Hello everyone, and welcome back to Wrong Every Time. Though this article title claims there’s somehow still a third of the summer season to go, it certainly doesn’t feel like summer’s still in full, or even partial swing. Overcast skies and underwhelming temperatures seem determined to get a head start on seasonal affective disorder, but I’m rallying the best I can with a healthy diet of media properties. My housemate has continued his marathon of Naruto without pause, bringing us all the way to the end of the Pain arc, which is basically where I stopped reading the manga as a kid. This process has only reaffirmed that Naruto’s writing is kinda terrible, but it’s also introduced me to the remarkable talents of animator/director Toshiyuki Tsuru, so on balance I can’t really complain. And of course, there was also a fine array of film viewings, with the usual servings of horror and suspense complimented by some martial arts and musical selections. Let’s see what the week had to offer!
Having munched through so much of the extended catalog of the other slasher mainstays, our house figured it was high time to get back to Jason, and thus powered through Friday the 13th II and III in quick succession. Unfortunately, as you might guess by their communal grouping here, the experience was barely worth recounting. Even the first Friday the 13th was in large part a retread of Halloween, and the 13th’s sequels swiftly plummet into barely-watchable hack fest territory. There’s really nothing good I can say about either of these films, save the second one’s inspired conclusion. While my journey through slashers has revealed many interesting riffs on the format, Friday the 13th pretty much validates all the criticisms of tastelessness and artlessness they frequently endure. They’re not even grotesque, really – they’re just clumsily constructed, amateurishly shot, and frankly pretty boring. If a dude is getting stabbed in the eye on screen and I’m checking my watch, something has clearly gone terribly, terribly wrong.
Our next feature was, surprise surprise, another recent horror selection, as we checked out the 2020 film The Block Island Sound. I went into this one with no expectations, and thus was absolutely delighted to discover a film that genuinely gets cosmic horror, divorced from all its usual mainstream trappings. If you go by its pop culture representation, terms like “cosmic” or “Lovecraftian” horror tend to imply kaiju-like monsters and lots of tentacles, an aesthetic that’s ultimately centered on new forms of overt violence and terror. That this subgenre has become mostly defined by its obvious visual touchstones isn’t surprising, but it is frustrating – particularly since what is lost in such a formation is the most interesting part of the aesthetic.
To me, what is truly compelling about cosmic horror is the idea that there are forces in this universe far beyond our comprehension, to such an extent that the eddies raised by their slow movements can destroy our lives even without intention. This is also the vein mined by properties like Roadside Picnic, whose title implies that even the roadside refuse idly left by such creatures could reshape our view of the world altogether. Of course, properly emphasizing this particular quality of cosmic horror generally means dispensing with the more direct and tentacle-oriented sort of drama, which The Block Island Sound readily understands. Instead, the film is essentially The Shadow Over Innsmouth reframed as a tight family drama, as an older fisherman and his son are each captivated in turn by a pull beyond their comprehension.
The Block Island Sound retains an iron grip on the wheel all through its runtime, letting its deteriorating family dynamic propel the drama, while inexplicable occurrences build up a sense of slow dread. Its use of the dead father as a sort of dreamlike harbinger keeps its true threats properly obscured, while evocative shots of the open ocean serve as a steady reminder of our ultimate smallness. Through all of its careful decisions, The Block Island Sound ensures that more than hatred or malevolence, it is the sheer indifference of otherworldly forces that is most frightening, their idle assumption that we are ants they are pushing with a stick. Handsome and haunting and hard to dismiss, The Block Island Sound really, really gets it.
Next on our list was the expansive musical My Fair Lady, starring Audrey Hepburn as a destitute flower seller with an imposing Cockney accent, and Rex Harrison as a phonetics professor who decides to make a proper lady out of her, telling his friend that he’ll have her indistinguishable from a duchess in just six months. And so the two begin a tempestuous association, as Harrison essentially treats Hepburn like an unruly dog he’s attempting to train, and Hepburn squeaks and squawks her way towards Fair Ladydom.
First off, having primarily seen the grand scale of ‘60s Hollywood epics in the context of historical dramas, it was a wonder to see all the powers of the studio system applied to such a different production. My Fair Lady’s sets are ornate and impressive in scope, and the film regularly indulges us with fifty-actor setpieces, all dancing and singing in time. And the costuming! At one point Hepburn and Harrison visit a racetrack, wherein we discover every single woman is costumed in their own uniquely striking black-and-white ensemble, like a vast flock of monochrome birds of paradise. Later on, a duchess’ party serves as a celebration of color and ruffles, dozens of actors spinning like a living kaleidoscope. From start to finish, My Fair Lady is a celebration of theatrical scale and costuming.
That breathless paragraph shouldn’t give you any impression that My Fair Lady is more engaging as an aesthetic object than an actual story. On the contrary, though the film’s gender conventions are obviously outdated, I was delighted to discover just how funny this movie still is. Hepburn is an absolute delight, managing both the barking disbelief of her Cockney origins and the acid-tinged wisdom of her eventual metamorphosis with relish. Along with that, the middle phases of her transformation might be best of all – hearing her apply her newly ladylike affectation to a rambling story about her dead drunk uncle and his straw hat (it was supposed to be hers!) is a particular highlight. Her expressions are hilarious, her line reads are incendiary, and her every movement seems perfectly measured – as an introduction to Hepburn’s skills, this movie serves as an ironclad argument that I need to see more of her.
Rex Harrison provides a charmingly terrible counterpoint to Hepburn, standing as one of the great examples of a character you love to hate. His Professor Higgins is absolutely intolerable, a monument of arrogance who introduces himself by singing about how all of the English accents are disgusting mutations, and further regaling us with no less than two songs about how women are untrustworthy associates. He’s a real piece of shit, and the film knows it, letting Hepburn deflate him whenever his head balloons just a little too fully. His arrogance and rudeness are in fact so profound that they loop all the way back to “did he actually say that” hilarity, all while building up to that cathartic punchline of comeuppance. It’s fun spending time with this whole cast, and with the film offering such generous accommodations and iconic songs, there’s always some new delight around the corner. My Fair Lady comes highly recommended.
Our last feature of the week was Wheels on Meals, a Sammo Hung action-comedy featuring the classic all-star trio of Hung, Jackie Chan, and Yuen Biao. Chan and Biao star as the co-owners of a Barcelona food truck, who team up with dubious private detective Hung in order to protect a beautiful thief. The film’s plot is fairly basic, and mostly just serves as an excuse for its three stars to flex their incredible powers of martial arts comedy.
Sammo Hung might just be the funniest martial artist to ever live, even more gifted as a comedian than he is as a warrior, yet still remarkably impressive as a warrior given his size. And Jackie Chan is, well, Jackie Chan, the global face of martial arts comedy, and a man perfectly in sync with his costar Biao. It’s thus less than surprising that Wheels on Meals is an endless buffet of irreverent banter, high-stakes pratfalls, and stunning fight choreography. Key to its success is the equal heroic unsuitability of all three leads – each one of them is an unreliable goofball in their own way, and during early clashes with their opponents, they more often get beaten into the tar than emerge victorious.
The film culminates in a thrilling assault on a genuine castle, with each of our heroes attempting to find their own way past walls, guards, and barricades. The castle siege serves as a validation of the skills of all three leads, but it’s Chan who ultimately steals the show, dazzling through his protracted faceoff with Benny “The Jet” Urquidez (one of the best kickboxers of all time). Chan and Urquidez’ battle is simply incredible, an absurd ballet of contrasting styles and blistering proficiency. Their skills are so great that you can easily feel the flow of momentum across the battle, and Urquidez’ strikes are so clearly impactful that his very physicality presents a viscerally intimidating wall for Chan to overcome. It almost feels like Chan had such respect for Urquidez’ skills that he actually agreed Chan’s character could only win through controlling the tempo and preparing one clean knockout – Chan himself states that this fight was one of the greatest of his film career, and I’m more than inclined to agree.
