as intelligent as Gerwig somehow missing. In 2001 , it’s implied that the Monolith somehow conveys to the pre-human hominids how to use bones to attack rival tribes, leading to the brutally celebrational smashing of other bones at the end of the sequence; human agency, even the first use of tools, is steeped in violence, death and literally inhuman intervention. By creating an homage to this scene, exactly what has Gerwig “reversed” for Barbie ’s first literally inhuman intervention? It’s clearly meant as a joke and I am in danger of over-literalizing Gerwig’s intent here, but there’s no escaping the fact that dolls — the subject(s) of the film — are effectively weaponized during Barbie ’s opening credits, well before our heroine even gets around to mentioning her death obsession. Strangely enough, Barbie ultimately proves to be more death-obsessed than Oppenheimer , the docudrama about the father of the atomic bomb and its eventual guilty conscience with self-professed “blood on (his) hands”, J. Robert Oppenheimer. Its opening sequence certainly reveals the scope of its ambitions, putting Cillian Murphy’s underplayed Oppenheimer in a direct encounter with the problematic figurehead of the highest modernism, Picasso, as Oppenheimer contemplates his 1937 canvas “Woman Sitting with Crossed Arms.” Quite conversely, there’s eventually something ploddingly dutiful about Nolan’s film, an echo of his protagonist’s dedication to beating the Nazis to nuclear warfare, as horrific as crossing that finish line might be, as something he must do and which he subsequently tries to prevent from happening again once the Cold War quickly begins, striving for dignity in a world where politics prove to be less about morality than maneuvering. One positive aspect of that dutifulness is Oppenheimer ’s overall faithfulness to the actual historical record regarding its subject: Oppenheimer’s education, leftist political inclinations and attendant associations, his heading up of the Manhattan Project and the enemies he gains before and after WWII, culminating in a hearing where he loses his security clearance, in every sense but legally a trial, one which serves as a through line for the film as it hops back and forth across its protagonist’s own timeline. It’s a well-traveled trope for Nolan by now — employing a narrative elasticity as certain episodes unfold from beginning to end — and his formal control over multiple plotlines developing in forward, parallel motion is as distinctive here as in his past work. This approach is shot through with recollections, as fragments from significant points in the storyline return like barely repressed memories, and Oppenheimer makes time for many of them; I’ve taken to calling these characteristic Nolan tics his “Bruce, why do we fall?” shots. The tone is one of efficient, reserved morality, though Nolan does suggest early on some of the thrill of Oppenheimer’s training and the times, notably in Europe, when they take place. When Murphy’s no less reserved Oppenheimer is asked by Kenneth Branagh’s Franz Boaz if he can “hear the music” of theoretical physics, you can be sure we both hear Ludwig Göransson’s bombastic score and see whorls of presumed electrons cycle in dazzling ovals in Oppenheimer’s dreams. These early scenes, slightly nutty, over-literalized in their own right, and dispersed through Nolan’s asymmetrical editing style, suggest a version of A Beautiful Mind directed by Terence Malick. But the rush from this mix of corny literalizing and Cubist engagement is fleeting in Oppenheimer , and the film quickly gets down to the generally banal narrative task of detailing the creation of the atom bomb and Oppenheimer’s comparatively modest professional downfall, standing apart (and, occasionally, above) it all. In a glaringly ahistorical gesture, however, Nolan’s sense of duty leads him to strive for an otherwise commendable inclusiveness which, coming from the first half of the 20th century, is considerably more aspirational than factual. For all of Nolan’s noble efforts to highlight a black or Latinx character here, or a female scientist there, no Black scientists lived at the Los Alamos, NM facility , the primary site of the Manhattan Project’s atomic testing, prior to 1947. And while there were over 600 hundred female employees, more than half of whom were scientists, at Los Alamos during the creation of an atomic bomb, they get at best token recognition in Oppenheimer . It’s a lamentable trend in Nolan’s film work to date: female characters are often denied the agency and self-determination of his male protagonists. Though, in the case of Oppenheimer , this is a no-less lamentable instance of historical accuracy where Oppenheimer’s real life was concerned: patriarchy was the unquestioned way of the world, not nearly as easily dismissed, ignored and ultimately triumphed over as it proves to be in Barbie . Instead, we get Florence Pugh’s Jean Tatlock and Emily Blunt’s Kitty Oppenheimer on the sidelines, his former lover and subsequent wife respectively, both generally afflicted in specific ways that reduce their role in the overall narrative, making them serve less as actual characters than as two more burdens for the film’s noble albeit “womanizing” hero to bear. Their afflictions may also be historically accurate, but Nolan has made his own choices about how to portray these women’s contributions to Oppenheimer’s life; in an echo of Nolan’s Inception , for example, Tatlock ultimately did commit suicide, something irregularly recalled throughout the film in the Nolan manner. But having her (or, rather, Pugh) appear naked in a perverse fantasy during Oppenheimer’s security clearance hearing registers as wrongheaded and disturbingly misogynistic; the scene jumps out in the middle of the movie with a garish tawdriness. In a similar vein, their first sexual encounter also plants Oppenheimer’s legendary quotation from the Bhagavad Gita during the first atomic test ("I am become Death, destroyer of worlds"), one of many Oppenhemier ’s docudramatic version of running gags, a little death giving a foretaste of the mass execution to come. Nolan shows little more taste when Murphy imagines stepping into the charred remains of a Japanese victim of his creations — incidentally, this is the only instance in the film which acknowledges actual victims of Oppenheimer’s work, and only in a fantasy. This little death and ashy shoe are about as much of a death obsession as one gets from Oppenheimer . Separately, Blunt is usually drunk and hectoring; even when she’s right about, for example, the duplicity of Robert Downey Jr.’s Atomic Energy Commission chairman Lewis Strauss, it’s only in passing and with drink in hand. Careful with broad historical strokes, it’s often in these revealing details that the film falters, and this includes a certain degree of anachronism. Did someone really play bongos at Los Alamos, over a decade before they would become a punchline for the emerging Beat movement? It’s hard to imagine a decade before that Pugh’s Tatlock suggesting “You just need to get laid” to Oppenheimer, an expression unlikely to be used even by 30’s Communist fellow-travelers. To be clear, Oppenheimer is undeniably smart Hollywood entertainment whose high regard for its subject and nuanced view of its legacy make the film consistently watchable. But it’s a slow boil, not a nuclear blast — compression is the name of Oppenheimer ’s game, leading to a middle-register, undercooked tone throughout, one that renders sedate outdoor scenes and the first successful atomic test nearly equal in dynamic range. This is further reinforced by some not particularly adroit expository attempts at introducing biographical particulars into the dialogue; references to “those dark stars you’re working on” or a family which, like so much else in its protagonist’s life, proves more discussed than actually seen in the film. One of those running gags is a reiteration of its hero’s observation: “Theory can only take you so far.” For Nolan, his serious dedication to his subject doesn’t take you much farther in practice. Barbie doesn’t come freighted with the same biographical challenges, pitching Barbieland as a gender- and race-conscious utopia, but trying to engage the doll’s problematic legacy on multiple, self-aware levels creates a few issues of its own. Gerwig certainly doesn’t help herself by creating twelve literal straw men in the form of Barbie ’s all-white male Mattel corporate board, where Mattel has had a comparatively good record for hiring female CEOs and having diverse board membership. Ahistorical or no, it may have been worth it just for incurring Bill Maher’s tweeted wrath over this small plot departure from reality in a children’s film . To be sure, the urge to take this summer movie about dolls seriously begins with its filmmaker. Gerwig is happy to leverage the doll’s problematic relationship to feminism in entertaining but sometimes ambivalent ways. When Ariana Greenblatt’s Sasha, daughter of America Ferrara’s fictional Mattel secretary Gloria, chastises Robbie’s “Stereotypical Barbie” as a “fascist,” it’s a double-edged condemnation: both of the ease some have for invoking fascism and to the Malibu-bourgeois Barbie’s undeniable white, multi-normative legacy. Moments like these are funny, but also somewhat self-canceling. The porous separation between reality and fantasy is deftly achieved in Barbie , where a feminist paradise becomes troubled by Gloria’s “real-world” attempts at reconciliation with the course of her adult life and finding solace in her own manifestations of a differently “Weird Barbie.” That reconciliation ultimately takes precedence, as Greenblatt gets pushed to the margins while somehow objecting less, coming around and getting with the program, surely fulfilling a wish of a few mothers I know. Gloria’s now-famous monologue about the impossible, contradictory demands placed on women introduces a complexity of thought and emotional affect rarely matched in Barbie , to say nothing of other American big-budgeted films this century. For good and ill, it sets a standard the film can’t always rise to — to take one example, if only patriarchy was as easy to ignore as Sasha’s goofy father for the entirety of the film. There’s no denying the liberating energy of this knowing, female-centric blockbuster almost incidentally aimed at a younger audience. Being able to engage the problematic nature of her subject using the best, most crowd-pleasing Hollywood conventions, up to and including the musical number, is no small feat. Gerwig told the New York Times “Things can be both/and. I’m doing the thing and subverting the thing.” Gerwig’s product placements macro- and micro-, all the way to the final appearance of the Mattel logo as a device to censor Issa Rae’s expletive, will ultimately obtain more to Mattel’s stockholders than to any thing-subversion, no matter how amusing they are. In the end, however, Gerwig squares the circle with Rhea Perlman’s Ruth Handler, Mattel’s founder, someone with her own problematic personal history. Taking Robbie’s hands towards the end in a delicately multicolored fantasy-space, the scene gives way to actual amateur footage of real-life mothers and daughters from across the decades, fading in and out of each other like streams of unrepressed memories. Resolutely unironic reality wins the day and grounds the proceedings in instances of unaffected mother-daughter affection, a dialectical victory of cinéma vérité over problematized fantasies (including fantasies of reality), all helping this singularly hyper-ironic work cruise its way to billions in box office. Although all parties insist there will be no sequels, it will be interesting to see how much of Gerwig’s own newly-minted brand transfers over to her proposed Chronicles of Narnia adaptations. And for all of Oppenheimer ’s reserved gravity and self-importance, in its layered, adroit self-reflexivity, Barbie oddly proves to be the more serious film of the two. And yet, in another unexpected synthesis, both of these auteurs’ agendas ultimately prove less compelling than their films’ performances — the casts for both films are extraordinary. Robbie, and Ryan Gosling’s “Beach Ken,” are pitch-perfect in their initial guilelessness transforming into troubled self-awareness, where Ferrara grounds the film in her character’s attenuated anguish. Robbie’s sister-Barbies do tend to blur together, with the huge exception of the gifted Kate McKinnon: if there really were going to be any franchise spinoffs from this film, we could only be so lucky if they began with “Weird Barbie.” Michael Cera, to the surprise of no one, once again excels in the Michael Cera part. Nolan extends his track record of exemplary work with well-cast performers, as Pugh and Blunt bring considerably more depth and irascible vitality to their characters than the script alone provides them. Downey — at first courtly and brittle, but slowly revealing a malevolence marinated in humiliation — delivers what is for me his finest performance. And Oppenheimer ’s back bench is unusually deep: I didn’t initially recognize bespectacled Josh Hartnett in his square, all-American affability as Oppenheimer colleague Ernest Lawrence, a smiling Dad from a 1940’s Boy’s Life cartoon come to life. Equally unrecognizable (and far from lookalikes for their characters) are Tom Conti’s reflective Albert Einstein and Gary Oldman’s prickly Harry S. Truman, the latter of whom did in fact say that he "never wanted to see that son of a bitch in this office again," although most likely not, as the film portrays it, within earshot of Oppenheimer as he was leaving his one face-to-face meeting with Truman at the White House after WWII. Benny Safdie’s range continues to impress, his choleric, arrogant Edward Teller a world away from his portrayal of Robert Pattinson’s mentally-challenged, locked-up brother in Good Time , a film Safdie co-directed. But by far my favorite performance is Jason Clarke’s calm, ruthlessly all-business Roger Robb, the AEC special counsel at Oppenheimer's security hearing who makes mincemeat of Oppenheimer’s self-serving obfuscations and outright lies about his radical past and his associates. This teeming canvas of charismatic actors working in harmony with Nolan’s vision is the best recommendation I can give for seeing Oppenheimer . Popular culture inexorably draws upon and thus reflects, in general unintentionally, the times within which it is created and it’s usually only in retrospect that these manifestations are appreciated as the almost natural expressions of those times, seen in historical relief. Is the Barbenheimer experience somehow tied to a global desire to transcend our current problematic sociopolitics, with both knowingness and solemnity? Or, is it simply a fun, distracting goof to take in these quite different films as a meme-worthy fusion? Most likely, it’s both and more, with resonances that will reveal themselves in time. In any of these or other cases, our troubled times have found some solace, reflection and vindication with Barbie and Oppenheimer , or maybe just five hours of desperately needed smart entertainment in a world seeming to spin out of control. As Barbie crosses into it for the first time, Dua Lipa’s “Mermaid Barbie” calls out: “Good luck in reality!” She might as well be wishing it for all of us. James Keepnews James is a musician, writer, and multimedia artist. James’ writing has appeared in Chronogram, Pacific Sun Magazine, New Haven Advocate, and other publications. His previous pieces for Story Screen include: A Dangerous Method , "The Gods Are Coming Back!" , “’Have a Nice Apocalypse’ —The Resolute Irresolution of Southland Tales ,” and “Archives and Morals: Jean-Luc Godard and the Boundless Provocations of The Image Book .”

Want to help striking actors? Donate to the Entertainment Community Fund Story Screen Reports is our team REACTING to the top 5 film, television and entertainment news stories of the month. Join us as we dissect and comb through everything from upcoming releases to studio drama. On this episode, Mike Burdge joins Robby to chat about more updates on the Writers and Actors Strikes, a Halloween cinematic universe on the horizon, Ridley Scott NOT being a grump for once, and A24 isn't gonna be just for honk-shoo nerdz anymore! You can find those stories, and the sourced articles, linked below. Eat the rich, and Happy Halloween, spooky fam! 1. Hollywood Writers Strike is Over as Union Wins Major Concessions From Studios Written by Austen Goslin and Oli Welsh at Polygon 2. Actors Strike Sees No End in Sight After Studio Negotiations Go Awry Written by Andrew Dalton for USA Today 3. Halloween - Miramax Slashes Into The TV Rights to the Franchise Written by John Squires at Bloody Disgusting 4. Ridley Scott Watched the New ‘Alien’ Movie and Said “It was Fucking Great,” Says Director Fede Alvarez: I was ‘Terrified’ Waiting For His Reaction Written by Zach Sharf at Variety 5. Report: A24 to Expand, Produce More Commercial Films Written by Raphael Helfand at The Fader Listen on....

An Unfocused Rant About Wookies, Boogeymen, & Fandom PROLOGUE It's Not Wise to Upset A Wookie It was December 15th, 2017. One year into the full-body ache fever dream of the Trump presidency, one year away from those kids stuck in the Thailand cave, and three years away from the mental coma of the Covid lockdown. None of those details really matter. There was an adult man, sitting behind me, in a one-piece Wookie costume, and boy, was he excited. I was sitting, in a pretty good seat, popcorn in hand, ready to see The Last Jedi, the follow-up to the juggernaut rebootquel-legacy-sequel-remake of A New Hope that was J.J. Abrams' The Force Awakens . (Full disclosure: I had to actually Google the title. I'm not being glib. I couldn't remember it. My brain kept saying “The Phantom Menace.” Maybe I'm just tired. Or maybe my brain deleted it. I think that'll be thematically pertinent, but I probably won't bring it up again). I was lukewarm on J.J.'s flick, but Rian Johnson stepping up to the big leagues for a giant tentpole, for Disney no less, for Star Wars no less less, hadn't just piqued my interest, it had me excited! I was excited for a filmmaker I truly enjoyed getting the chance to play with these toys. My little indie darling friend, who had been entertaining me with swerves on traditional genre fare, was in the spotlight. I was so proud! I was so excited! Everyone's going to get to know Rian Johnson! They're going to know how good he is! They're going to go back and watch Brick , and Looper , and The Brothers Bloom ! I'll finally get to talk to people about The Brothers Bloom ! Little did I know... There was no way I could match the excitement of the adult man, sitting behind me, in a one-piece Wookie costume. And boy... Was he ever excited. Leaving The Last Jedi I was dejected, low to the ground, shoulders slumped, and sad. Boy did that suck! Not the movie. Nope. The movie was pretty exciting, and pretty bold, attempting to force the round peg of expectations through the square hole of narrative satisfaction. (And if that analogy doesn't work, stick around, I've got plenty of them!). It was beautifully shot, with some truly awe-inspiring sequences bursting with clashing colors, narrative tension, and surprise reveals! The Last Jedi isn't a masterpiece by any means, with some moments of clunky, on-the-nose exposition, and at least one thematic cul de sac that had me mentally squinting. But it was a Star War, a franchise I considered creatively bankrupt, stuck in a narrative ouroboros about a family tree of space wizards fucking it up for everyone. And Rian Johnson tried to Frankenstein something new out of the corpse. And he was mostly successful! No, it wasn't the movie that had me slumped down in the dumps. What sucked was watching the movie, in a theater full of people, especially that adult man, seated behind me, in a one-piece Wookie costume. It must've been during the trailers, that a feeling of unease, like the first anxious half hour of a mushroom trip, began to creep up my spine. I might be conflating things, but I think there was a trailer for Avengers: Infinity War . And it wasn't just the adult man in the Wookie costume, but he basically became a loudspeaker, the paragon of problematic movie-watching that probably will have me sounding like a crinkled, cranky old jerk. It was like every overly excited and entitled fanboy in the crowd was being filtered and projected, through him, straight into my skull. The Avengers trailer began and that motherfucker screamed. And he screamed. And he screamed. And he clapped. And he screamed. And he shouted. And he screamed. And he screamed. “Captain America!”, ricocheted off my eardrums. “Thanos!,” carved into my brain stem. “AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!,” clap, clap, clap, clap, clap. And on and on and on it went, through the trailers. Right through the “no smoking, exits are here and here” bumper, where I think he clapped for exit signs. Then straight on into the movie. Screaming every time a lightsaber appeared. Pointing out every character he recognized. Openly giving his theories on what was about to happen as it happened. Yoda! Kyber Crystal! Millennium Falcon! He couldn't get enough. THEY couldn't get enough. Not of the movie. No. But of what I can only assume is that comfortable, soothing encapsulation of nostalgia, and recognition. That self-fulfilling, self-sustaining, self-satisfaction of knowing, and letting everyone around you know you know, and that you know it before they know it, and more of it, whatever the hell that it is. The real-world equivalent of a message board comment of “First!” It was like a competitive Star Wars -themed “Where's Waldo” that they... he was trying to win. And let me tell you, there is no enjoyment in being a spectator for that particular sport. But, here's what's weird: when the movie was over, I vowed to never see a tentpole film on opening night ever again. As we shuffled out... that adult man in the Wookie costume, and his friends in Star Wars graphic t-shirts, carrying lightsabers, and overpriced souvenir popcorn buckets... were right in front of me, exiting the theater. I was seething as I stared at the back of their heads. And if I wasn't such a chicken shit little weasel, I might've said something. I might have given them a piece of my mind. Instead, I seethed. And here I am, so many years later, still thinking about it. Thinking about how sad they looked. And how I said nothing. And how I could hear them talking. They were dejected. They were low to the ground. They were shoulder-slumped. Sad. After all that. After all they had put me, and the people around me through... They were pissed. Sad. They were not satisfied. Their excitement was reactionary. Or worse, some kind of performative learned behavior. They hated the movie. Are you fucking kidding me? Oh yeah. This is supposed to be about Halloween. PART I Somebody Has to Kill the Babysitter It was 1998 - a year before The Phantom Menace would bring Star Wars back to movie theaters, Tyler Durdin would beat the snot out of Jared Leto's much-deserving pretty little face, and The Matrix would introduce us all to bullet time. None of those details really matter. Halloween H20: 20 Years Later premiered. A strong case could be made for that film being the first experiment in legacy sequels, the kind of sequel that wants to delete past mistakes, picking and choosing a point that it finds satisfying to continue the narrative. Gone were Halloween 4 – 6 . Laurie Strode never died in a car crash. She never had a daughter named Jamie. There were no secret pagan cults. A strong case could be made, but that's not what I'm here to do. At a panel at New York Comic Con, back in 2022, Jamie Lee Curtis revealed that Halloween H20: 20 Years Later was initially her brainchild. You can find a video of the panel on YouTube, and she speaks fondly of coming back around to the fame, and infamy, the character Laurie Strode created for her. She had called up Halloween co-creators, John Carpenter and Debra Hill, and hatched a scheme. A reunion of sorts. She figured, hey we're all still alive and kicking, and the franchise seems to be dead, let's give the fans a little something. Let's get the band back together, and do it one more time. Plenty has been written about how all that good spirit and optimism got whittled away piece by piece (and for obsessives of the behind-the-scenes stories of this, and every Halloween production, I recommend both Taking Shape books from Dustin McNeil and Travis Mullins), and the battle between creatives and studio notes, until the band became Jamie Lee Curtis doing a tribute act. The main gist is this: Jamie Lee Curtis wanted to come back as Laurie Strode to kill The Shape once and for all. She wanted to show a Laurie Strode who had been running her whole life from the monster. A depressed, drug-addled Laurie Strode, who finds it within herself to clean up, and chooses to fight back. And it would've ended with Laurie triumphant, and the Shape dead, dead, dead. Moustapha Akkad​​, keeper of the keys of Haddonfield, and producer of every Halloween film before his tragic death, had a set of rules for Halloween , along with a detailed story bible and history of the franchise, with one steadfast rule: The Shape never dies. And sure, at the end of the film, (spoilers for a two decades old film), Laurie Strode lobs off Michael's head with an ax, but Halloween's a cash cow, and you can't just stop squeezing those udders if they're gonna keep squirting out those sweet, sweet ducats. And maybe that's the first thing I want to put in bold lettering in the front of your brain: Hollywood is a business, and this shit is all product. So, anyway, along comes Halloween: Resurrection . Four years later. It's 2002, and terrorism has finally been invented. You know the gist: Michael Myers had switched places with an EMT worker, slit his throat, puts his mask on the poor schlub, and that's who Laurie decapitated. The Shape lives. The product is back on the shelves. And that's the thing, The Shape is the product. Laurie is a dipping sauce. And so Laurie gets unceremoniously knocked off in the first 10 minutes, and now The Shape, freed from the baggage of the franchise, can go off in an exciting new direction! Freed from the shackles of continuity they can take the character and idea, in bold, new places. So, Michael goes home, again! Back to Haddonfield again, again! To stalk, and systematically kill unsuspecting young adults again again, again. Only this time it's got internet! And a reality show being filmed in his house, and Busta Rhymes dropkicks him while delivering the line “Trick or treat... Motherfucker.” Sorry, Moustapha. But they did it. They killed Halloween . Again. There was nowhere to go from here. Halloween was seemingly a creatively bankrupt franchise stuck in a narrative ouroboros about a family tree fucking up Halloween for everyone. And for a whole four years, there were spurts and sputters, rumors and hearsay, about where the franchise should go next. There was talk of straight-to-video sequels, the ole Hellraiser/Children of the Corn route. There was talk of straight-to-the-point, all-star reunion sequels. There was talk of bringing back Busta Rhymes. (Again, check out both the Taking Shape books for some real in-depth stuff). And then it happened. In the wake of the colossal box office of The Texas Chainsaw Massacre remake, Hollywood was taking every horror IP it had at its disposal and churning out whole-cloth, full-stop attempted restarts of their classic, and sometimes not so classic franchises. And Halloween is a cash cow, but it ain't no golden calf. *Ring. *Ring. *Ring. “Hello? Is this Rob Zombie? The Devil's Rejects ' very own Robert Zombie? Have I got a job for you! I was wondering if you had time to remake us a Halloween ! Yes, that's right, Halloween ! Sure thing. Carte blanche. You can do what you want. Oh, it'll certainly be a nightmare. Yes, you'll be working directly with me, Bob Weinstein. Yes. That's right. Dimension Films. So, you want to do this white trash, exploitation style you've come to be known for? Sounds great! Yes. I'm gonna note you to death. I'll even tell you I hate every frame of your movie. Sure! Yup. Of course! I'll meddle. I'll needle. I'll endlessly harass you. And then once it opens to a record-breaking weekend and grosses nearly $100 million dollars, I'll say I was right all along! And you know what? How about you have such a terrible time making it, we'll try and get someone else for the sequel! And after coming up short, we'll come back to you, tail between our legs, do it again, and make your life even more miserable! Okay. Yup. Yup. Sounds great. I gotta go! Yeah, gotta go physically threaten my wife with bodily harm, cover up for my brother's many sex crimes, and watch the new cut of School for Scoundrels ! Boy is 2006 amazing! Us Weinsteins, I bet there will never be any repercussions for our abhorrent behavior, and many, many crimes.” *Click* – Bob Weinstein calling Rob Zombie to hire him on 2007's Halloween reboot, which definitely, maybe, probably went exactly like this . I don't really have the time, or rather, I wouldn't want to waste your time re-litigating the Rob Zombie Halloweens. I will say, while I personally disliked his 2007 film (for just being a bizarre, southern fried steak cover song of the original), I also don't care that it turned The Shape into a hulking monster with mommy issues. Actually, I kind of liked that. Furthermore, I actually find the second one to be endlessly fascinating and kind of fun. White horse and all. Why? Well, in the words of Jack Skellington upon viewing the gorgeous blinking lights of Christmas Town for the first time, “Something... New?.” And It's no surprise to me, like the aforementioned The Last Jedi , and the soon-to-be-defended Halloween/Halloween Kills/Halloween Ends , that the court of public opinion hasn't been as kind to those movies. I don't want to be a gatekeeper or a snob, so I'll preempt those monikers by saying, fuck off. You don't know what you want! And even when you get it you're unsatisfied! This is an intervention little piggy. We gotta look at the slop in your trough of content. You've got microplastics in your diet. PART II We Gonna Do What They Say Can't Be Done Halloween (2018), or as I, and other pithy, bratty, cloyingly annoying little film nerds like to snarkily refer to it as H40, was the Heath Ledger-casted-as-the-Joker of writer/director announcements. David Gordon Green was going to direct the new Halloween . Not only that, he was going to team up with his friend, and frequent collaborator, Danny “Eastbound and Down” McBride. And they were going to write this new Halloween together. Not only that, not only that, they were going to start from the ground up, with a seemingly bold idea for the time. This was going to be a direct sequel to the very first film, deleting from existence, all of the sequels. Gone would be the brother/sister connection, the psychic estranged daughters, the Ahab-like Loomis hunting his Myers white whale, the pagan cults, the excessive body count, and Busta Rhymes. Sorry, Busta. David Gordon Green, at the time, wasn't exactly a household name. Most people latched onto the Danny McBride of it all. But every announcement article led with some mention of Pineapple Express , the Seth Rogan, James Franco, and Danny McBride stoner action comedy that Green had directed, and had been his biggest commercial hit. Driving the point home, every article would also bring up Eastbound, and Down , the increasingly surreal, and foul-mouthed HBO comedy co-created by Green and McBride, along with the third head of their North Carolina troika, Jody Hill. Some would mention David Gordon Green's more humble roots, his earlier work, but for the most part, the story being presented was one of David Gordon Green and Danny McBride, two silly guys, who make silly movies, were making a Halloween . Isn't that silly? The announcement was made in early 2017 and the reaction (I combed the message boards! I did the research!) seems to fit into 3 camps: 1) There was the cautiously optimistic camp, that I fell into. The kind of fans, and maybe casual movie watchers, who were trepidatious, mostly towards anything having to do with a 40-year-old franchise, and the Hollywood IP machine, but who were also a bit excited by such a swerve in the creative department. 2) There was, as there always is, the angrily pessimistic camp. The kind of faceless Tweeters and commenters who jump at the chance to dampen anyone’s excitement for anything, ever. They immediately glommed on to the mention of Pineapple Express and Danny McBride, ignoring the articles themselves, and declared the comedic take they were going to have would be an immediate failure. If they had read past the headlines, they would've known there was nothing comedic planned, but hey, reading and comprehension are hard. And that's thematically relevant! 3) Finally, there was the dryly cynical, and apathetic group who still felt the need to comment. They're always there. They don't have anything to add, they're just bored, and sometimes they're even robots! That's fun! All that is to say, everyone had their own expectations. Everyone always does. Expectations, and comprehension. Now we're getting somewhere. These expectations were tied to both McBride's specific brand and Green's biggest hit. These are what the people knew and that was the story being told. Some of us, however, had a different David Gordon Green in our heads. Us pithy, bratty, cloyingly annoying, all too often gatekeepy (and more too often, too often, white and male) film nerds knew the gentle, contemplative, indie darlin' Green once was. The guy who charmed the likes of Roger Ebert with his $42,000 freshman effort George Washington . The artist with a naturalistic style, who made films about blue-collar, small towns, and bittersweet disappointment. We all would mention his Terrence Malick-like touch, as if we were the first people to make that assessment. That's the David Gordon Green we fell in love with. And it gave us a chance to “Uh, actually…” a whole lot of people. Performative learned behavior. Call and response. For me, David Gordon Green is the guy who made All the Real Girls - a monumentally important film in my life, which found me at the right time, at my lowest point of romantic frustration and identity crisis: my early 20s. It’s a film that is both a love story and a painful coming-of-age yarn, about the trappings of small-town living, and the immaturity, and selfishness of the men (really, the petulant boys), who don't see anything beyond that and don't really want to. It was a film that reinforced my sadness and also put a mirror up to who I was and could wind up being. It helped snap me out of a particular self-inflicted funk and showed me the kind of piece of shit I could really become. It's a sad, quiet movie that should be instantly familiar to anyone who grew up in a town with a failing infrastructure, where everybody knows everybody. That's the feeling I associated with David Gordon Green, so, yeah, I had my own expectations. My learned behavior. Oink oink oink. Then it was announced that Jamie Lee Curtis was back again. Again, again. Again, again, again. And even more excitingly, John Carpenter had supposedly been working closely with the new creative team, and consulting on the script. While that could've just been some well done PR, it didn't matter. It stoked the coals. Then it was announced: Carpenter was also going to help with the score. The cranky old man himself was going to craft some new music for Halloween (2018)? Then Nick Castle was back, in some capacity, to play The Shape. Well alright, this thing might work after all. PART III You Wanted A Hit: Halloween (2018) Okay. Okay. Okay. Here we are. Let's talk about Halloween (2018). I promise you, it won't be any more focused, but at least we're getting somewhere. I guess that somewhere is Haddonfield, forty years after a disturbed young man named Michael Myers escaped from Smith's Grove Sanitarium and returned home to stalk the small town on Halloween. Forty years after he killed five people and a dog. Forty years after Laurie Strode fought the boogeyman, and lived to tell the tale. Halloween (2018) starts back at Smith's Grove, which I for one can't believe is still in business. Right off the bat, David Gordon Green seems to be smashing together the past and the present. There is something retro, analog, and out of step with modernity about this Smith's Grove. As the familiar orange credits in Serif Gothic play, they're intercut with clustered together patients, a wobbly record player, and out-of-date surveillance monitors. It's a mental institute by way of film, not reality. But then the modern comes crashing in, in the form of two true crime podcasters who have come in hopes of interviewing Michael Myers about that infamous night forty years ago. Finally, we are introduced to the monster, in this bizarre, Burton-esq setting of a large red and white checkerboard courtyard. Led by Dr. Sartain, who Laurie later refers to as “the new Loomis,” they finally come face to back-of-head with Myers. Chained to a cement block, standing still and quiet, the podcasters try to coax a reaction out of him. There is nothing there, and as their frustration grows, they bring out Michael's iconic white Shatner mask. Where they got it or why it's not locked away in some evidence locker is beyond me. But the mask stirs up the other patients in the yard. “You feel it, don't you, Michael?” podcaster Aaron asks, as the wails, howls, and jeers of the other patients mix and build with the score. It's an effective, uneasy bit, as Aaron grows more frustrated, screaming, “Say something!” and then kaboom, the iconic title, and theme. The opening titles themselves are one of the key elements of this trilogy, each stating the theme of the movie by playing on the iconic imagery and the audience’s expectations. In this first entry, we have a rotted pumpkin, played in reverse, slowly regaining its form. An almost brash, and cocky declaration that the franchise itself had rotted over the years, and this'll bring it back. It's meta without being lazy, and I think it's pretty fun. And it's the first hint that Green and McBride know what they're doing. They know what we expect. And while over the next nearly two hours we're going to get a slick, well-made Halloween film, there is something else going on. This isn't just another entry in the Halloween franchise. This is about legacy. This is about the Halloween franchise. And in a way, this is about all franchises. The other important thing to note about this opening is the subtle hint that while Michael may just be a man, something else is at work. All is quiet in the courtyard, until the appearance of the mask. It seems to stir up the patients and guard dogs like an otherworldly beacon. Like it has power. And maybe it does. But what if it's something else, more powerful, more ancient, that is causing the commotion? Maybe the mask is just a symbol, a recognizable piece of imagery, like Mickey Mouse ears, and lightsabers. You in the audience see it and recognize it too. The man chained to the block of cement in the middle of that courtyard is just that. But that mask. Maybe it represents something innate. What if it's story ? What if it's belief ? I mean, we all know Michael Myers is just a man. Our podcasters Aaron and Dana have the air of professional journalists, with their posh English accents and genteel mannerisms, but they are chasing a story, exploiting a tragedy, and opening wounds that might not have fully healed. And they might be messing with something they don't completely understand. They're looking for a there there. They're bringing back the story of Michael Myers. They're trying to find the angle to tell the story of this supposed, unstoppable evil. Sound familiar? Sound a little meta? Maybe. Their next stop is at the home of Laurie Strode, the only surviving victim of The Shape's killing spree. The podcasters ring the buzzer and finally get Laurie to agree to an interview, for the low price of $3,000. She's sequestered in a gated fortress, covered in surveillance equipment. There are multiple locks on her door. And when they finally sit face to face with Strode, she's curt, unkempt, and angry. They try to explain to her their motivations, bringing up her belief in “The Boogeyman.” It's a callback to her final line in the original film. Something that separated The Shape from just a man in a mask. It's a play on childhood fear, that branded him with something older than himself, and ubiquitous in our psyches. Michael Myers is just a man. The Boogeyman is a legend. Laurie firmly believes in “The Boogeyman,” and while this entry had sold itself on its grounded-in-reality approach, belief in the supernatural - be it active or inactive - is a reality for most. The religious, the superstitious, the fearful; our base, lizard brain instincts, the little tingle that makes us run up the basement steps, that fear of the quiet nothing, isn't that something a little supernatural? While these podcasters, safe behind their microphone, can compartmentalize the brutalities they read about and exploit, they couldn't truly comprehend what it's like to actually face it head-on. The movie clips along, setting up a showdown of sorts. It’s a rematch between The Shape and Laurie Strode. It's what the audience wants, or what the audience thinks it wants. It's what we all expect. It's what Green and McBride know that we want, and expect. And it's where I get confused. I love the Halloween franchise. I love unnecessary sequels of all kinds. I even love some good fan service (that's how they tricked me into seeing Spider-Man: No Way Home ) every now and then. But, and maybe I'm the oddball, I don't really care about Laurie Strode. Her story happened and it had its ending... multiple times. But, again, to me, Halloween isn't about Laurie, it's about The Shape. It's about unmotivated, unreasonable evil. This isn't Darth Vader and Luke Skywalker. This isn't Kill Bill . Laurie was an unfortunate bit of collateral damage in The Shape's rampage. She's just a part of the story, but she isn't the focus. It was never about her. And guess what? Halloween (2018) kind of agrees with me. Or maybe I kind of want it to. Make no mistake, this is a Laurie Strode story. It's a story about how the story of that fateful night forty years ago has haunted her and Haddonfield. It's a story of generational trauma: passed down from Laurie to her daughter (Judy Greer) Karen, and her granddaughter (Andi Matichak) Allyson. It's a story about how there are things that maybe are better off buried, chained to a block in a sanitarium somewhere. And these podcasters rolled into town because they smell a story that hasn't been exploited. They're taking a rotten pumpkin and bringing it back to life. Sound familiar? Sound a little meta? Maybe. After Laurie, we're introduced to the Strode clan, an almost farcically happy family, with a cheeky bit of foreshadowing as kind-hearted, dad-core patriarch Ray (Toby Huss) plants a rat trap under the kitchen sink. They're having breakfast and discussing Allyson's new boyfriend, Cameron, with an emphasis on his reputation hammering once again at the power of story, of legacy. It's a pretty great scene, full of that Green naturalism and slightly awkward dialogue. And it isn't The Shape that haunts the family, it's Laurie. Allyson refers to her not as grandma, or me-maw, or something warm, and familiar, but as the oddly stilted “grandmother.” Karen, Laurie's daughter, lies about being in touch with her and how her mother is beyond help. You know, leave it alone. That Laurie Strode stuff is over. There's no there, there. No one really talks about Michael or The Shape, or that night. They talk about Laurie, and who she is, or rather, who they think she is. It seems like Haddonfield has made her The Boogeyman. Allyson's friends, well-fleshed-out cattle fodder for later, in a bit of fourth-wall-breaking dialogue, bring up the brother/sister connection, which is waved away as rumor and hearsay. Stupid stories people made up. Her friends - the desensitized and traumatized Gen Z - even wonder if her story is all that bad. So, five people got killed by a lunatic forty years ago? This is a post-Sandy Hook America, and that just sounds like a normal Tuesday. What is she so traumatized from? Why is she so special? On this normal Tuesday, Allyson goes to school, learning the same lesson about fate that Laurie once learned. It’s a callback and reframing of the original. As Allyson mindlessly peeks out the window, there she is. Grandmother. Haunting her family in the same way The Shape once haunted her. She stands outside the school in a direct callback to The Shape in the original, and she has some advice for Allyson: Escape. Get out. Leave the story. She can't. Laurie's trapped. She's stuck in the story, and she knows that the story isn't done with her yet. It can't be. Or else her whole life has been a waste. She needs it to be. Of course, Michael escapes. Once again... again and again... they're transferring Michael on Halloween night. I don't know why they keep doing that, but they do. Green infuses this scene with his naturalism, reminding us of the original escape that is embedded in our minds. There is a fun conversation between a father and son, after a hunting trip in a car, before they come upon a familiar scene. Patients in white, ambling around an abandoned road. And it all feels so familiar, and rote. It's homage, and it's a trick. We know what happens next, Michael is gonna steal the car and speed off, leaving the kid, and his dad staring in disbelief. So what do Green and McBride do? They fucking kill the kid. Full-on strangulation, and a neck crack. You thought you knew the story? You thought you knew The Shape? Think again. Expect something new. From here, the next forty minutes or so are easily my favorite chunk of the movie. The legacy sequel looking for something new to say about Laurie and The Shape swerves into a clever, refreshingly slick, and new slasher. Honestly, you could take the Strode portion out, get rid of Myers, have a new masked villain for Gen Z to fear, and there is a great new take on the slasher genre smushed in the middle of this movie. There are great sequences like The Shape stealing back his mask and finding a new jumpsuit, a more brutal, and uncoordinated attack than we expect from him. There is the phenomenally staged, and shot oner where The Shape stalks from house to house, randomly killing, and upgrading his weaponry. It's the moment most take away from the film. There is, which for my money is the best sequence in the film, the backyard murder of the sloppy drunk comedic relief teen, punctuated by the flickering motion sensor light. There's teen angst, a Halloween dance, and murder. It's all great stuff. And part of me wishes Green and McBride were inspired by Halloween to do something new. Part of me thinks they wanted that, too. But chugga, chugga, all aboard the IP train. Anyway, we're right back to the Laurie Strode of it all. Before I say more, look, Jamie Lee Curtis is kind of incredible in this role. She has world-weary sadness and bubbling anger. Every scene of the 60-something-year-old Curtis cocking a gun, cleaning a weapon, and preparing for battle, she sells wonderfully. It's no wonder she won an Oscar for Everything, Everywhere, All At Once , or stole the star-studded show of The Bear 's claustrophobic Christmas spectacular. She's incredible, and I guess we're in the middle of a Jamie Lee-assaince, or whatever. I just don't care about Laurie Strode, and honestly, I don't really buy it. I don't really see book smart Laurie so wholly devastated by that night forty years ago that she became a sort of Sarah Connor in T2 Doomsday prepper. I don't understand how she had two marriages and a kid, while also building her fortress of doom. I wind up, maybe stupidly so, wondering where she got the budget to create her complex and arm herself to the teeth if she is so thoroughly broken that she can't leave the house. What the hell did she do for work? There are too many missing pieces in the story. With the familial connection gone, and the sequels no longer canon, why is she giving so much power to the legend of “The Boogeyman?” Why is she so certain he's coming to get her? At least, I didn't get it on my first viewing, when I walked in with the baggage of my fandom and my expectations. Now, I'm pretty sure, that's the point. Laurie has wasted her life with a destructive, narcissistic obsession thinking she's the main character of the story. She's almost ignoring the fact that while she survived her harrowing ordeal, people died. They were family and loved ones to people in Haddonfield. It's not just her that survived The Shape, it's the town. She isn't alone in this. It's not about her. When we finally get to The Shape and Laurie’s showdown that we were all so weirdly pumped for, it wasn't Michael finally finding the one that got away. We're not even sure he has any idea who the hell she is. No, it's the bizarre Dr. Sartain (who I don't have any time to even try and unpack) who gets these two together. It's all coincidence and a self-fulfilling prophecy. The big, explosive finale is Laurie and The Shape swapping back and forth between cat and mouse inside Laurie's fortress. There is a dark gleefulness to Laurie, an “I told you so!” attitude, where she's more of a broken clock showing the right time than she realizes. And it's all shot so well, with cinematographer Michael Simmonds using natural light sources to paint the scenes in golds, and stark white beams of illumination. The score is absent, as Laurie stalks through her house, with a shotgun, dropping gates clickity, clacky thuds. There's something action movie about the whole thing. It actually feels a little bit Assault on Precinct 13 , but I might be reaching. And so, Laurie and The Shape, along with Laurie's daughter, and granddaughter, finally show down again. Again, again. Again, again, again. Again, again, again, again. You get it. This is technically the sixth fucking time in Halloween 's history that Laurie Strode and The Shape face off. This time, they trap Myers in the basement, and the house is revealed to be some kind of giant trap. Judy Greer gets to flex as she gets the drop on Myers, in a great character moment, and a genuine moment of surprise. And the three generations of Strode women put aside their anger with each other, work together, and kill The Boogeyman. The whole thing is a bit silly, but fun. It's what we all wanted after all. Laurie Strode triumphs. The Shape is burned alive. It's finally over. Again, etc. Halloween (2018) opens to nearly $80 million on a reported budget of $10 million and goes on to gross nearly a quarter of a billion. The reviews are overwhelmingly positive, with a few detractors here and there. But for the most part, the whole experiment was a success. David Gordon Green and Danny McBride had delivered the goods. They produced a satisfying, almost worthy successor to John Carpenter's original, and a bookend for the Halloween franchise. The Shape was dead, burned alive. Laurie Strode could rest, and finally get on her with her life... For about a week. Moooo. Chugga chugga. This wasn't the end. This was part one of a trilogy. PART IV But Maybe We Don't Do Hits: Halloween Kills At some point, after the monumental success of the legacy rebootquel Halloween , it was revealed that Green and McBride had originally pitched two pictures, to be shot back to back. I wonder what that pitch was. Would it have been a more drawn-out Laurie Strode story? Would it just have been Halloween (2018) spread over two pictures? Would it be exactly what we got with Halloween Kills ? We don't know. They held off though, and waited instead to see the audience’s reception. And it was good! It was great even! So where do we go next? Just like the original Halloween , Halloween (2018) ended in a somewhat narratively satisfying place, with the legend of The Boogeyman dead, and Laurie triumphant, but damaged. How can you get out of the room when there is paint all over the floor? Halloween Kills is dumb. Really dumb. A big, loud, excessive film, with one of the largest body counts in a slasherdom, 34 victims over one night! It's everything that’s wrong with legacy sequels, shoehorning in returning characters, padding out backstories, and resurrecting actors from the dead with CGI. Everything is amplified, with the kills themselves being particularly brutal, and thorough. (At one point Michael stands over a body, testing the effectiveness of kitchen knives, as one of his other victims looks on, with a fluorescent bulb protruding from her neck). The whole thing is a speedy, brainless bloodbath, stretching credulity past the breaking point, to levels of Looney Tunesery. And I love it, dearly. It feels like a Gremlins II style fuck you. A rambunctious, punk rock, giddy piece that drowns the audience's gullet in so much legacy sequel trope that you walk out with a piece of content foie gras where your content liver used to be. (And if that analogy doesn't work, stick around, I've got at least one more!). In an interview with IndieWire in 2022 , David Gordon Green makes mention of Halloween Kills being an action movie of sorts. And boy, does it play like one. In place of John Wick, we have The Shape aimlessly walking around Haddonfield, just having a good ole time. The kills are brutal, but inventive, and shot to elicit excitement, and some chuckles, rather than fear. While Halloween (2018) was the franchise dipping into “elevated” horror territory with its self-serious approach, Halloween Kills is a throwback to 80's horror schlock. It's stupid, and it knows it. That's the whole point. The middle child of the trilogy starts immediately after the events of Halloween , with Laurie and her clan off to the hospital. We're already invoking the original sequel, and purposely so. Everyone knows that The Shape died at the end of Halloween (2018). What this sequel presupposes is... Maybe he didn't? The rotted pumpkin was healthy once again, and now Green and McBride had to keep going. Well, go big or go home. And the title sequence now isn't just one healthy pumpkin, flickering in the dark, it's multiple pumpkins. It's the town of Haddonfield. The Boogeyman was woken up, and now he's on the loose, and everybody is infected. And so, we flashback to the original film, moments after The Shape disappeared after being shot by Loomis. Answered is the question of how Michael was finally caught, along with a bit of reframing of the narrative. The sequel is going out of its way to open up the story and distance itself from just centering on Laurie Strode. It's reinforcing the ripples of that Halloween night. The scars aren't just hers, they're Haddonfield’s. Like an Andy Dick who murders, there are a lot of people who had a run-in with The Boogeyman, and it left its mark. We watch as a young Officer Hawkins, a new addition to the franchise from Halloween (2018), had a chance to kill Michael forty years ago. And he fucked it up. Boy, did he fuck it up. See Laurie, this isn't your fault, it's his! While Laurie and her crew are off to the hospital, emergency workers are off to Laurie's home, to do what they do, and douse the flames. This is the first of two giant massacres in the film, and the action movie tone is on full display. This firefighter sequence is fantastic. Drenched in the light of orange flames, and completely bonkers, The Shape just slashes, smashes, and destroys one body after another. The POV portion, from inside of a firefighter’s mask, is so claustrophobic, amplifying the confusion, and the insanity. We're fully out of our grounded approach now, as a half-charred Michael Myers is revealed in slow-mo, surrounded by fire, like a John Woo character. This is a sequel motherfuckers! Buckle up! While Laurie Strode is prepped for surgery, we're treated to a reunion. Legacy sequel, without legacy characters? You couldn't possibly. Unfortunately, Donald Pleasance had passed away two decades earlier. And while they ghoulishly copied and pasted his face onto another actor’s for the flashback, you couldn't carry the whole movie on that simulacrum. So let's get the band back together. Or at least, scrape the barrel for some folks who could play the instruments. Who the hell is left from the sequel that we can squeeze a little nostalgia and recognition from? We head to the bar, where a Halloween talent show is happening, for some reason. And we are reintroduced to some characters I think you'll be pretty excited to see. Enter: Tommy Doyle, Laurie's babysitting charge from that fateful night. A seething, wild-eyed Anthony Michael Hall, as that guy you see at the bar every night, starting a fight with anyone he can. Then there is Lindsey Wallace, the babysitting charge of the late Annie Bracket. They actually brought back original actress Kyle Richards. Isn't that neat? Aren't you excited to see... Kyle Richards? again. Next, Lonnie Elam! It's Lonnie, guys! Tommy Doyle's former bully, who made him smash his pumpkin. Sure, you remember Lonnie. He's the kid Loomis scared from the bushes. Yeah! That Lonnie. (And I'm being silly, but I will say that Robert Longstreet kills in this role). And then finally, the piece de resistance, Marion Chambers, Dr. Loomis' assistant, and the nurse who survived a hand to the face from Michael Myers. And guess what... they fucking got Nancy Stephens to reprise her role. I know. I know. I screamed in the theater when she came on screen. You see, every Halloween, these four get together, share a couple of drinks, and reminisce about that night. These three kids and a woman, like 20 years their senior, at some point got together and started this little group. And it's just those four. They didn't invite, say, Sheriff Brackett, who for some reason is still bumbling around in a police uniform. It's just those four. It's insane. It's so nonsensical. When did they start doing this? Why haven't they gone on with their lives? Why the hell is Marion, at least 15 years their senior, who I'm pretty sure didn't even live in Haddonfield, start hanging out with these kids? What about the real victims' families? At least that's what I thought. But the movie is giving hints about The Boogeyman's infection. The people he's touched. They might be asymptomatic, but they're trapped in this story. They're obsessed. It's pumpkins all the way down folks. And the audience just loves to go to a theater and be rewarded for their fandom with things they recognize, that they can whisper to the person next to them, or just scream out a name. News of The Shape's return quickly spreads throughout town. Panic sets in. The mob, led by the red-faced and maniacal moron Tommy Doyle, grabs their weapons and heads out to deal some justice, Haddonfield style. Evil dies tonight! Evil dies tonight! Halloween Kills has mob mentality on its mind. And it's really about crafting our own villains and directing our anger onto those villains. We all need someone to hate, and to blame. It's no surprise that it was released at the tail end of the Trump presidency, and post-Covid. Green and McBride are obviously trying to say something about hearsay, anger, misinformation, crowdthink, and mob violence. And it's all pretty silly. So, I'm going to one-up the silliness. Reframe the story. It's mine now. We're the mob. The audience. Fandom. Evil dies tonight, indeed. While the whole movie seemingly does away with logic in any sense, in favor of big, bold set pieces, there is an inherent logic in what it is trying to say. There is a reason the original sequels seemed to offer diminishing returns, and why Jason went to space, Leprechaun went to the hood, and the Police Academy went to Russia. How do you keep this story going? And while all of those other films have undead zombies, magical monsters, and Michael Winslow, Halloween painted itself into a corner from the very beginning. Halloween created the slasher genre (argue about that amongst yourselves), and could never have known the glut of sequels in its future. So their villain was just a man. How could he keep coming back? And why, did we, the audience, want him to? I mean, Michael Winslow can sound like a robot. That I get. What the hell does The Shape have to offer? And he was purposely hollow, lacking motivation. Jason hates those campers. Leprechaun wants his gold. Michael Winslow has to beatbox. Those are story engines. Halloween lacks any of that. All it has is a man in a William Shatner mask and Laurie Strode. How many times do we really need to see that? Halloween Kills thankfully sidelines Laurie Strode. She's healing from her fight with The Shape, and pretty proud of herself for putting the whole thing to rest. She saved herself, her family, and the town of Haddonfield, from an unstoppable evil that wanted nothing more than to kill her. Or so she thinks, until they wheel in Officer Hawkins, who also survived his brush with death. And he lets her know, the whole thing was a fluke. Maybe she's always known the truth. He lets her know that she has no place in this story. She's nothing. She's nothing to Michael. But not to him. And, oh yeah Laurie, you didn't finish the job. Story’s not over. The Boogeyman is still on the loose. This movie is tonal whiplash from the first. I understand the criticisms, mostly. The whole thing is all over the place. There are moments of awkward comedy, awkward budding romance, awkward emotional epiphanies, and awkward narration. There are so many setups and subversions, and it ends on such a sour note. But I don't care. The filmmaking on display is gorgeous, with this pseudo 70's grain and washed-out colors. Everyone is so sweaty and panicked. Each kill, some with a goofy Rube Goldbergian flair, is staged, and executed in exciting and new ways. The scene-chewing campiness of the legacy characters works within the context. And it is asking you, us, the little content piggies, why we were so focused on Laurie? Why did we want to put her through that again? We asked for this! We're the mob! We want our Halloween ! We want to see Michael go out there, and kill! We want our mythology and continuity. You can't kill The Shape. Moo! Chugga chugga! Evil dies tonight! Shit's a Fogo de Chão, and there's no red card to show your server. If Halloween (2018) was the sensible, grounded legacy sequel, Halloween Kills is every horror franchise sequel, and every instance of fan service, bubbled and boiled down to its syrupy concentrate, then mainlined into our brains. It's too much movie. And it knows it. You want to smoke a cigarette son? I'm gonna watch you smoke the whole goddamn pack! It all builds to a giant massacre of everyone. Every character still standing. Michael, somehow, beaten, stabbed, shot, burnt, gets up and kills them all. Just an unstoppable, supernatural force, swinging wildly, and taking us all out. I saw the film with my little brother, and he whispered to me, “I think he's going to murder the whole town,” and we both stifled laughter. The big finale of this movie is just unhinged, with an overwrought bit of narration about Michael transcending his humanity through murder. It's a tired, beaten Laurie Strode, in a hospital bed, one step away from asking to be put out of her misery. They beat the shit out of a dead horse, and Mr. Ed got back up and fought back. The reviews were rough. The box office was lower. Judy Greer was dead. Halloween Ends was next. PART V Must Be the Season of the Witch: Halloween Ends Here we go. Ready for this? This is why I'm here in the first place, I think. I'm not entirely sure. I think it's readily apparent that I lost my place and my point, and probably, your attention, at least three or four times already. Anyway... Halloween Ends is nearly a masterpiece. It's probably the best Halloween film made since the original. David Gordon Green and Danny McBride wrote a beautifully inventive story full of Carpenter's spirit. They crafted a complex and engaging story that rewards revisits. Green directed the hell out of nearly every sequence, with the opening being an all-timer, not just for Halloween , or for horror films in general, but in film. The story of Corey Cunningham is a masterstroke, and in a few years' time, it will be reevaluated, just like its blue-titled inspiration, Halloween III: Season of the Witch , and it will be lauded for how monumental a piece of work it is. This was the Halloween , the movie that I wanted David Gordon Green to make. These were my expectations. They were met. And it's fantastic. Halloween Ends isn't a sequel so much as it is a post-script. Right from the start, we're introduced to a whole-cloth, brand-new character and denizen of Haddonfield, Corey Cunningham, a promising young man, a bit nerdy, but warm in spirit, ready to take on the world. Corey has plans to attend college to become an engineer. He's about to go out into the world, escape Haddonfield, and its boogeymen, and make something of himself. Right off the bat, we see the eagerness in Corey and the gentle spirit he has. He offers gardening advice to the father of the kid he's about to babysit. When the kid's mother tries to instill the fear that Haddofield churns on into Corey, he waves it away with a simple “kid’s stuff.” When it comes to a choice between a beer and chocolate milk, Corey chooses chocolate milk. This is a good kid. This whole opening sequence, from the WURG radio bumper, to the familiar Halloween night streets of Haddonfield, to the Phantom of the Opera foreshadowing piano tune, to the bouncy dialogue, to the camera pan over the twisty staircase, right up until its tragic end, is perfect. Taken as a whole, the opening ten minutes is a beautiful short film and it uses the visual language of film to lay out its themes. Sensitive kids suffering from nightmares are one mask away from being monsters. Fear can make you do stupid things. A fall to the depths can be a painful, deadly thing. When we get to the final image of Corey, atop a staircase, knife in hand, in shock and disbelief, looking at the crumpled corpse of a kid he just accidentally killed, being cradled by his mother, all from a stupid mistake... It's dizzying. What is this movie? Where is The Shape? Where is Laurie Strode? Once again, the credits, which explode onto the screen with the booming theme song, now aping the color of the originally maligned, but now lauded Halloween III: Season of the Witch , are very bluntly trying to prepare you for what you're about to see. They feature a pumpkin, changing shape, morphing into different faces. This movie is going to be different. But then, immediately after the credits, goddamnit, the voice of Laurie Strode comes in. She's narrating an excerpt from her book, and it's so weird. It makes Laurie look like such a cold, narcissistic, attention hound. She's of course writing about The Shape, about The Boogeyman, about Michael Myers, and she's apparently, learned nothing. This is where the movie loses me. Every time this new Laurie Strode pops up, aimless, and tired, I mostly check out. She even has another little “I told you so!” in her narration, like she's waiting for the town to turn around and apologize to her. She seems almost satisfied that her insane prediction about Michael Myers accidentally came true. And even worse, now that he's out there somewhere, having killed over forty people, including her daughter, and her son-in-law... After all that... She's put it all behind her? What? What the fucking what? Laurie's got a new haircut. She's taken up knitting. She's baking pumpkin pies. She's celebrating Halloween. I don't understand any of this! Everything she was so terribly fearful of came true, and probably, beyond her wildest, worst nightmares. And there was no closure. There was no end. No one knows where the fuck The Shape went. And now she knows, or should know, this was never about her. And now she's content? Now she's found peace? Or is she at least pretending she did? But here's the thing, maybe that's the point. Maybe Laurie isn't a hero here. Maybe she's an equal, but opposite to Michael Myers. Laurie Strode is part of the problem. Laurie Strode is part of the rot. During this narration, we are shown a changed Haddonfield. A broken Haddonfield. An angry, fearful, traumatized place full of suicide, death, and pain. And that's because Laurie Strode's boogeyman, her story, is now the whole town's story. Laurie didn't escape the trauma, she's just sharing it with everyone else. One giant trauma bond in small town USA. I guess that's something us Americans can get behind. We get it. Allyson, Laurie's granddaughter, now lives with Laurie. And at first, she's too numb to see what's wrong. Laurie dolts over her with performative kindness, and heirlooms from her murdered parents. She works at a hospital, surrounded by perv doctors, and narcissistic friends, but still, helping people. It isn't until Corey enters her life that she starts to wake up, and exit the fog. And who is the catalyst to introduce these star-crossed lovers, and usher in a new cycle of violence? Laurie fucking Strode for the win. You go, girl. Corey has become a town pariah. Accidental murder of a child will do that to your reputation. He never left for college. He works at the town junkyard. He tries to keep to himself, but everywhere he goes, there are whispers of the child murderer. It seems Haddonfield needs its boogeyman, and Corey, by mere happenstance is it. After a run-in with a very Green/McBride creation of bully high school marching band teens, Corey's rage bubbles up, and he crushes a glass bottle of chocolate milk (hey look, a callback! A visual motif!) in his hand. Laurie encourages Corey to fight back against his bullies and then brings him over to the hospital for a meet-cute with her traumatized granddaughter. Again, the theme of infection, of rot, is driven home as Allyson cleans Corey's wounds. And you can see, in another life, how these two might be perfect for each other, but in the cyclical story of Haddonfield, they're just destined for disaster. At first, Corey feels the warmth and love coming from Allyson, but he can't escape his story. They're equal, but opposites. Victim and perpetrator. A Gen Z echo of Michael and Laurie. It's no accident that for the first time in a long time, Corey comes out of his shell - after being invited to a Halloween party by Allyson - he's wearing a mask. Unfortunately for Corey, the mother of the accidentally murdered boy is sitting at the bar, and she won't let him so easily forget. She, like Laurie, isn't about to let the wounds heal. Gone is the smiling, costumed woman from the opening scene, and in its place, is a frail drunk, rotted to the core. She spots Corey at the end of the bar, with his cavalier, carefree attitude, sipping a beer. (Look at that. Corey finally gets a drink, but it ain't no chocolate milk, it's a Budweiser. Isn't that narratively satisfying?!). Corey quickly leaves the party, letting Allyson know that everyone in Haddonfield feels sorry for her, but for him. It's not so easy; he's a murderer. He's a monster. He's a boogeyman. So Corey leaves the party and wanders the streets of Haddonfield alone, angry, and trapped. I love how Green subtly changes Haddonfield from a small town, with cottage-like homes, into a post-industrial, cold, lonely place. Gone are the 50's Americana streets and cozy bars. In their place are concrete, wide open roads to nowhere, junkyards, and homeless encampments. It feels like a different place. All it takes is one run-in with those weirdo bullies, where Corey takes Laurie's advice, and tries to fight back. It doesn't go so well for him. He's knocked off a bridge, by accident, by a group of teens who need something to fear. Corey falls, echoing the kid he kicked from the top of the stairs. Imagine that. Narrative symmetry. From the depths, Corey is dragged into the sewers, even lower, and face to face with The Shape himself. This seems to be another point of contention with people. It takes 45 minutes for The Shape to show up, and when he does he's hiding in the sewer. People expected the unstoppable killing machine of Halloween Kills , while in the same breath, are confused as to how he's even alive. They're confused why he's in the sewer, beneath Haddonfield. Why isn't he out there, just killing, killing, killing? We enjoyed that pack of cigarettes. Light us up another! You got that movie! You got that movie eleven times! And they still exist! You can pick any of them out, and see that story! Eleven different versions of it! The Shape is in bad... uh... shape. He's a shadow of himself. Hidden behind a wall. At first, Corey is understandably horrified, but as he looks into the eyes of The Boogeyman, something stares back. There's a transference. And it's the first blatant hint at something magic, or supernatural happening here. Corey stumbles out of the sewer, frazzled, but electrified, and he kills for the first time. Something of an accident, less so than his first kill. But he's got blood on his hands now. You wanted a boogeyman? This is how you get a boogeyman. Corey heads home, rushes past his overbearing mother, and like Peter Parker waking up from the spider bite, stares at himself in the mirror. He too, takes his glasses off. The eager, smiling young man is succumbing to the story the town has whispered about him. Allyson warned him at the hospital about infection, but it's too late now. Spiritual sepsis. Halloween Ends is going somewhere new. It wants the audience to come along. But audience expectations, the comfort of the familiar is a little too strong. The whole reason I wanted to write about this trilogy was the response to David Gordon Green's follow-up to Halloween , The Exorcist: Believer . I haven't seen it, but the reviews were less than stellar. And they all seemed to have some air of, “Well, what did you expect from the guy who made Halloween Ends ?” Every comment on Twitter, which I know, isn't real life, and most of the comments on articles, and message boards seemed to pretend that they weren't pumped by Halloween (2018). Like David Gordon Green made one movie you didn't like, and now he's a terrible filmmaker? You kill one kid accidentally and you can't escape that reputation. Sound familiar? Sound a little meta? Maybe. Halloween Ends focuses on Corey's transformation and attempts to infect Allyson. It's Green diving headfirst into that Malick comparison, doing a little bit of a Badlands riff. It's also a little bit Christine . Corey's transformation is done so well, as he loses his glasses, trades his bicycle for a motorcycle, and fights back against the bullies, just like Laurie told him to, that Laurie sees it in him, in his eyes. She sees the rot, the evil, the boogeyman, and she realizes her mistake, putting these two together, but it's spiraling out of control, and once again, she's helpless to stop it. By the end of the movie, those bully marching band geeks have been brutally murdered by Corey, who has become a more energized, new, REBOOT of The Shape. He's a bit more nimble, calculating, and motivated. He's reactionary, rather than an unstoppable force of nature. Corey's Boogeyman is more dangerous. If Michael Myers's original form is a projection of the fear of the unknown dancing under the covers of the safe, white suburbia of the 70s, Corey is the monster all that unbridled fear created. Frankenstein's fucking monster. Legacy. Inherited trauma. Corey's final act is a showdown at the Strode house. He's going to do what Michael never could, never wanted to. He's going to kill Laurie Strode. He's going to end this fucking story. Halloween (2018) is exactly what you'd expect. Halloween Kills is the audience's monkey paw. Halloween Ends is an artist trying to escape the velocity of the Hollywood machine to give you something new. And just as quickly, he takes it away. After a quick bait and switch by Laurie, and an even quicker fight, Corey is on his last legs. And Laurie, part sarcastically, part honestly, begs him to kill her. But then there's a rattle from outside the door, as Allyson's car, with its broken muffler, pulls up in front of the house. And in one final act, knowing he'll never escape who he is, knowing the audience will never let him be the new Shape, Corey smiles and stabs himself in the neck. Roll credits. Wait... What? Oh. Michael. You want to see a 60-something-year-old lady, what, like fight a 60-something-year-old serial killer, again, for the last time, for the last time last time? Fine. Michael shows up. He gets his mask back. Laurie and him do their little dance. In my theater, people cheered. They really wanted this. They wanted to watch Laurie win. They wanted The Boogeyman to die. Even though, every time he does, they're just waiting for him to come back. Here is where David Gordon Green and Danny McBride might get their most meta, most fuck you-ish, most eye-rollingly bored by the Laurie Strode story. Laurie stands triumphant, with her granddaughter by her side, and they kill Michael Myers. Like really kill him. And it's not some big, grand finale, with fireworks, and a feeling of having overcome something. It's benign. It's boring. It's like mourning a person for a year before they finally succumb to their illness. The Strode women take turns, slowly, quietly, slicing at Michael's wrist. There is no energy to the scene. Enough with this fucking guy. The Shape has been shot, stabbed with a knitting needle, knocked out of a window, exploded, hit by cars, knocked down wells, shot again, had his fingers sliced off, exploded again, decapitated, burned, stabbed, stabbed, stabbed, shot... yet, he keeps coming back. This man has been through a lot. The Shape never dies. Oh yeah? Laurie and Allyson parade his corpse through town, in a bizarre funeral procession, straight to that junkyard (which has to be littered with corpses, right?), and dump his body into a shredder. There's no question Moustapha, they killed The Shape. Halloween ended. PART VI Everything. Everywhere. All at Once. Just recently, it was announced that there was a bidding war for the television rights to Halloween , to the Michael Myers story. Miramax, because somehow that's still a thing, beat out Blumhouse and A24, to take back Haddonfield. There are rumors of a whole cinematic universe being set up. Chugga chugga fucking moooooooooo. And you know what? I'll watch it. Whatever stupid version or inspired version, or boring version of Halloween that comes next, I'll check it out because I'm a fan. I've been a fan since I was young, and saw Halloween 4: The Return of Michael Myers on television. My friendship with Mr. Story Screen himself, Michael Burdge, first started as we watched a recorded from TV, VHS version of Halloween II in his basement as preteens. I saw Halloween H20: Twenty Years Later in theaters, at 12 years old, with my 60-something neighbor, because no one would go with her, and no one would take me. I'm a fan. I'm a huge fan. The franchise is important to me. But. I'm getting old. I'm getting tired. And I’m a fan, but I’m not a capital F fan. Werner Herzog once said, “ Give us adequate images. We lack adequate images, our civilization doesn't have adequate images. And I think our civilization is doomed, is gonna die out like dinosaurs if it does not develop an adequate language or adequate images .” And I can already hear your eyes scratching your skull as they roll backward. At least that's what I expect. Great, you're thinking to yourselves, or at least I'm thinking you're thinking to yourselves, another film bro talking about Herzog. And I get the inclination, but it's part of the problem. It's anti-intellectualism; an argument with no words. Who’s having that argument? Is it you or me? Yeah, I read Infinite Jest, and I fucking liked it. Leave me alone. So what does Herzog mean here? Who cares. I'm pretty sure he was talking about the “truth” of the documentary or something like that. Who cares. He said it, gave it to us, and it's ours to take however we want. It's mine to take however I want. Go ahead and read it again, what do you think he's talking about? Good. You're probably right. I hate artist statements. Never read them. I never want to know what the artist intended. If Catcher in the Rye makes me want to assassinate a public figure, it’s my problem, not theirs. What the hell am I talking about? Film is art. And art is vastly overrated. Film is entertainment. And entertainment is necessary for the human psyche. Film is content. And content is mushing our brains. Film is film. And it's not that important, and it's all too important, and its importance is being overestimated, and undervalued. But at the end of the day, film, almost all film, and definitely, all mainstream film, is a product, created by corporations, scheming to get money, and your mind, hiding behind jester's privilege. That adult man in the one-piece Wookie costume, screaming at the screen behind me during The Last Jedi is my boogeyman and I'm Laurie Strode. And we're both wrong. I sit at that trough, eating the slop along with the rest of you. Just because I think I'm wearing pants, and performatively using a spoon, doesn't make me any different. (And if that analogy doesn't work, I don't think I have much more to give you. We're reaching the end of this thing. Oink oink.) We've all turned film watching into a spectator sport, and a speculative market. We've turned it into politics. We've turned it into a two-party system. Or at least we've been tricked into it. And I think we need to stop. What I do think is that something is broken. After generations of counterculture identities being churned up, and vomited back at us by the capitalist machine, we gave up and gave in. There's no fighting fire with fire. So we'll be the brand before they can make us the brand. Graphic tees, cosplay, Funko Pops, and sequels, escapism for escapism's sake. Ready Player One? What do you collect? Oh, so do I! Look how much collection I have. Is it better than yours? Did you know Viggo broke his toe in this scene? Name three of their albums. Who does a therapist go to when they need to talk to someone? It's pumpkins all the way down, folks. I just wrote who knows how many words about entries in a past its prime franchise, talking down to an invisible audience that probably doesn't exist, to prop myself up. I'm the main character of this story, and I have to stop that Wookie. Because I'm a fan. I'm an entitled, entangled, addicted fan. What bugs me so much, and the response to these very entertaining, very well-made Halloween movies are emblematic of, is the entitlement, and the stagnation. The sweaty-mouthed heroin addict begging for a hit and blaming the dealer when the high just ain't the same. This whole world is changing so fast, so chaotically, and the capitalist machine has trained us so well to salivate at the ringing of a bell, and that bell is nostalgia, and that bell is same same. When I was young I got into comic books, like really into comic books, like thousands and thousands of dollars into comic books. I spent almost two decades collecting and obsessing. Sunk cost fallacy. I had been doing it so long, so habitually, that I didn't realize my own dissatisfaction with the hobby. I blamed the writers, the editorial, the artist, and worst of all, I blamed all the new fans. I was there before superheroes went mainstream you know! All of you are fakes! You're ruining it! What I came to realize, however, is I changed. I grew. It's inevitable. It's what happens. There wasn't something wrong with comics. They just weren't for me anymore. And they weren't going to be. At least, not the monolithic idea of being a comic fan, of being a nerd. So I started to focus on what I actually liked about comics, which writers I liked, and what stories I liked. And a whole new world opened up to me. I dropped the pride, and the need to label myself as a nerd, as a comic nerd. That label, mostly self-imposed, pressured me into keeping up appearances, and it was sort of comfortable to wear as a costume. And we do it all the time. Case in point: Barbenheimer. Remember that? At first, it was an organic, sort of ironic, internet meme, that turned into a full-blown event. Which are you, team Barbie or team Oppenheimer ? Barbie wears pink. Oppenheimer is gray. Which are you seeing first? What are you wearing? It's a feminist screed! It's a toy commercial! It's ignoring the devastation of the nuclear bomb! It’s a masterpiece by an artist at the height of his craft! You got a take? You got a take? Who's got a take? Put on your high heels, and your tweed jacket, we're going to the cinema! How embarrassing. And who am I to take the helium out of someone's balloon? People were having fun! But it all seemed a little ghoulish. It all seemed a little too manipulative. It all seemed a little too like Invasion of the Body Snatchers , where the pods are PR firms, and the people are living, breathing commercials. We are what we eat. Oink oink oink. It just felt like all that fanfare got in the way of any actual discourse about the movies. And maybe that’s okay. Maybe the discourse isn’t that important. But when our identities get so tied up in the idea of the thing, in the idea of the product, honesty is hard to stomach and it’s harder to speak. If you got swept up in the pageantry of Barbie and Oppenheimer , got all dressed up, got all your friends together, spent all that money, and the movies truly sucked, could you say that out loud? Could you admit you were tricked? What if they were just okay? Could we allow them to be that? After all that buildup and meme sharing, and identity, tied to products, to commercialism… After all that, can you even be honest about what you just experienced? But, I guess, does that even matter? Film is entertainment. Film is a product. Film shouldn’t be our identity. No pop culture should. And all of it… Television, film, music… All of it should be honestly assessed, and honestly allowed to be okay. Not the greatest thing you’ve ever experienced. Not the worst thing you’ve ever sat through. Sometimes, okay is best. Chicken soup, vanilla ice cream, Police Academy 2: Their First Assignment . And it’ll never take away from how you first felt. And it will never feel that way again. And sometimes, most of the time, it’ll feel that way only to you. Instead of sharing that feeling, or trying to share that feeling, we get mad. We get mad that someone doesn’t get it. I get mad. And we don’t try and share the joy. When someone gets that feeling, we want to snatch that joy. First to be right! First to prove you wrong! Kybar crystals! Lonnie Elam! HOWEVER: There's a difference between a piece of art being bad, and a piece of art not being for a specific person. Not everything is for everyone. That's homogenization. That's repetition. That's fucking boring. And there is a real difference between being a fan of a brand and being a fan of art. Some people can be both. And neither one is better, or worse than the other. And both can be real fucking snobs about it. But when those two sides start arguing, using the same words, but speaking a different language, things get ridiculous. There is a video that went viral from TikTok recently. It's of two self-proclaimed nerds, surrounded by nerd ephemera, talking about Killers of the Flower Moon . Scorsese is back, and he had the gall to make a 3.5-hour film. Who the hell does he think he is? In the video, these two self-proclaimed nerds share their opinion of Scorcese's new flick, and it's an actual shrug. They talk about Marty's likening of Marvel films to carnival rides, and how when choosing between art and entertainment, they always choose entertainment. And these two self-proclaimed nerds had the gall to release this clip to the internet. Who do they think they are? The backlash was fierce. You can find the video pretty easily, and I'm not going to share it here. I don't really see a huge difference between what they're doing and what I'm doing. I had the gall to write this unfocused slop. Who the hell do I think I am? They're allowed to like what they like. They're young, and I don't envy their generation, and the generation after them, having their coming of age be a performance. Thank god the only things I had access to twenty years ago were Ain't It Cool News talkbacks and alt.newsgroups. The thing is, they're not stupid, just ignorant. That might sound harsh, and I'm sorry if it is. They don't like movies, they like Marvel. And that’s because they don’t have the language for film. They don’t really watch film. They don’t really want to watch film. They are ignorant to the wider spectrum and experiences film has to offer. Maybe they’re closed off to it. Maybe they don’t care. They want to watch Spider-Man. They want to see Easter eggs. They want the familiar, and recognizable. I guess that's okay. They may get there. They may not. They want to be entertained. Those two self-proclaimed nerds don’t realize, they are so convinced, that art and entertainment are separate. Art is boring and hard. Entertainment is fun. They don’t want to learn anything else, and they’ve probably dug their heels in too deep after being ridiculed and lectured for so long by a bunch of pompous, pretentious film nerds. There is a great interview with Paul Thomas Anderson on Charlie Rose , from all the way back in 1997. I think I saw it clipped and shared as an Instagram Reel. Talk about lowbrow! He’s talking about film school and how it’s a waste of time, saying that it’s overly pretentious. He talks about sitting in a screenwriting class, and the teacher telling the class that anyone who wants to write Terminator 2 can leave now. And how dangerous, how shitty of a thing that is. But the best part is, when he talks about film education doing it backward, starting with Battleship Potemkin and working forward, when you should start with Terminator and work backward. You don’t hand a two-year-old The Brothers Karamazov (I’ve never read it.), you give them The Very Hungry Caterpillar . I think about that a lot. When people went to see Halloween Ends , they didn't want a movie, they wanted Michael Myers and Laurie Strode. I guess, that's okay too. I think part of the failure of Halloween Ends in the public’s eye, was its marketing. The trailer sold the product as some epic showdown between Laurie and The Shape. Again, to me, seeing two geriatrics with little to no connection besides happenstance in a 40-year story held no appeal to me. What does that even look like? It probably looks like the last half hour of Halloween (2018). If I want to see their showdown I’ll watch that. Or Halloween , or Halloween 2 , or Halloween H20: Twenty Years Later . Or either of Rob Zombie’s Halloweens. Those still exist. Those are still there. But David Gordon Green and Danny McBride’s trilogy went out of its way to set up its story and its themes. With each entry, it opened wider and wider, showing that Laurie and her trauma wasn’t the point, and in a lot of ways, Laurie was part of the problem by thinking it was about her. That Michael/The Story was the rot on Haddonfield/The Franchise, and Laurie/The Audience can’t see past that. And that’s one interpretation, that I saw, and I find it interesting. And Green used every film technique in his arsenal, and it’s not even that subtle, to traverse multiple genres, and somehow, give a little for everybody. And it works! I really don’t care what you think, it really does work! The cinematography is gorgeous, the set pieces elaborate and precise, the growth, and exploration of different versions of horror is ambitious as hell, and kind of crazy, and it really fucking works. It’s interesting! It’s at least more interesting than “The Boogeyman is not stabby-stabby enough.” Halloween has been around for 40 years, and it will continue to be around, and god help us, I’m sure there will be another entry about Laurie Strode. If you want the “McDonalds Travis Scott” meal, they’re gonna give it to you. The same items that are always available rearranged to seem like something new that you can get swept up in the hype for, and buy once again. But to me that’s boring. And it’s not adequate in its images, which is also why I think The Last Jedi is a bit confused in its messaging. Kylo Ren is fucking right. That last act swerve back to cackling villainy almost pretty much cancels out how right he is. Let the past die! Kill it if you have to! Evil dies tonight! Film is a craft, and I know from experience how fucking insane it is that any movie gets made, let alone a decent one, let alone, let alone an original one, and decent one. It takes a lot of people working with, and mostly against a lot of people to make that shit happen. And there is a difference between being disappointed by your own expectations, and being disappointed by a team of people, practicing their craft poorly. That might sound a little “appeal to authorityish,” and maybe, it is. I’m just saying, you can't be mad at a cheeseburger because it's a bad bowl of soup. Or at least you can’t criticize it for that. And if you do criticize, if you want to have that conversation, you better be ready to back it up with more than, “I was expecting soup! I prefer soup!” And that goes both ways. Maybe that cheeseburger is a bad bowl of soup. I’m willing to be convinced. I’m willing to be wrong. That’s the best part of film fandom, and film discourse, and wasting our time with this deluge of pop culture we’re swimming in; being wrong. Wanting to learn more. When you open yourself up to film, or any art form for that matter, without expectations, without preconceived notions, you are opening yourself up to being truly, and frequently surprised. And for that you have to take it way less seriously, and be a little bit more serious in the way you watch, the why you watch; the way you consume, the why you consume. Maybe two buns, a meat patty, and a slice of cheese is subversion of the concept of soup. Maybe it’s satire. Maybe I had one more bad analogy to close this thing out with. Who knows. Rian Johnson’s The Last Jedi and David Gordon Green/Danny McBride's Halloween are good films. They're well-made, well-written spins on overly familiar products. And while I understand someone’s disappointment in the surprise, especially in the case of Halloween Ends , I can’t get behind saying something is bad because it isn’t what you thought it’d be, when it’s really good at being what it was supposed to be. The fandom response, the angry, entitled negative response is almost never about the craft. It's disappointment in expectations. It's bad because Luke didn't rush in and save the day. It's bad because The Shape didn't show up, and kill enough people. It's bad because it's not the movie I saw in my head, the fanfic I've been writing for years. It’s bad because I dedicated myself, my identity, and a chunk of my life to thinking this story, this malleable, moldable story, was always going to be the same. Heracles becomes Hercules. Constantinople becomes Istanbul. And some people can’t handle that. Sunk cost fallacy. New Coke will go back to being Coke Classic. And that's bad. It's bad for everyone. It's openly admitting you don't like to be challenged, you don't like to be uncomfortable, and you don't want anything different. Weirder yet, while saying the quiet part out loud, you don't even hear it. Or they don't. That Wookie man. It’s not permanent. It’s not forever. The Big Mac ain’t ever leaving the menu. And you just accept the Big Mac as perfect because it’s what you know. And we’ll never find out if it’s not because you won’t let anyone try anything new. You won’t get excited about failure. There’s nothing better than failure. There is nothing better than experimentation. Where do you think the Big Mac even came from? Don’t you remember the Star Wars Holiday Special ? Don’t you remember Halloween: Resurrection ? I'm not saying we all need to be film nerds. God knows we have too many of those. I think I'm saying we need to stop arguing in different languages. And we need to start admitting we might have a problem. There's no reason for those kids to go viral except for people to smugly point out the obvious, which is even more pathetic. There's no reason for this excessive, unfocused bit of writing. But I'm old and tired. It's okay if I'm pathetic. We’ve happily become the content. And we’re defining ourselves as such. And we’re concerned more about the discourse, about our reaction, about the expectations we bring in, and the overwhelming din of inescapable public opinion, manipulated, capitalist-driven public opinion, than escaping into what can sometimes be art. And that Wookie man, whoever he is, to me, is a problem, waiting for his turn to speak rather than listening to what someone is saying. It’s insane to me that in a world of pop culture that is currently so obsessed with the concept of multiverses, where every version of the product as story exists all at once, and sometimes smashes together… It’s insane to me that some people can’t accept it’s all up for grabs, and none of it matters, except when it does. And you get to make that decision. There’s always another version. There’s always fanfiction. If you want to be into the product, label yourself as such, be a Marvel-theorizing, cameo-loving nerd, and go for it. But have a little self-awareness. Know what you’re buying, that you are in fact buying, and that you are buying in. Each little hit of dopamine as you escape from the chaotic, changing world comes with diminishing returns. Especially when you set yourself up for disappointment. Stop hoping something is going to be what you think it should be, creating expectations to be met. Cinema Sins and 38 Easter Eggs You Might’ve Missed in the Priscilla Trailer, or whatever, has broken your brain. Stop shaking the Christmas presents. Just unwrap them and take them as they are. Sometimes it’ll be socks. Socks are cozy. Enjoy the fucking socks! And if you want to be the deep-cut searching, VHS collecting, whispering trivia during the movie, “That's a nice shot” kind of film nerd, then go for that too. But stop banging your head against the wall defending Scorcese every time someone asks his opinion on The Fantastic Four or whatever. That adult man in the one-piece Wookie costume is always going to care about that. You’re probably not going to change his mind. More Tarkovsky for you! There’s no there, there. Kylo Ren/Rey. The Shape/Laurie. Travis Scott/Michael Winslow. We need to manage our expectations. Of art. Of film. Of Big Macs. Of each other. I definitely need to. Enjoy the entertainment. I'm not the main character. This story is not mine. Oink. Oink Oink. Object to the Hollywood film and you’re an intellectual snob, object to the avant-garde films and you’re a Philistine. But, while in Hollywood, one must often be a snob; in avant-garde circles one must often be a Philistine. --- Pauline Kael PART VII Who You Gonna Call? In 2015, before the Trump Presidency and after The Office aired its series finale, it was announced that Paul Feig was taking the helm of an all-new, all-different Ghostbusters . It was going to be a gender-swapped reimaging, teaming Paul Feig with his Bridesmaid star Kristen Wiig, and frequent collaborator, Melissa McCarthy. Along for the ride were SNL alums Kate McKinnon and Leslie Jones. Written by Paul Feig and Katie Dippold, this was to be a new start for the franchise that had started and sputtered for nearly two decades. Things started out promising, and then... Just kidding. Chugga. Chugga. Brian Bernard Murnane A Prop Master, Art pirate, and freelance writer located in Glendale, California. Good at pinball, bad at first impressions, worse at conversation. He also has a Letterboxd account, but he won't share that here. You've seen his work primarily on commercials that annoy you when you're watching Hulu.

Diana and Mike are joined by Tim Irwin to chat about the latest (and last) Flanagan joint to hit Netflix, The Fall of the House of Usher . Topics include rounding up their fav episodes, fav kills, chatting about how Henry Thomas is the actor of his generation, the desired amount of cheese in shows like this, and finding just the right spot in your own home to hide a body behind a bunch of bricks. Listen on....

A Chronicle of One TV-Loving Household’s Struggle Amidst the Strike With the recent joint strike of the WGA and SAG-AFTRA, productions on many of the television shows I was eagerly awaiting the return of were put on hold. In our home, this caused a dual problem: what could we watch while we waited for the strike to shake itself out, and also, what should we choose to watch when it feels like there is already way too much content out there on streaming services? Narrowing down options felt near impossible. I’m here to give you a brief report on some of the programming we watched (or attempted to watch) in hopes that it will: 1) give you some options until production on struck shows resumes; and 2) find some humor in the fact that we descended into some really bleak AF territory in the process. The Outsider This was something we had missed entirely on its first run on HBO but we were absolutely delighted by it. Based on the Stephen King novel of the same name, this miniseries from January 2020 features performances by Ben Mendelsohn, Cynthia Erivo, Bill Camp, Paddy Considine, Mare Winningham, and Jason Bateman (who also directed the first two episodes), as members of a community in Cherokee City, Ohio work to solve a series of grisly murders. In the process, they uncover a mysterious supernatural force that might be responsible for these crimes. There have been many adaptations of Stephen King’s works over the years and this is one of the better ones, featuring exceptional performances by the entire cast - especially Erivo, as Stephen King's fan-favorite recurring character, Holly Gibney, an eccentric, but extremely gifted, private investigator, and Mendelsohn, as the lead detective investigating the case. It’s on HBO Max - if horror/suspense is your thing, and especially if you are a King fan, it’s well worth the time. Mr. Mercedes So after we got done with The Outsider, I went down a Stephen King Wikipedia rabbit hole and discovered that Holly Gibney was first introduced in his Bill Hodges trilogy and that there had been a three-season show based on these books premiering back in 2017, on the short-lived Audience Network. Mr. Mercedes features the always delightful Brendan Gleeson as Hodges, with memorable turns from Holland Taylor, Mary-Louise Parker, Harry Treadaway, and Justine Lupe as Holly. Truth be told, it was strange to meet a young Holly played by a white actress after first seeing Cynthia Erivo’s interpretation of the character, but despite the suspension of disbelief required to somehow reconcile the Holly Gibney backstory canon between the two shows, it was still fun to spend time with her. Mr. Mercedes , unfortunately, is a show that seemed to be aiming for the veneer of Prestige TV but fell a bit short, feeling a bit more like a normal network TV procedural - the Audience Network (a part of the DIRECTV umbrella) just can’t compete with HBO's budget and production values. That said, I’m always happy to see Gleeson be a loveable grump, and Mr. Mercedes certainly delivers on that front. We unfortunately did not make it all the way through all three seasons; season three was attempting to take on way too many story elements at once and it got very cluttered and hard to follow. Multiple disparate but eventually connecting plot points are something that works just fine in novel form (Stephen King’s books are notoriously long, dense, and complex) but is difficult to translate well on the small screen. All three seasons are available to stream on Peacock and eventually, we’ll go back and finish out the last season. Top of the Lake After engrossing ourselves fully in the environment of Stephen King adaptations, I wanted to go back and try Top of the Lake , a show I fully intended to watch when it first aired in 2013, but I never got around to, that I’d heard shared elements of King’s trademark grimness. Top of the Lake , created and written by Jane Campion and starring Elisabeth Moss, was filmed concurrently with the last few seasons of Mad Men but before The Handmaid’s Tale , and it kind of serves as a strange connecting thread between the adventures of Peggy Olson and the dystopian nightmare that is June/Offred’s existence. Moss portrays Robin Griffin, a detective haunted by her past (a well-worn police story archetype seen in both The Outsider and Mr. Mercedes but given a slightly new take via Moss’ performance) from Sydney, Australia, returning to visit her mother in New Zealand, who then gets caught up in the investigation of a missing child’s case while at home. Moss does some great character work as Robin, (A+ to whoever her dialect coach was, by the way) but the story overall was oddly structured and fragmented and my boyfriend bailed after two episodes. I saw the whole season out and ultimately enjoyed it, but then I attempted to watch the second season and bailed because the plot was all over the place and the characters were impossible to sympathize with, even with the welcome addition of Nicole Kidman to the cast. This is a show that was best suited to remaining a standalone miniseries. Both seasons are on Hulu and trust me, you won’t be bored. Or at least, you won’t be bored by season one. I’ll be frank; after this, we started flailing a bit. We took a time-out from television and decided to go down a path of watching movies about artists. Here’s what that looked like, along with some impertinent "hot takes" for those who might be interested: Lust for Life This is a 1956 biographical film about the life of Vincent Van Gogh, starring Kirk Douglas as Van Gogh and Anthony Quinn as Paul Gauguin. It’s a very straightforward, linear depiction of Van Gogh’s coming into himself as an artist and Douglas does a great job of making Van Gogh very likable and warm, despite his debilitating mental illness; that being said, we did not find it nearly as moving as the 2018 film At Eternity’s Gate , starring Willem Dafoe as Van Gogh and Oscar Issac as Gauguin, about the final years of the artist’s life. Modigliani Andy Garcia portrays artist Amedeo Modigliani in this 2004 biopic. I love Andy Garcia, but this was probably the most horrendous film I have seen in a very long time, and most definitely, the most horrendous performance I’ve seen Garcia give (and yes, I include the atrocity that is The Godfather Part 3 in that assessment). Do not recommend it. Pollock This 2000 biopic was Ed Harris’ passion project, and he certainly threw himself into the role; that said, the main takeaway one gets from this story is that Pollock (played by Harris) was a fucking piece of shit of a human being, and his wife, Lee Krasner, was a saint for putting up with his abusive ass. Marcia Gay Harden does an excellent job playing Lee (her Oscar was well-deserved) and she is easily the most sympathetic character in this whole mess. So after we gave up on artists, for whatever reason, we went down an Alfred Hitchcock rabbit hole, maybe because we were craving a return to grimness and horror. Some impertinent hot takes on those films to follow here: Suspicion This 1941 film was the first time Hitchcock collaborated with Cary Grant; Grant plays Johnnie Aysgarth, a loveable cad who marries the wealthy Lina McLaidlaw (Joan Fontaine) after knowing her for less than a week, and then proceeds to behave exactly like the kind of guy who is going to kill his wife for her money. This movie should be scary, but it’s silly AF, Lina’s obliviousness is cringeworthy, and Grant mostly acts like a clown. Don’t marry men you’ve just met, Joan Fontaine. Rebecca This film from 1940 is one of Hitchcock’s most famous, with Laurence Olivier giving a wonderfully tortured performance as widowed millionaire Maxim de Winter, Joan Fontaine plays Maxim’s kind but naive second wife (referred to only as “the second Mrs. de Winter) whom he met on vacation and married impulsively, and Judith Anderson creeps us all out as Mrs. Danvers, the housekeeper at the de Winters’ massive gothic mansion, Manderley, who is bizarrely obsessed with de Winter’s late first wife, Rebecca, to the point that she… starts showing the second Mrs. de Winter all of her bespoke underwear and bras that she’s preserved? While caressing them? (Hitchcock had to have known that he was treading the waters of the queer villain trope here.) The memories and presence of the first Mrs. de Winter are a constant presence in the life of Maxim and his new wife, with Mrs. Danvers all too eager to stir the pot and drive the couple apart, due to her fixation on the late Rebecca. Joan Fontaine needs to stop marrying men she just met, because it does not work out well for her. The Birds This is the 1963 film where Hitchcock notoriously sexually harassed and abused Tippi Hedren after she spurned his advances onset, so, that’s depressing. That being said, this movie is weird as fuck. Hedren’s character, Melanie Daniels, is an impulsive socialite dilettante who falls in love with lawyer Mitch Brenner (Rod Taylor) after meeting him only once and then stalks him back to his hometown and hangs out with him for a weekend, during which time… well. You know. The birds. Lots of birds. Birds who attack and kill. Birds who are a menace. Birds who terrorize a town. Birds. Scary birds. Angry birds? And then... Melanie and Mitch flee the town with his sister and mother after Melanie is viciously pecked to shreds by the birds, hoping the birds don’t come after them. Look, I don’t know what the takeaway from this movie should be, honestly. It’s very strange. After The Birds we decided we needed a break from Hitchcock. A long break. (They can't all be masterpieces like North by Northwest and Rear Window .) Red Dragon and The Silence of the Lambs After a The Silence of the Lambs -related Jeopardy clue one night, I confessed to my boyfriend that I had never seen the film - I only knew the famous, “fava beans and a nice Chianti,” Hannibal Lecter line. Tim insisted that despite The Silence of the Lambs being made first back in 1991, we start with Red Dragon , the 2002 prequel, starring Ed Norton as FBI investigator Will Graham, working with the infamous imprisoned Lecter while trying to hunt down Ralph Fiennes as Francis Dolarhyde (known as the Tooth Fairy serial killer). It did provide some nice context for the Lecter we meet in The Silence of the Lambs - although, I do have to say, that the Tooth Fairy from Red Dragon was way scarier, to me, than Buffalo Bill, the serial killer Clarice Starling is trying to track down in The Silence of the Lambs . Foster as Starling was, predictably, brilliant, but honestly, I don’t think it matters in what order you watch these films. The stories stand alone just fine, and Anthony Hopkins just owns the screen with each scene he’s in; it’s easy to see how Hannibal Lecter has become such a pop culture icon. (He’s only onscreen for about 20 minutes total in The Silence of the Lambs !) Hannibal This naturally led us to attempt to watch the TV series Hannibal , which ran for 3 seasons on NBC before being canceled in 2015. The series is about Graham and Lecter’s relationship before Lecter was caught and imprisoned for his crimes. It’s now available to stream on Hulu. It was critically acclaimed. We had high hopes. Reader, we made it through one episode and gave up. Nothing against Mads Mikkelsen, but it’s just too hard to watch anyone aside from Hopkins play Lecter. We also question the choice to make Will Graham: 1) conspicuously mentally unstable and, 2) whose capacity for empathy is a result of being on the spectrum. Edward Norton was able to let us see how Will Graham’s capacity for empathy caused him emotional distress with a lot more nuance, and without leaning hard on problematic depictions of mental illness and neurodivergence. Here, Hugh Dancy as Graham, blurts out his assessment of crime scenes in stuttering agony while refusing to make eye contact with anyone, as if he has some sort of Tourettes-laden ESP about the criminal, and everyone around him just takes it as the gospel truth? It’s contrived as hell. Maybe it gets better as it goes along? I don’t know. We don’t know. We’ll never know. We’re not into it. #sorrynotsorry The Kids in the Hall At the end of the day, after a lot of grimness, horror, and mediocre art, we landed back on Prime Video, where one can watch all five seasons of the classic Canadian sketch comedy show The Kids in the Hall . This show originally aired jointly on the CBC and HBO in the early 90s (when their Gen X core audience first found them), then it had a second wave in copious reruns on Comedy Central in the early aughts (when they found their supplemental core audience of Elder Millenials - this is how I came to them), and thus, it staked its claim as the best sketch comedy since Monty Python’s Flying Circus . Dave Foley, Bruce McCulloch, Kevin McDonald, Mark McKinney, and Scott Thompson were and are, comedy geniuses, and their humor is sharp, smart, and absolutely timeless. The mighty Lorne Michaels knew a good thing when he saw it in this scrappy little comedy troupe at The Rivoli in Toronto in the mid-80s, and god bless him for it. It’s incredible how well the humor stands up 35 years later. It’s better than Saturday Night Live by far, (don’t @ me, people, I’m just giving you the truth.) Watch it. And then watch the revival season they did last year on Prime Video as well. These boys will always have a special place in my heart. And that’s where we are now - halfway through season 3 of The Kids in the Hall . All that being said, I am heartened to see that there seems to be an end to the strike in sight. Hooray for unions, and also, hooray for our sanity, because as you can see, once we’re done with The Kids in the Hall, we’ll be in trouble… Reeya Banerjee Staff Writer Reeya is a musician and writer based in New York's Capital District. Her debut album, “The Way Up,” was released on January 27, 2022. She can frequently be seen in her car on the NYS Thruway cursing traffic on her way to the Hudson Valley for band rehearsals or to Brooklyn for recording sessions. In her other life, she works as a staff accountant for a management company that oversees veterinary practices nationwide, enjoys watching Law & Order SVU returns while eating gummy bears, and has a film degree from Vassar College that she does not use.

Mike Burdge and Diana DiMuro have experienced the two-ing of The Nun , having also explored the vastly horrific and quadrant-checking Conjuring franchise, including the main trilogy, the Annabelle and Nun movies, as well as The Curse of La Llorona . Topics include James Wan's fun and spooky style, Patrick Wilson's sideburns, Letterboxd reviews, the connectivity of the entire "shared universe," and folks that don't like watching scary movies (can they be trusted?). Listen on....

Mike Burdge and Scotty Arnold chat about the 1973 masterpiece, The Exorcist , while also chatting about the latest reboot-quel, The Exorcist: Believer . Along the way they chat about the tyranny of William Friedkin, the razor sharp pace the original moves at, and why this movie is still just as affective today as it was 50 years ago. They also drink WAY too much red wine. Listen on....

oh my god! Mike and Robby get cozy in the newly defined 90s Carpenter aesthetic, with two releases from 1995: the superbly well-aged In the Mouth of Madness , and the much maligned remake of the classic sci-fi/horror film, Village of the Damned . They also talk about Baby Yoda. Listen on....

Back in the innocent year of 2000 AD, superhero flicks were a bit of a deviation from the cultural norm of the typical blockbuster fare. The days of Batman owning the box office summer were over, thanks in no small part to Joel Schumacher truly going all ham and pineapple on his 1997 masterpiece, Batman & Robin. The actor who the world knew as Superman was tragically injured, and would no longer be able to play the man who flies. Those rascally teenage turtles went back in time and might as well never come back. The Phantom was adapted by a director and a production company that hadn’t the slightest clue that the script they were bringing to life was a hard satire of the very thing they were trying to cash in on. The world was broken. 20th Century Fox nabbed a load of Marvel character rights throughout the 90s, and at the turn of the century (ahem) they cashed in on what at the time was considered one of the recognizable superhero teams at the time, the X-Men. The animated series of the franchise loomed large in the hearts of children and frustrated parents alike, and the time had come to bring those wacky, queer metaphor heroes to life. As the X-Men rights have shifted over to the impeccable minds of Walt Disney Studios and the Marvel Cinematic Universe, I thought what better time than now to take a look back on the thirteen flicks Fox released under the X name. So get ready: This is me ranking all the X-Men movies from 2000 to 2020. 13. X-Men: The Last Stand It simply had to be. Much like what the #1 spot is most definitely going to be, this most certainly had to be the last. There are few movies I can think of off the top of my head that drop the ball in such a radical fashion as the third (and final?) installment in the OG X-Men trilogy. Overflowing with cliches and terrible decisions, The Last Stand is sort of the ultimate 2006 superhero movie, in that it had learned all the wrong lessons from the success of the genre over the past 6 years and had yet to see the future of the franchise which would come two years later in 2008 with The Dark Knight and, of course, Iron Man. It’s a sloppy movie, written by someone seemingly blinded by thinking about what they were going to have for dinner that night, and directed by a man that was born in Miami Beach. There’s nothing wrong with that last part, but he also happens to suck as both a person and director, so my point stands. 12. Dark Phoenix Oh fun, both Phoenix movies are at the bottom of the list. Come at me, nerds! This character seems so easy to nail down as an ally-turned-foe story arc, and each time they seem to forget about the whole…. arc part? Where The Last Stand forgot to include all the scenes with Jean Grey having any sort of motivation, Dark Phoenix, directed by first-timer, but long-running X-Men producer, Simon Kinberg, decided to go the route of making her the main character. The only trouble is, they were stuck with Sophie Turner as the actor portraying her, and brings just as much pout and sneer to the character as you’d expect. It’s kind of unfair actually, as for SOME REASON they decide to put another villain in the movie, played by Jessica Chastain, who is quite literally a nothing character that is just trying to do the thing that Phoenix wants to do the whole time, but can’t because she needs the power of the Phoenix first to do it. A mind-bogglingly weird movie. 11. X-Men: Apocalypse Coming right up was the turd appetizer to the Dark Phoenix shit sandwich, a movie that took all the praise from Days of Future Past and went: “So y’all really liked the kids in that last one right? Can we keep this up? Anyone??” The answer was, No. It’s kind of hard to defend a movie that so underutilized Oscar Issac to the point that most people don’t know he played the main villain. And that’s the biggest problem: the villain is played by an amazing actor, it’s based on an insanely interesting character from the comics, and he sucks. Like, he just doesn’t make any sense. I don’t know what he’s doing, but he's definitely doing a lot of it. I’ve seen this movie three times now and I swear to god, I have zero idea what he’s trying to do. 10. The New Mutants The cursed film. Shot in 2017, delayed for reshoots for three years, and then dropped upon the world in the midst of one of the worst moments in recent human history (Disney acquiring Fox), The New Mutants is an amazing example of “Hey, they tried!” You can see the sketches on the outside of the film of something that could’ve been really interesting. A horror movie with mutants set at an abandoned mental hospital, where our characters' superpowers are the source of their own trauma, and also their way forward towards healing and personal fulfillment. Some of that is here, for sure, but it becomes weighted down by the overindulgence in certain parts, specifically the end, to keep the movie ever balancing on the horror blade while never shying away from the more standard superhero movie gimmicks and act devices. Looks pretty cool though. 9. X-Men Origins: Wolverine Ah, to be in 2009 again. You just gotta love it when a movie is so clearly trying to start up a side series of world-expanding franchise films and just falls flat down. There were plans for an Origins: Magneto, which I’d assume was eventually turned into X-Men: First Class, with more entries rumored. You can’t blame them for going for the biggest star and character to come out of the original movies, Wolverine. I mean, this is the guy they stuck into EVERY X-Men movie except for two of them, and that was only because they had already given him a swan song farewell flick by that time. While a pretty horrible movie by any standards, there are some fun moments in the film that weren’t that well received at the time of release, but that have aged in a pretty cool way, if not only by the very reputation of silliness the film has accumulated by this point. I’ll never not laugh at those Roger Rabbit-esque claws coming out of Hugh Jackman’s hands. Truly remarkable. 8. Deadpool So, I’m not the biggest fan of the Deadpool movies. Sure, they’re funny and violent, with a decent amount of heart to at least get them this high on the list. But they also have TJ Miller in them, so I think I’m on the winning side of history here. Ryan Reynolds is preeeeeetty undeniable as the merc with a mouth, bringing to life a lot of the aspects of the character that made him so beloved to that one weird friend you had in high school. It’s a great riff on the state of superhero movies when it was released, and has aged pretty well by its meta nature alone. The heart in this one isn’t as upfront and connective as its sequel, but there’s still plenty of new attitude and shots at the greater genre to keep it entertaining. 7. Deadpool 2 I remember walking into Deadpool 2 with pretty low expectations when it first came out. As I just stated, I wasn’t too hyped on the first one, but didn’t mind it that much. Honestly, my major criticism of the movie was that it created this swell of Borat-like jokes from fellow movie lovers, but I think that was just me being a stick in the mud because I didn’t love something I really thought I was going to love. Deadpool 2 is essentially more of the same, but with a little more oomph, both in the spectacle of the violence and the sincerity of the emotion, and never only for either or sake, but in communication of what the story is trying to do. When you have a movie loaded with dick jokes and fourth-wall-breaking glances, it’s endearing to have it all anchored down by the occasional heart tug and bombastically executed action set piece. Also, Cable is hot. 6. X-Men: Days of Future Past Based on one of the most famous storylines from the comics, this movie pulls off in 2014 what every superhero franchise is currently losing its mind over trying to do: connect the old and the new by way of alternate universes and time shenanigans. While it’s nothing like the original storyline of its namesake, the movie does an excellent job of combining the OG crew with the recently younged-up muties, playing off the time period vibes of the previous installment, First Class. I kind of don’t care how the mechanics of the time travel and universe-altering plot points don’t really make sense. It’s just done in a fun and entertaining way, and at the end of the day at least it’s got Peter Dinklage in it! Hugh Jackman is also absolutely insane in this movie, truly becoming the character with every scene, both physically and in performance. I’ll never forget the first time I saw the scene with him waking up in the 70s on a water bed and looking like a dehydrated piece of chicken breast in all the right ways. What a man that man be. 5. The Wolverine Speaking of James Howlett, his previous adventure in 2013 saw Mr. Snikt getting directed for the first time by James Mangold, who is a man that knows how to direct a goddamn movie. More James Bond than X-Men movie, The Wolverine acts as almost an apology for Origins: Wolverine, much like several scenes in both Deadpool flicks do for Reynolds’ character. The setting in Japan is an obvious but welcome one, pitting the Canadian psychopath with a heart of gold against a backdrop of mob bosses and corrupt businessmen, all with the air of the very films that inspired the classic westerns most would associate it with. The bullet train sequence is one for the ages, as well as one that could’ve been so easily screwed up in different, less capable hands than Mangold’s. It’s no surprise that Jackman would be eager to reteam with the guy just a few years down the road for another slice-and-dice adventure. 4. X-Men This one holds a special place in my heart. The first out of the gate in what’s considered the redefining moment for blockbuster superhero fare, I think that this one has aged the best given its inherent naivety and glaring faults. A movie with its heart in the right place and its eye directed fully on creating an as close to realistic world without giving up all the nonsense that makes these characters and what they do so intriguing. Ray Park’s Toad has always been a standout for me, I don’t know why. I just love his lil’ scumbum attitude and comfy-looking jacket. There’s also such a serenity to seeing Hugh Jackman play Wolverine for the first time, completely oblivious to just how big a part of his life this character is going to become. This is also the movie where most of the OG crew gets to really shine, albeit in very one-dimensional ways, but that kind of works for these pretty broad-stroke characters. 3. Logan If I’m being honest, I think this is probably the 2nd best movie of the franchise, but given that it’s pretty light on actual X-Men, and still fairly recent, I’m putting it at 3rd. But c’mon, we all get this one, right? A movie so good and so entertaining and so of its moment that even its most die-hard fans can still crack a joke about the “secretly a Western” of it all. Mesmerizingly different from the rest of the franchise, the violent tone isn’t the only thing that makes it special, it’s also the simplistic cross-country scope of the thing. Wolverine road trip movie, but he old and got a daughter who’s bein a brat! While also absolutely NOTHING like the comic book series it’s based on, Logan hits all the points you would want from a movie that was outwardly advertised as “Yo guys, let’s hang with our sharp boy one last time.” It’s a little depressing knowing now they’ve brought back Patrick Stewart, and are bringing back Jackman, deflating some of the movie’s key moments of finality. But at the end of the day, it still spins like a top. 2. X-Men: First Class The quintessential X-Men movie, full stop. Lands everything about these characters, their place in the world, and the conflicts each of them embodies given their own experiences and special powers. A radically well-made movie by Matthew Vaughn, moving at a dizzying pace that starts off sporadic, skipping between time, place, and character, only to end at what is arguably one of the best final set pieces of any superhero film. Michael Fassbender is being hot and moving metal with his beautiful, outstretched fingers. James McAvoy has ironically luscious hair. Jennifer Lawrence is making the biggest mistake of her life AND SHE DOESN’T KNOW IT! Kevin Bacon is in it and has like five different accents! It’s perfect, and it also has one of the most badass character themes in any movie, which you can listen to and feel like an absolute boss here . 1. X2: X-Men United Of course, it had to be X2. First Class may be the best X-Men movie in regards to tone and epic storytelling, but X2 is the behemoth of the franchise, a movie that is so well constructed it almost seems unreal. It does everything wrong (adds more characters, teams up good guys and bad guys, etc.) and gets it so right. The perfect balance of upping the stakes, increasing the action (more money!), and developing characters we’ve come to recently love in exciting ways, the movie just rips from start to finish, making it kind of hard to even pick a favorite moment (it’s the school invasion scene). One of the big faults of the movie is sidelining Cyclops, a move made even more infuriating by the fact you know they’re just going to kill him off in the first ten minutes of the next one, but this example of negative criticism towards the flick, with some other small ones, really do add to the nature of the story. Just like the first entry, this film has aged well beyond what it was initially intended to be, standing out as an inarguable illustration of what a superhero movie with a ridiculously good script can ultimately become. So there you go! My ranking of all those X movies before they shove all these characters down our throats in one last gasp of reaching for the big dollar, only to ultimately be recast by the next generation of young, good-looking folks to take another stab at it. Will it be good? Probably not! But hey, at least we got like five and a half pretty good ones. Excelsior! Mike Burdge Editor-in-Chief Founder of and programmer for Story Screen. Lover of stories and pizza in the dark. When he isn't watching movies, you can find him reading and listening to things about people watching movies. He currently resides in Poughkeepsie, NY, and most assuredly is going through a French Connection phase.

Hosts Bernadette Gorman-White and Mike Burdge venture into the era of 2018 Toni Collette, which saw her give one of the best performances of her career in Hereditary , as well as sparked the very beginnings of this podcast! Other films and projects discussed include Please Stand By, Hearts Beat Loud, Arcade Fire: Money + Love, Birthmarked, Wanderlust, Let's Dance and Velvet Buzzsaw . Listen on....