CULT TV FLASHBACK # 55: The Tomorrow People (1973): "The Slaves of the Jedikiah"

From Great Britain - the home of Dr. Who, UFO, Blake's 7, Space:1999, The Prisoner and Sapphire & Steel - comes this durable 1970s TV serial about homo superior, a new brand of "evolved" human beings who are in the process of replacing regular old homo sapiens.

In the first five-part serial of The Tomorrow People, penned by series creator Roger Price and Brian Finch and directed by Paul Bernard, we join the first three tomorrow people in the middle of a delicate rescue mission, in media res.

In particular, Tomorrow People leader John (Nicholas Young) -- a serious, fast-talker -- and his companions, Carol (Sammie Winmill) and Kenny (Stephen Salmon), have set out with the help of their friendly computer, Tim (a more kindly version of HAL) to bring a young boy named Stephen (Peter Vaughan-Clarke) into the fold.

Stephen is in the delicate process of "breaking out" (an experience analogous to puberty in humans), wherein his mental skills as a "tomorrow person" are coming to the forefront of his psyche. Among these powers are the three "T's" of the tomorrow people: telepathy, teleportation and telekinesis. When Carol visits Stephen in the hospital following a "brainstorm," she informs Stephen of his destiny as an evolved human being, a tomorrow person.

Because they share a mental link, "tomorrow people are never alone." Also, they are totally incapable of killing. Tomorrow People can defend themselves, but they cannot commit murder under any circumstances. Fortunately, their advanced minds as well as their technology help them complete their tasks (locating and educating more tomorrow people, and communing with alien races...), and we see examples in this first serial of their tools of the trade.

For instance, The Tomorrow People carry nifty stun guns (which don't kill), and also wear belts that help them "jaunt" back and forth from one location to another (through hyperspace...). Jaunting, in case you were wondering, is "the instant transmission of bodies from one point in space to another" (like beaming up). The tomorrow people operate from a central headquarters in an abandoned underground station (where a geological fault was detected...), one equipped with view screens, computers, a jaunt pad and more.

Tim (Philip Gilbert) is the best technology of all. "I'm a biological computer," he informs Stephen. "I don't have disks and tapes." The high-tech "machine" is fully capable of original thought, and he also cooks...materializing food instantaneously (sort of like a replicator in latter day Treks). In this serial, we see Tim make some executive decision when the young tomorrow people can't. In an especially dangerous situation, he overrides the jaunt pad so that all the tomorrow people can't be put into danger at once.

The Tomorrow People also reveal to Stephen in this episode that Earth is a "closed world;" that aliens are not supposed to visit Earth, though they occasionally do so. And that fact leads into the central intrigue of "The Slave of Jedikiah:" a mysterious bearded man also wants to get his hands on Stephen for some mysterious purpose, and abducts the boy to rural Bentham Hall with the help of a comic (and annoying..) motorcycle gang. The Jedikiah squelches Stephen's telepathic ability with a "silencer band," which soaks up mental transmissions.

The Tomorrow People set out to rescue Stephen and solve the mystery of the Jedikiah (who calls the Tomorrow People "younglings"). They soon discover that there is some truth Homer's Odyssey, particularly in the character of Polyphemus. Seems that Jedikiah is the (robotic), shape-shifting servant of a green and fat alien cyclops aboard a damaged spaceship in Earth orbit. The Cyclops requires the help of telepaths (like the Tomorrow People) to help him get his ship into hyperspace, because his own telepaths (slaves...) died in an accident. While evading Jedikiah (rendered out-of-control by a stun-gun shot to the head), the Tomorrow People attempt to send the alien Cyclops back to his planet. In the process, they learn that, according to the alien, "Earth has a bad reputation."

"You are always at war," he tells them, and every time an ambassador is sent from other worlds, "he's slain."

"The Slaves of the Jedikiah" ends with Stephen on track to join the Tomorrow People in future assignments, and a friendship forged with the comic motorcycle dudes.

Critically-speaking, "The Slaves of Jedikiah," The Tomorrow People's introductory serial, is one that grows less and less interesting the longer it lasts. The first portions of the narrative (thru Part III or thereabouts) serve as splendid set-up of Price's interesting and unique universe, but by episodes four and five, we're deep in "runaround" territory (a failing also of early Doctor Who), with Kenny getting kidnapped and rescued, and the robotic Jedikiah roaming endlessly through spaceship corridors. The good will and curiosity forged by the serial's fine beginning is pretty much squandered by the end. You watch episode 5 and you're ready to move onto the next serial already (which I'll do here soon...). You like the characters; you like the settings...you just want a better story.

What works so beautifully about The Tomorrow People (termed a children's show at the time) is the dynamite central premise (one shared, in various ways by modern franchises such as Heroes, Prey and Mutant X). It's the notion that mankind is evolving into something better, and that people with special abilities walk among us. Because this series was created in 1973, the next step of human evolution depicted here - homo superior - is idealistic, anti-war (this was the age of the Vietnam conflict after all) and intensely pacifistic. The Tomorrow People boast the idealism of the Hippie Movement, but have the technology, science and power behind them to exploit their skills in clever, useful (and entertaining) ways.

Even the central threat in "The Slaves of Jedikiah" arises not from deliberate alien malevolence, but rather from misunderstanding and fear. Carol asks Ranesh (the Cylops) why he didn't just ask for help, rather than trying to force the Tomorrow People to come to his aid, and his answer is about human nature and human history. Yeah, it's a "message," but it isn't preachy. It's in the fine tradition of The Day The Earth Stood Still or Star Trek.

I also love the idea so prominently placed here that any child in the world can "break out;" can become a tomorrow person. That's an enormously appealing idea; the notion that one day you can make an impact; change your world for the better. And there are no exclusions on your abilities based on Earthly prejudices like sex, race or (presumably) orientation. It's an immensely positive idea to impart to kids (and grown-ups too...), and I dig it. Again, this optimism reminded me of Star Trek, but it isn't imitative or derivative of Star Trek.

If you've watched 1970s British science fiction television before, you know that (excepting UFO and Space:1999) there are limitations in terms of budget, and therefore in terms of visualizations. The same is true here. The robot Jedikiah turns into is very, very lame (a sort of cardboard box creation). There's a lot of what appears to be chroma key or early green screen work...some of it good (the jaunting), some of it not so good (the hyperspace sequence). The "futuristic" space helmets appear to be football helmets, down to wire mesh over the eye slits. Still, I really dug the look of the Underground HQ (a great set...), and I appreciated the retro-style jaunt control belts.

When I recommend TV series like Dr. Who, Blake's 7 and The Tomorrow People to folks around me, I tell them that you have to leave your criticism about the special effects behind, and just go along for the ride, because otherwise you'll miss some very cool stuff. That's especially true here. The visuals are variable...but the ideas are usually strong.

For a so-called "children's show," The Tomorrow People does absolutely zero talking down to the audience. This serial, "The Slaves of The Jedikiah" explains in rapid-fire succession such adult genre concepts as hyperspace, teleportation, shape-shifting, biological computers, telepathy even Darwinism and the like. The imagination of the ideas far outstrips the special effects and I'm okay with that. And so far, I particularly appreciate Nicholas Young's character, John, who delivers his dialogue with determined and staccato intensity. John's a kid, yes, but he's a no-nonsense leader too.

I'm only at the beginning of my "jaunt" with The Tomorrow People, but I can already see why series fans love it with such devotion. It's clever, yet a little kooky too. It's earnest and heartfelt, even amidst some horrid spfx. As a committed fan to Sapphire & Steel, Blake's 7 and Doctor Who, I really eat this stuff up, cheesy visuals and all.

CULT TV FLASHBACK # 54: Quinn Martin's Tales of the Unexpected (1977) :

This short-lived horror anthology series, Quinn Martin's Tales of the Unexpected (known by Brits as Twist in the Tale) was praised by none other than horror authority Stephen King in his non-fiction study of the genre, Danse Macabre (page 249) back in 1981. King termed the disco decade effort "interesting" and made note of one particularly scary episode involving the dead returning to life on a murderer's TV set.

Unfortunately for the obscure series, Stephen King is just about the only horror scholar or reviewer (besides me!) who actually remembers Tales of the Unexpected at all! This obscure Quinn Martin venture ran for just eight hour-long episodes in February, May and August of 1977, airing on Wednesday nights at 10:00 pm. It then disappeared...never to be rerun, never to be seen on the Sci-Fi Channel in the U.S., never released on VHS (save for a two-hour episode called "The Force of Evil," released by Worldvision in 1987) and not yet released on DVD. Call it Quinn Martin's Tales of the Unremembered.

Narrated by the late William Conrad, Quinn Martin's Tales of the Unexpected is a color genre program that offers a different tale of the macabre each week, one that almost universally culminates with a shocking (or not so shocking...) twist or "sting." Many of the stories deal explicitly with the vicissitudes of human nature, but many of the episodes also rely on "stock" genre elements and therefore lack a necessary element of originality or freshness. Sometimes, the series seems as slow as molasses...

At an hour in length, the derivative nature of each of the tales combined with the snoozy pacing actually made them somewhat less than unexpected. More like Tales of the Predictable. Ironically, a low-budget show from Australia - The Evil Touch (1973) - in syndication a few years earlier than Tales of the Unexpected aired - boasted a deeper understanding of horror, not to mention better pacing, and covered virtually identical territory in terms of narrative and themes. Still, I'd like to see a release of this series on DVD for the simple historical value of the show.

Among the eight episodes in the canon here is a re-write of The Invaders' opening story ("Beachhead"), now re-named "The Nomads" and featuring David Birney in the Roy Thinnes role. The plot follows a Vietnam veteran who witnesses an alien race landing on Earth and preparing an invasion. Naturally, he has trouble convincing anybody that his story in true.

Another episode, the aforementioned "The Force of Evil," is a diluted 1970s TV version of the 50s' feature, Cape Fear, with a character named Teddy Jakes (William Watson) assuming the stalking duties of an ostensibly unavailable Max Cady. Lloyd Bridges (in the Gregory Peck role) watches helplessly as Jakes terrorizes his family, kills the family pet (a horse), and creepily befriends his daughter, The Brady Bunch's Eve Plumb. One confrontation scene even occurs on a house boat(!), as if the other story similarities to Cape Fear aren't obvious enough. What the long-winded "The Force of Evil" adds to the Cape Fear mix is the notion that the stalker villain may be supernatural, a kind of "walking dead" back from the grave and ready to party.

"A Hand for Sonny Blue," another Tales of the Unexpected episode, recounts the misery of Dodgers pitcher Sonny Blue (Rick Nelson) when his right hand is crushed in a car accident, and he receives a transplant (one that narrator Conrad informs us does not originate from God, but from [presumably evil] science!!!). Turns out Sonny boy's new right hand is pretty darn bad. It oncebelonged to a criminal (a murderer who robbed a liquor store...) and is now up to its nasty old tricks.

Based on the short story "The Hand That Wouldn't Behave" by Emile C. Schurmacher, "A Hand for Sonny Blue" was directed by the great Curtis Harrington (Who Slew Auntie Roo? and The Dead Don't Die) but even his remarkable talent couldn't bring much originality to the oft-told tale of a transplanted limb possessed by evil. The story's surprise climax (presaging Bobby Ewing's appearance in the shower by the better part of a decade), was the ultra-annoying revelation that the entire story was...a dream. D'oh! "There is no present, no future...only the past...and it happens again and again," suggested our omnipotent gravel-voiced narrator in a closing commentary that made no sense and seemed to bear no empirical connection to the tale that preceded it.

During it's brief spell on network television, Tales of the Unexpected also featured a story about a reporter (Roy Thinnes) undercover on death row, called "The Final Chapter," as well as the tale of a man (Bill Bixby) caught in a time warp, entitled "No Way Out." Other stories included "Devil Pack" (about hell hounds) starring Ronny Cox, "The Mask of Adonis," about the eternal quest for youth, and "You're Not Alone," which pitted Joanna Pettet against a stalker.

I pretty much love anything that aired on television in the 1970s for nostalgia's sake, but I can't really make a very powerful critical argument in favor of this particular anthology. More tedious than thrilling, Tales of the Unexpected is a perfect example of what can happens when a non-horror guy (Quinn Martin) produces a horror show without really understanding the terrain. The plots are familiar and hackneyed, the twists aren't really twists at all, and the scares are few and far between.

That said, Quinn Martin's Tales of the Unexpected features a great opening credit montage and pulse-pounding theme song.

Anyone out there remember this one?

Friedkin Friday: Sorcerer (1977)

In the mid-1970s, William Friedkin -- a director at the top of his game following such box-office blockbusters as The French Connection (1971) and The Exorcist (1973) -- led an international cast and crew (headlined by Roy Scheider) deep into the jungle to make his next feature. It was a remake of the 1953 Yves Montand film, The Wages of Fear, but re-titled Sorcerer for modern consumption.

The film was plagued by myriad difficulties: the first director of photography got fired half-way through, Friedkin reportedly didn't get along well with star Scheider (he'd wanted Steve McQueen for the lead...), and the movie went dramatically over budget (ballooning in cost from 15 to 21 million)

The film's luck didn't improve with the timing of the premiere. Sorcerer was released in the summer of 1977 - the summer of a little movie called Star Wars -- and not surprisingly, this gritty and realistic Friedkin effort promptly bombed with critics and audiences, grossing less than 10 million at the box office.

However, thanks to the advent of home video in the 1980s, Sorcerer has earned a cult following over the last few decades, and has recently been excavated for serious study by a new generation of film scholars. Many critics now insist this is Friedkin's "lost masterpiece," (an opinion the director reportedly shares), and one that suffered unduly from the fact that it didn't fit in with a surprise shift in movie trends (from anti-heroes like Dirty Harry, Harry Caul, and Popeye Doyle to more innocent "nostalgia" fare like Star Wars).

Sorcerer depicts the gritty, unromantic story of four men, all from different countries, who - because of fate's whimsy - end up together in an unnamed South American country taking on a very dangerous assignment...for the money. One man is an assassin, having arrived from a job in Vera Cruz. Another is a Palestinian bomber, escaped from Israel. A French man named Serrano -- one involved in fraud -- is the third man. Finally, American Jack Scanlon from Queens (Roy Scheider), who was recently involved (and injured) in a robbery, is our last protagonist, though I use that term loosely here.

These four anti-heroes - taciturn, secretive and dangerous - have been selected (after proving their driving skills...) by an oil company man to transport two trucks worth of damaged dynamite to a raging oil fire some two-hundred miles distant. The dynamite is so volatile, however (the nitroglycerin is actually leaking...) it can't be flown to the site by helicopter or plane.

Instead, the four men (two to a truck), drive old vehicles (named "Sorcerer" and "Lazaro") across the most treacherous jungle landscape you can imagine in hopes of collecting 8,000 pesos. Among the colorful obstacles: a suspension bridge with several floor planks missing (traversed by the trucks - naturally - during floods and a pounding rain storm), armed guerrillas, fallen trees, and more.

In the end, just one man survives the journey, but it turns out he's a marked man anyway, fate having long ago conspired against the entire quartet; the survivor included.

I've written in previous Friedkin Friday entries about this director's uncanny penchant (and skill) in creating narratives that feel very authentic; a quality I connect with the artist's early history making documentaries. What enlivens Sorcerer so powerfully is the "reality" of death that Friedkin crafts in the film. What I mean by this statement is that the violence is sudden, shocking, brief and utterly horrifying. It's a punctuation, not a sentence; a burst of terror, not a sustained fireworks show. There's nothing glamorous or stereotypically Hollywood about how the violence is portrayed, and so when brutal things happen, it's actually traumatic.

For instance, a car accident early in the film is staged with stunning ferocity and accuracy (reportedly a dozen cars were pulped before Friedkin was satisfied with how it looked), and the accident leaves a lingering impact on the psyche. Roy Scheider -- the getaway driver -- escapes the scene, a chaotic wreckage of metal, blood, water and (stolen) money.

Later, an explosion at an oil well is just as jarring and upsetting. It's not a typical movie explosion, but something horrific, gruesome and bracing. This style of filmmaking is disturbing, to be certain, but it raises the stakes and helps to make the movie extremely suspenseful. Here, violent actions have consequences and it's a bloody, ugly world.

Which brings us to another quality of the film: a finely etched sense of place; of location. In the South American (fictional) country where the bulk of the film occurs, Friedkin spares us nothing. We see squalor. We see poverty. We see death and desperation. This is appropriate, pf course, because all four protagonists are desperate men...where else can they go? Their last stop before death is a kind of purgatory; a miserable place where they hope to escape and start again.

The exceptional location detail (no studio work here...) also serves to hone some of Friedkin's underlying thematic points. In one unbelievably affecting and upsetting scene, Friedkin depicts rioting locals as they receive their dead following the fire at the American oil well. The corpses are wrapped (barely) in plastic. and hoisted off a pick-up truck, where they are left to the mourning families. The feeling here is not of a specific country per se, but of the authentic "Third World" in general, and specifically the manner that America (and American companies) exploit the resources (and people) there to line their own pockets. When these people die, they are dying for pennies...but it's the only work in town. This is also an important clue as to the nature of the oil company...and what it will do (or won't do...) to save money.

The first half of Sorcerer lingers a bit long on elaborate introductions of each of the four anti-heroes (in Vera Cruz, Jerusalem, Paris and New Jersey), before they arrive at their community fate in the jungle, but the last half of the film is a whopper: a series of tour-de-force set-pieces that will push you to the edge of your seat. One set-piece, involving nitroglycerin and a fallen tree, is handled brilliantly with a minimum of dialogue and some good performances, but the absolute show-stopper (pictured on the movie poster above...) is the crossing of that rickety old suspension bridge; water raging below; wind blowing it from side to side like a swing; rain falling incessantly. It's here that Friedkin is able to visualize and enunciate some of the core idea of the film most successfully, particularly that no one can escape fate; and perhaps more importantly; no one can explain fate.

Two trucks (carrying the unstable substance...) must pass across this bridge, in relatively short order. Four men aboard two trucks. Nature against them. Fate against them. The tension mounts to a mind-blowing level as natural debris blows across the bridge, as the floor planks buckle, as the bridge sways from side to side and a truck starts to list, then actually tip over, 10 degrees...20 degrees... Then the rope holding-up the bridge starts slowly - ever so slowly - to fray. And all the while, nestled in the rear of the truck is that unstable dynamite, just ready to explode if the truck takes too big a bump.

How can I put this so it won't sound like hyperbole? This is an absolutely amazing, heart-stopping sequence, and even if you don't like William Friedkin, you should see Sorcerer just for this virtuoso scene. Hitchcock couldn't have staged it better. It's the reason we see films: to be thrilled; to be captivated; to bite our nails. I haven't seen a great scene like this in a movie in a long, long time...it will absolutely jangle your nerves. Kathryn couldn't stay sitting down on the sofa while it continued, and continued, and continued...because it is absolutely nail-biting not just in intensity, but in the way it builds to a crescendo.

Some survive the truck trip in Sorcerer, some don't, but what I find most fascinating about the film is that even at the end of the hellish ride, there is no sense of release; no feeling of catharsis. Looking like a zombie (and clearly suffering from post-traumatic stress), the final survivor -- sans a vehicle of any kind -- carries the last box of dynamite to the oil well in his tired arms, barely able to walk. He is white-faced, ghostly. And the camp he walks into is Hell itself, a giant plume of apricot flame illuminating the night forest and night sky. This character survives the journey, but the end of the film makes plain that fate has marked him, just like his dead compatriots.

And that death is catching up with him. Fast. He is a zombie. He died before he began the trip. Someone else saw to that.

Sorcerer transmits this plot point without dialogue, without explanation. You have to pay close attention to the last moments of the film to understand what is going to happen to this man; and the conspiracy that has risen up around him to prevent him from collecting his hard-earned money. There's no indication of this is what is said; only in the images, and in Friedkin's ruthless compositions and editing.

Why is this movie called "Sorcerer?" For the truck? Well, Friedkin has stated that in this film fate is the "sorcerer," wielding it's terrifying magic, and that notion - of fate as sinister, mysterious, inscrutable wizard - is what ultimately makes this a movie worth remembering. Why do some people survive? Why are some obstacles traversed while others are not? Why do some people die when they do? Why do others survive? Why do...tires blow out at inopportune times? How has destiny marked these men? How does it mark us?

There are no answers in this existentialist, gritty adventure. There are no heroes, either. And definitely no happy endings.

In the final analysis, ironically, it was fate that also played a cruel trick on this film (not to mention Friedkin, whose career as an A-list director never fully recovered from Sorcerer's failure with critics and audiences). Yep...a celebrated director crafted a brilliant, timeless adventure film, one true to the spirit of the reigning 1970s anti-heroes, but as it turns out, people were watching space princesses, wookies and light saber duels. Who saw that coming?

The Silver!

Sy Fy Radio announced the Sy Fy Genre Award Winner for "Best Web Production" of 2008 last night (as selected by you - the voters) and The House Between...came in second!

Wow! Wow! First, it was a great honor to be nominated, and second, I want to thank every individual who voted for the show.

There were over 50,000 votes cast in the contest and The House Between finished exceptionally strong, almost neck-and-neck with the winner.

In the end, we lagged less than one hundred votes behind the victor, Star Trek: Of Gods and Men. We placed ahead of the professionally produced and budgeted Sanctuary -- now a series on The Sci-Fi Channel, -- as well as the Star Trek New Voyages adventure with Sulu, "World Enough and Time," and also Star Trek Odyssey.

Although The House Between fell a little short in the final mile, I still view our unexpectedly strong showing as a victory for a no-budget little show which is produced far from Hollywood, stars no "name" actors from Star Trek or Stargate SG-1, and is not part of a franchise with huge name-recognition that has been around for almost half-a-century.

It is my fondest hope that The House Between's success here, even at second place, will encourage the creation of other original, independent web series in the genre.

Congratulations to Walter Koenig and Nichelle Nichols (who star in Of Gods and Men), director Tim ("Tuvok") Russ, and all the technicians, supporting actors (Alan Ruck, Ethan Phililps, Chase Masterson, etc.) and writers who created the winning Star Trek adventure!

As for The House Between -- watch out for us next season, Star Trek!! We'll be back to chew quantum bubble gum and kick ass (and we're all out of bubble gum...).

Those Were The Days...

Theme Song of the Week # 22: The Tomorrow People (1973-1978)

Comic Book Flashback # 12: Star Wars # 15: "Star Duel" (1978)

The Marvel-produced Star Wars comic book of the late 1970s wasn't always good. That's for sure. The series suffered from a distinct lack of direction immediately after the adaptation of the blockbuster film; particularly in regards to a silly regurgitation of The Seven Samurai/Magnificent Seven involving Han Solo and other mercenaries (including one who looked like a giant green Bugs Bunny...) combating a giant behemoth on Tatooine.

But when the Star Wars comic-book series was good, it was very good indeed.

Case in point is one of my favorite issues, numbered #15. It's titled "Star Duel" and was first published in September of 1978 (just months before I would soon turn nine years old).

This issue completes a lengthy, multi-issue story arc involving Luke Skywalker and a war on a distant water planet, as well as Han Solo's deadly rivalry with a menacing, scarlet-bearded villain called Crimson Jack. "Star Duel" is written by Archie Goodwin and the artists are Carmine Infantino and Terry Austin.

As "Star Duel" picks up, the planetary war is over, but Crimson Jack -- a space pirate with a stolen star destroyer at his command -- has finally caught up with his Corellian nemesis, Han Solo. At Jack's side is a gorgeous but conflicted space pirate lass named Jolli. She claims she wants Solo dead too (for a recent betrayal when he was her prisoner...), but the fact is...she's in love with him.

As the issue commences, Jack plans to launch an aerial attack (led by Jolli) on the sea-berthed Millennium Falcon (which is undergoing repairs by Chewie and C-3PO). Jolli pilots a Y-Wing against Solo, and this issue features several good character touches for her, including a brief flashback to her tragic youth; one that explains how Jolli became a space pirate and why she's always felt she needs to be "harder," and "tougher" than "any man around her."

The pitched battle between Han Solo and Crimson Jack rages from sea to air to space (with Luke manning the Falcon's turret guns again...), to a final one-on-one outer space quick draw finale -- a blaster duel - involving Solo and Jack. But it's Jolli who ultimately casts the deciding laser blast here, in a great (and uniquely touching...) finale. The issue's final panel, involving a tender kiss (Jolli's first and last...) is an emotional showstopper. If you love Star Wars, and if you love these characters (especially if you've been following the comics...), this one packs a wallop.

Although undeniably scientifically inaccurate (Solo and Jack don't wear pressure suits during their duel in space, only masks - kinda like the Mynock scene in Empire...), this story nonetheless has much going for it. There's some great (and forward-looking...) attention to detail. For instance, the droids are depicted in one panel on the exterior hull of the Millennium Falcon - making repairs during space flight. I may have forgotten something, but I don't think we actually saw such a thing happening (besides R2 in his bucket back seat on an X-Wing...) until The Phantom Menace in 1999.

"Star Duel" also reveals an assortment of captured spaceships re-purposed by Crimson Jack...and one of them is a TIE Bomber. Again, my memory banks may be failing me here (rough night: I was up with my two-year old from 11:00 pm to 3:00 am...), but I'm pretty sure we didn't see that make and model on screen until the asteroid pursuit of The Empire Strikes Back in 1980...over a year after this comic issue was released.

These instances of cross-media saga continuity certainly warm the heart of my inner geek, but the tragic love story of Han Solo and Jolli, played against the larger-than-life villainy of space pirate Crimson Jack - speaks powerfully to my romantic side.

I have fond memories of being very young and reading, re-reading -- and then reading again -- this entire Marvel Star Wars story arc. I felt then, and I still feel now, that the climax of "Star Duel" really brings everything home in a wonderful and poignant way. This is a good story about human characters and the choices they make. It may be set against a cosmic landscape of combat, yet it feels intimate and personal. When Star Wars is at is finest (Empire Strikes Back and Revenge of The Sith), I think such a mix is precisely what the franchise does best.

CULT MOVIE REVIEW: Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skulls (2008)

To paraphrase a famous political player of the 1990s, there's nothing wrong with Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skulls that can't be fixed by what's right with Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skulls.

The fourth, much-delayed installment in the Raiders of the Lost Ark (1981) franchise is a charming and thrilling throwback to the other entries in the long-lived adventure series. In fact, it serves up in almost identical proportion the same mix of dedicated swashbuckling and tongue-in-cheek silliness that made Raiders, Temple of Doom (1984) and The Last Crusade (1989) such pleasurable, care-free and memorable cinematic rides.

Our story commences in 1957 (twenty-two years after the adventure of Raiders) with a beautifully-mounted drag race on a stretch of isolated desert highway, as a caravan of vehicles heads to Hanger 51, the predecessor, of course, to legendary Area 51. To the viewer's surprise, this caravan is made of up not of U.S. military men, but rather of Russian soldiers, led by the diabolical Irina Spalko (Cate Blanchett). These foreign soldiers are on a quest for a specific artifact, one that could grant Stalin the power to control the minds of all Americans.

To help them locate this artifact in the vast Hanger 51 (a repository of such items, we see...), the Russkies have captured archaeologist and war hero Indiana Jones. When he first see him (after a splendid and highly cinematic build-up involving a fedora-ed shadow playing across a car door), Indy looks a little more white-haired than the last time we encountered him...but otherwise virtually the same. Yep, Dr. Jones is as rugged, as laconic, and as fast-on-the-draw as ever. Ready with either a snarky quip ("I Like Ike," he tells one Russian) or a whip, he's still got what it takes....as he quickly proves.

After this initial sequence -- one which leads the audience inside the mysterious warehouse where the Ark of the Covenant was sealed away in the finale of Raiders of the Lost Ark -- the film's action never lets up. There are motorcycle chases, atomic blasts, army ants, a few terse comments on McCarthyism and the Red Scare, and then a quest (involving Saucermen from Mars, or thereabouts...) for a mythical Golden Kingdom hidden in the jungles of Peru.

Along the way, Indy meets Mutt Williams, the son he never knew he had (the ubiquitous Shia Le Beouf) and encounters the love of his life, Marion Ravenwood (Karen Allen), looking more radiant than ever. There's a great moment when Marion and Indy are captured, and she asks him if there have been "other women" over the years. In a retort worthy of any classic film romance starring Humphrey Bogart, Indy replies - with a gleam in his eyes - that yes, indeed there were other women...

But they all had one problem: "They weren't you."

If that moment doesn't melt your heart, then this just isn't the movie for you. The Dark Knight is showing in the next auditorium and may be more to your liking.

Because Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull genuflects to our past - and to our traditions - in a very deliberate and specific way. Not just the past in terms of American history; but in terms of American cinema and movie techniques too. For instance, I detected the deliberate homage to The Naked Jungle (1954) in a march of man-eating marabunta. In the film's central premise, and a bit of production design, I sensed resonances of Invasion of the Saucer Men (1957) and Earth versus the Flying Saucers (1956). I n Mutt's "juvenile delinquent" world, and Indy's reaction to it, there were traces of teen films like Rebel without a Cause (1955), and motorcycle films like The Wild One (1953). The detonation of an atomic bomb, and Indy's much-too-easy survival of a nuclear blast (with no deleterious side-effects from fall-out) also alludes to such "educational" films as 1952's absurd Duck and Cover, which implored "You must learn to find shelter!" (like a refrigerator?) during a nuclear attack. So one way to enjoy this film is simply as a time capsule of 1950s influences.

But make no mistake, the movie is also made highly rousing by Spielberg's buoyant neo-classical direction. He's not working to deep artistic purpose here, but dammit if he doesn't know exactly how to shoot and assemble this sort of film with perfect pitch.

Watch, for instance, how Spielberg has mastered the art of the revelatory pull-back (deployed twice in the film). Look at the way he blocks actors Ford, Allen, Shia, John Hurt, and Ray Winstone (playing a double, possibly triple agent...) in one subterranean shot; so that they pop-up crisply across the frame, all at once -- a moment that (deliberately) becomes funny because of the staging. In a lesser hand, this opportunity would have been missed. Here, it's a visual joke that lightens the moment. The whole movie positively snaps like that; with a heightened air of self confidence that is, frankly, indomitable, and allows the movie to squeak over the occasional gap in logic or storytelling. Indiana Jones and The Kingdom of the Crystal Skulls -- like the previous pictures in the franchise -- sucks you in with it's breezy good nature. It walks up to the line of camp, then retreats, almost like a recurring dance step. You'd have to be a real scrooge to deride a film so guileless, so pure of heart.

Indiana Jones and The Kingdom of the Crystal Skulls has already proved a huge success (it's already in the top 25-grossing films of all time...), but there has indeed been much more vocal fan criticism of this Indiana Jones entry than the others; and I suggest that's simply a sign of these times (and the influence of the Internet) more than it is an accurate reflection on the quality of Crystal Skulls. You remember that saying from Thomas Wolfe, don't you? "You can't go home again?" What that means - literally - is that you can't go back to the past.

In other words, your home -- where you grew up -- may be exactly the same after you grow up; it's you that's changed. And I suggest strongly that this is the case for Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skulls. Before I saw the film, for instance, I re-watched the earlier entries and I have to say, this one fits the rest of the series like a glove, despite a shift from the 1930s to the Cold War 1950s.

I know this isn't a popular theory to hold, but I learned that the same fact is pretty much true of the often-reviled Star Wars prequels. I watched all six films in that franchise (in series order, eps 1 - 6) in one weekend and found that all were of roughly the same quality and mood. The six films had the same distinctive strengths...and the same terrible flaws. Those who don't think that's the case...well, I respectfully suggest they undergo this exercise. Because the only true difference is in how you hold these movies in your memory...whether from your innocent and impressionable youth or from more cynical adulthood; whether experiencing the films as a knock-out surprise, or rather with twenty years of pent-up expectations. I'm not being superior here; I used to deride Phantom Menace and Attack of the Clones, but after watching all six Star Wars films together, virtually all of my comparative criticisms didn't really hold water. Return of the Jedi is just as stagey and superficial as Attack of the Clones; Revenge of the Sith is just as majestic and tragic as Empire Strikes Back. Seriously.

Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skulls? Ditto. It boasts the same strengths and the same weaknesses as other series entries. If you liked those, there's no legitimate reason not to like this one. All the Indiana Jones films are essentially non-stop roller coaster rides, enthusiastic entertaining machines that hop with cinematic dexterity from jaunty dialogue scenes to exaggerated, over-the-top action sequences.

That pretty much describes Kingdom of the Crystal Skulls too. So I'm baffled why people are picking nits this time around.

Example: I've heard people complain about the two-dimensional nature of the Russian villains in this film. Like the Nazis were really handled with three-dimensional maturity in Raiders and Last Crusade? No...Lucas and Spielberg aren't in the realism business today. Instead, they're playing the same stellar game they did in 1981, 1984 and 1989; but today's audiences and critics -- weaned on dark, angsty genre efforts like The Dark Knight -- have forgotten how to recognize the rules of that game. There's nothing dark, cynical, empty, ugly or de-humanizing about Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skulls. It doesn't have a post-911 mind-set. The hero doesn't resort to the same nasty tactics as the villain. There's nothing gritty or realistic anywhere in the film. Instead, like the other entries in the franchises, this Indiana Jones harks back to the more theatrical, artificial approach of its source material. Naturalism isn't the point. At all. Never was.

Indeed, I've read critical and fan comments that note with derision, for instance, how here Indiana Jones survives a harrowing trip down three waterfalls virtually unscathed...and how his survival simply isn't very...realistic. I've read critics complain about how, in this film, Indiana Jones hides in a lead refrigerator and survives a nuclear blast, and how that isn't very realistic either. "Nuked the fridge" and all.

To such critics and complainers I offer this delicate reminder: Indiana Jones fell out of a plane in a rubber raft, rode that raft down a steep mountainside, plunged over a waterfall in it, and then survived roaring rapids to wash ashore in exactly the place he was needed...in Indiana Jones in the Temple of Doom (1984). I would like to remind those critics that Indiana Jones strapped himself (by bullwhip!) to a submarine, and apparently held his breath for hours -- while said submarine was submerged -- during a journey to a secret island in Raiders of the Lost Ark. What on earth would lead you to this movie expecting realism? Once again this summer, it seems that the critics and fans are gazing at a movie with entirely the wrong set of expectations.

Don't get me wrong. Indiana Jones and The Kingdom of the Crystal Skull isn't the greatest adventure movie ever made or anything like that. I'm making no high-minded claims for the film as a brilliant work of art. On the contrary, what I'm saying is that Indiana Jones and The Kingdom of the Crystal Skull fulfills, practically to a tee, the criteria of this sturdy and much-loved franchise. It engages Indiana Jones in a stirring, mysterious adventure. It pits him against hissable villains and reunites him with a romantic lead. It concerns the use and misuse of great "power" (a theme we see also with Belloq, Mola Ram and Donovan in the other series entries), and it pays homage -- as knowledgeable pastiche -- to a certain film brand of yesteryear (Cold War B movies of the 1950s). It also happens to be in the running, for me, anyway, as the most fun film of the summer (neck and neck with Iron Man). There are deeper, more intimate films that I loved (X-Files); and there are meaner, noisier ones more in tune with our times (The Dark Knight), but Indiana Jones and The Kingdom of the Crystal Skull isn't stale like a tomb, like you might expect of a third-sequel. It's a breath of fresh air. Take it all in with an open heart and you'll walk out feeling giddy, young, happy...and likely humming John Williams' stirring anthem.

Sometimes, they do make 'em like they used to...

Friedkin Friday: Cruising (1980)

Our sophomore (and Google-delayed...) entry in my Friedkin Friday celebration of director William Friedkin brings us to a controversial -- and highly bracing -- cinematic effort called Cruising. This uneasy, deeply unsettling police procedural (which disappeared quickly from theaters in 1980...) is one of Friedkin's most notorious and much-derided films; one that - now shorn of Reagan Era controversy - has only recently been excavated and re-evaluated by some critics. It deserves the re-evaluation because the film doesn't just "cruise" the world it investigates, it inhabits that world...and it makes us inhabit it too. Whether you like it or not, this film is deeply immersive and involving, and so, in the final analysis, it should be judged a success.

Based on a 1970 novel by New York Times reporter Gerald Walker, the movie's narrative involves a series of brutal homicides in the Big Apple's gay S&M/leather scene, and a police officer named Burns (Al Pacino) who goes undercover to investigate the monstrous crimes. The film itself establishes that this particular life-style is not "in the mainstream of gay life" but rather a subset, a so-called "world unto itself."

Despite this ready distinction spelled out in the film's screenplay, New York City's gay community at the time was very worried about how it would be presented in Friedkin's film. The Village Voice feared Friedkin would create "the most oppressive, ugly, bigoted look at homosexuality ever presented on the screen," and admonished activists to scuttle the filmmaking in any way they could. Protesters wielded mirrors to interfere with lighting; and even fired air horns during exterior shooting to render sequences unusable. Several hundred gay rights activists marched in the East Village, hoping to convince Mayor Koch to sever ties to Friedkin and his production.

While some forces in the community mobilized to stop Friedkin, others supported his work. Forever the documentarian, Friedkin insisted that his film depict the specifics of the leather/S&M scene accurately, and he wrangled support from such fetish bars as Mine Shaft, The Cockpit, and Anvil. He was able to shoot lengthy sequences at those real locations, and film real patrons as "extras." The people -- and the behavior -- you see dramatized in the film is thus reasonably authentic. Nothing is staged or phony -- not costumes; not the crowds, not even "Police Night" -- and that fact alone injects Cruising with a high degree of "you are there" immediacy.

You may not always want to watch what goes on in these bars; but you won't be easily able to turn away from the male-on-male bacchanalia either. Friedkin has assured that fact with his trademark attention to detail and fine understanding of film grammar. For "Cruising" is not merely the title of the film, it's the act that we - as viewers (or tourists...) -- are asked to undertake in engaging the narrative.

Friedkin makes this link between us and the leather bar patrons virtually unavoidable by staging a number of first-person-subjective P.O.V. shots in which the "cruisers" walk by us -- slow down -- gaze at the camera, and size us up. It's actually rather intimidating, truth be told, but the point is established visually about what these patrons desire; what they seek; and how they covet it. One of the reasons I go to see films (or queue films, these days...) is to experience some aspect of the world that is alien to me. On these grounds, Cruising certainly satisfies, even if there is some deeply uncomfortable (and predatory...) aspect about the rampant sexuality on display here. It leads one to consider male sexuality; and especially male sexuality in the total absence of female sexuality. I discussed these subjective P.O.V. shots with Kathryn, wondering if they were overdone and exaggerated, and asked her if she thought that men looked at women this way too -- this brazenly -- and she said yes. Absolutely. All the time.

Another way that Cruising lives up to the title is by exposing the viewers to "the regulars" of this urban leather scene. Watch the movie closely -- very closely -- and you will begin to detect familiar faces amidst the pack. The regulars. The people who appear more than once, in more than one guise, and in more than one location. As critic Bob Stephens wrote in The San Francisco Chronicle: "Cruising is not only a hunt within a hunt, but a film that is obsessed with entrances and exits. It's a movie with a vast undercurrent of restlessness, of people looking for a satiating experience, looking anywhere, everywhere. Men constantly go in and out of erotic clubs, tunnels in the park, rented rooms, private booths in porn shops and, in the officer's case, the inadequate refuge of his girlfriend's apartment."

He's right, and the important thing for the movie is that it is the same group of men doing that seeking (Burns included). Sometimes they are revealed in flash cuts, or sometimes depicted in long shots; or often even in shadows during impenetrable night. Yet after a time, your eyes seek out these familiar men, wondering if they are suspects or simply innocents...but recognizing them nonetheless. Friedkin, in populating his crowd scenes with a series of familiar faces, has truly taken his audience cruising with him. In other words, he's training our eyes to work in the same fashion as these men's eyes work. Amidst the blaring punk rock, the leather gear and the predatory looks, our eyes covet a safe harbor. We are hunting. That's the very thing that the killer trades on; the risky hunt, the search for something dangerous...but with somebody who is safe.

The result of Friedkin's impressive and rigorous charting of this world is, in the words of critic Nathan Lee, "a film that is a heady, horny flashback to the last gasp of full-blown sexual abandon, and easily the most graphic depiction of gay sex ever seen in a mainstream movie. Filmed in such legendary bars as the Ramrod, Anvil, Mine Shaft, and Eagle's Nest (the latter two eventually barred Friedkin from the premises), Cruising is a lurid fever dream of popper fumes, color-coded pocket hankies, hardcore disco frottage, and Crisco-coated forearms."

After that colorful and graphic description, you will likely know whether this film is your cup of tea or not, right? Yet in fairness, Cruising is more than that. It is also a fascinating mystery, a thriller in the "undercover cop" milieu, and an Orphean journey into a Dionyson underworld of wild sexual ritual that is both exceptionally drawn and very, very tense. In part, this sense of anxiety arises because the film has landed Steve Burns (Al Pacino) in a strange world where he is alone and without help of any kind. As the screenplay puts it: he's "up a creek without a paddle" and has nowhere to turn.

In an early scene, Burns is called into the police chief's (Paul Sorvino's) office and asked some very slap-in-the-face questions, some very personal questions. "Have you ever had your cock sucked by another man?" "Ever been porked?" Why Burns readily takes this particular undercover assignment (an open-ended assignment in the leather community that could essentially last forever...) is another question all together, and the answer to that mystery is one that the film only teases; but never fully articulates.

For instance, Burns warns his girlfriend (Karen Allen) "there's a lot about me you don't know," an indicator that - perhaps - just perhaps - Burns may already be inclined towards the very lifestyle he's been assigned to investigate. In fact, a case could be made that there are two killers at work simultaneously in Cruising: the one that Pacino is hunting (a murderous man who has deep-seated "father issues" and who stabs his homosexual victims...), and also the one who is dumping severed body parts in the East River. The film establishes early on that these murderers have a very different m.o., but a harried metropolitan police department (anticipating the Democratic National Convention...) is too busy, too overwhelmed, to differentiate between them. Many critics who first screened the film in 1980 did not even realize that there is a high probability of two killers at work; and lumped all the film's murders under one umbrella; under one culprit (just like the police). I submit, however, that there are two murderers at work in the film; and at work in the S&M community.

And one of them may very well be Pacino's character, Burns.

My evidence? First, the film establishes at some length how Burns resembles many of the men being murdered (like he is trying to stamp out himself and his unacceptable urges...). In fact, the very reason Burns gets this assignment in the first place is because of his distinct physical resemblance to the victims. Secondly, and perhaps most importantly, Burns gay friend, an aspiring playwright portrayed by Don Scardino (a gay man who is not a sadomasochist by the way...) is found brutally murdered at the film's climax. Ask yourself after watching the film: who killed him and why? And why exactly did a worked-up Burns go to Scardino's apartment and get into an entirely unnecessarily scuffle with his volatile partner (James Remar)? In asking these questions, one begins to peel back the deeper, more subtle levels of the enigmatic narrative; the story within a story.

Many reviewers have complained that the character of Burns' is the film's biggest drawback; and that his motives and concerns remain elusive, opaque. For me, that's one of the key components making Cruising a great film. As viewers, we never understand Burns' ready involvement in this case; nor do we comprehend some of his actions and reactions. In the novel, Burns was rather definitively a bigot; but not so here (at least not visibly...). Instead, Pacino plays Burns as something of a question-mark, a man who is apparently a ready traveler (note the scene in the hotel where cops bust in on him...) but who - unbeknownst to us - may already have selected his destination. I believe this ambiguous approach was the right tack for Friedkin to adopt because it's so much better dramatically if our tour-guide isn't an entirely known quantity; with one foot in this world and one foot outside it. If he were totally immersed in the leather scene (to our knowledge) we might have a hard time identifying with Burns. As it stands, we can watch the whole film following Burns, and still wonder if he is guilty of murder when the film ends.

Watch Cruising closely, and you will see one particularly crucial shot repeated. It's a long exterior shot, set at night, that consists of a man in a leather jacket (who could be Pacino - or who might not be...) making his way into a leather bar. The first time the shot appears, this man goes into a bar alone and his entrance occurs immediately following a shot of corrupt policeman forcing sexual favors from two gay street walkers. There is an explicit connection between the two shots. Friedkin pans from the patrol car where the crime is taking place, to a shot of that mystery man walking into the bar. The second time (and final time) the shot occurs, it is very near the end of the film; after the murderer has been caught; the crimes solved. But make no mistake: it's the same man; going back to the same bar. Why show him again?

This is perhaps the most important shot in the film, even if we do not know who precisely that figure is. If he's Pacino/Burns, then we must assume Burns is the second killer, and that his "cruising" of the sadomasochistic scene began long before his involvement in the official case. On the other hand if this figure is the second killer - and a stranger to us - then he is still free - and free to kill - after the investigation has been officially closed.

More than likely, this figure's specific identity is unimportant. Rather he serves as a symbol; a symbol of the danger that lurks when repression, fear, and self-hatred become inseparable mingled with rampant sexual desire. Friedkin and his team could not have known it at the time, but danger of another form (not homicidal) certainly became manifest around this very sub-culture just a few short years after Cruising, when AIDS decimated the community. It is unearthly and strange and very scary how this film seems to foreshadow that tragedy; how it seems to knowingly portray a dark, sad, cynical and empty world on the verge of annihilation. For make no mistake, there is no real love or sense of connection here. Something else is being sought...

Critics have been harsh. "This is a thoroughly unpleasant film," wrote critic James Kendrick for the Q Network Entertainment Portal. "For anyone of any sexual orientation who takes pride in fidelity, the scenes that take place in S&M bars bearing such enticing names as "The Cockpit" and "Ramrod" are positively repulsive. One can see why some of the mainstream gay critics in 1980 were horrified that a large segment of the population would see this film and incorrectly assume that all homosexuals behave in this manner."

Honestly, he's correct in one sense. Cruising can be quite unpleasant and ugly at times. The unfettered, raw male sexuality here...isn't pretty. But as Kendrick himself also notes, this "leather" lifestyle did exist and does exist. And Friedkin's work shouldn't be reviewed on the basis of how people misperceived the movie. Cruising is never homophobic, and in fact takes special care not to appear anti-gay at all. "I didn't come onto this job to shitcan guys just because they are gay," Burns notes at one point. Also, there's the notation I made mention of earlier, when Sorvino establishes this is clearly not "the mainstream" of gay culture. Artists can't be held accountable for how people receive their art; only for their intention in creating the art, I submit.

In creating his "art" in this fashion, Friedkin was making a point, no doubt. He was accurately depicting this world (down to the music in the clubs), and if it is judged ugly by those dwelling outside of it -- so be it. He was observing; and letting us decide what to make of it. He leaves us to decide the "why" of it. This even-handed approach goes right to the core of the film. Is Burns just a good cop investigating a crime? Or is there an underneath here?

Cruising has been interpreted in many ways, which speaks volumes about Friedkin's skill at creating a meaningful work of art. Some critics believe that it attempts to forge a connection, a link, between gays and homicidal behavior (an interpretation I reject); some people believe it is about the repressed gay desire lurking inside a straight man (certainly a possibility; especially given the presence of the subplot with Allen); and some see it as merely a layered murder mystery set in the world of leather bars. I tend to see a more global argument here about where our society was in 1980. I believe Friedkin is actually commenting on how fearful the straight world is of open displays of homosexuality. Look at the headlines in the film which blare "Homo Killer on the Prowl," or the hatred for gays demonstrated by the corrupt cops. The story of a homosexual boy rejected by his father and who turns to murder...is a tragedy about society's lack of acceptance; not homosexuality's intrinsic acceptability or unacceptability. I think Friedkin was saying that a society that excludes, shuns and denigrates people can create in the occasional invidividual a self-hatred and self-loathing so powerful it can turn dangerous.

See the movie and decide for yourself...

Next week's Friedkin Friday entry: Sorcerer (1977)

Theme Song of the Week #21: Quinn Martin's Tales of the Unexpected (1977)

The Truth is Out There...

Entertainment Weekly has a fascinating post today from Whitney Pastorek about X-Files: I Want to Believe and the rising tide of critics and fans who have been defending this quality movie from the ludicrous and mean-spirited reviews it's been facing.

Here's a snippet:

...I sure as hell have been shocked by the dismissive, occasionally vicious beating it's taken from critics. My hometown Houston Chronicle, for example, gave it one star and called it "stupid, lackadaisical and schlocky." My mother, on the other hand, walked into an H-Town multiplex on Wednesday, and walked out calling the movie "wonderful."

So, what's going on? Are my mother and I just that stupid, lackadaisical and shlocky when it comes to our taste in movies? I'd like to think that's not true. And there are complimentary, thoughtful reviews from the likes of Roger Ebert, Salon.com's Stephanie Zacharek, and John Kenneth Muir to reassure me we're not crazy. More likely, I think this introspective little movie fell victim to a number of traps...

Frankly, I find this increasingly vocal (and publicized...) push back against the so-called critical consensus a fascinating thing. My own suspicion is that there are a number of folks writing today (and "counted" by Rotten Tomatoes as legitimate film critics) who boast very little understanding of film as art, film history, or even film techniques. The only thing they actually review are their own prejudices and expectations. People should object to ignorant, ill-informed reviews.

I sincerely hope the push back is the beginning of a trend...