Hello folks, and welcome back to Wrong Every Time! Today we celebrate the very last Week in Review of 2022, a year that has seen me consuming as many films as possible in my quest for genuine cinematic literacy. Granted, I’ve leaned heavily towards the horror and fantasy productions that my overall house tends to favor, and also complimented that with plenty of “whatever’s on Netflix” watches that I wouldn’t inflict on anyone, but there were still plenty of classics in the mix as well. From Sorcerer to Fitzcarraldo to Tokyo Story to Suspiria, I feel like I’m actually starting to solidify a list of favorites that actually represent what I love in art, and look forward to continuing this journey with you all over the year to come. For now, let’s sift through the cinematic spoils of the holiday season, as we charge through the year’s last Week in Review!

Like many of you, I spent a portion of this weekend watching Glass Onion with the family. I greatly enjoyed the first Knives Out, and had a fun time with this sequel as well, in spite of it feeling inferior to the first in basically all regards. There’s just less substance to Glass Onion on a variety of fronts: the direction and set design are less compelling, the cast of characters is significantly more obvious and superficial, the mystery is less a labyrinth than a long-held misdirect, and the fact that we’re situated at Benoit Blanc’s side right from the start means there’s never much sense of tension or danger. It very much feels like Knives Out on vacation, as we enjoy great actors playing absurd caricatures while Blanc delights us with his vacation wear and cheerful surprise at each gaudy rich-kid contrivance.

While the original Knives Out took aim at the grotesqueries inherent in the culture of old money, Glass Onion is all about skewering the scions of new money, with its inescapably Musk-like Ed Norton character starring as King Idiot of Shithead Mountain. Norton and his friends are all satisfying contemptible, and I did appreciate Johnson correctly identifying “disruptor” as a term designed to flatter that which is inherently vile. But their interactions on the whole felt more like an extended comedy skit riffing on their archetypes (the manosphere streamer, the Marjorie Taylor Greene-style political remora) than conversations between genuine, long-time friends. Holding the camera so close to Blanc’s shoulder rendered the threat these monsters represent ludicrous; Glass Onion lacks those moments of Ana de Armas brushing dangerously close to the power and hatred of capital, meaning its ultimate trajectory feels more like the inevitable downfall of obvious buffoons than that cathartic final glance down at the damned souls of Knives Out.

That said, some portion of my complaints about Glass Onion are clearly admonishing it for things it never intended to be. The script and cinematography are undeniably weaker, and many of its individual choices feel like they’ll date the film significantly, but Glass Onion nonetheless succeeds as a feel-good comedy with a mystery garnish. The targets Johnson chooses to skewer could all use a few more puncture wounds, and I would be happy to see Daniel Craig return to this delightful character again. Don’t expect too much, and you’ll probably have a fine time.

Back at the apartment, we then watched Scream 2, which proved to be pretty much just as effective as its predecessor. Considering Scream was already designed as a genre-savvy commentary on slasher tropes, its successor comes equipped with ample grist for dramatic milling, frequently riffing on the assumptions and expansions of scope expected from slasher sequels. And with most of the original’s strongest actors returning, along with Wes Craven still at the helm, nothing about this film feels phoned in or cynical. The art of the sequel is a necessary component of any wide-ranging slasher discussion, and Scream 2 engages playfully in that conversation while simultaneously proving its own position in the slasher sequel pantheon. Not bad, Wes.

Next up was White Christmas, a ‘54 Bing Crosby vehicle also starring Danny Kaye, Rosemary Clooney, and Vera-Ellen. White Christmas is toothache-inducingly saccharine, and its narrative is a bit of a ramshackle mess (the script apparently required a number of panicked rewrites), but it succeeds in its fundamental purpose: presenting great singers and dancers in their element, on sets festooned with gaily colored Christmas folderol. What Crosby lacks in convincing dramatic chops he makes up for with That Goddamn Voice, while Kaye’s mix of sparkle-eyed charm and comic physicality give the film’s romances at least a hint of plausibility. It’s a trifle of a film with a wildly contrived third act, but if you’re looking for a colorful feature to compliment the usual set of background Christmas movies, White Christmas is happy to provide.

We then watched Season of the Witch, a dark fantasy drama starring Nicolas Cage and Ron Perlman as former crusaders, who flee their duties after losing faith in the righteousness of their cause. Returning home, they are swiftly captured by local guards, and forced to accompany an accused witch on a perilous journey to her final judgment.

My elevator pitch for Season of the Witch is “what if Sorcerer was a campy fantasy drama and you replaced the nitroglycerin with an evil witch.” This film’s perilous bridge crossing felt like an intentional callback to the peaks of Sorcerer, while Cage and Perlman fit naturally into the film’s otherwise Roger Corman-esque B movie thrills. Conceptually, I also quite liked how this film didn’t fall into the standard “this woman has been falsely accused by the church” narrative model; there is clearly something very wrong with this group’s cargo, and having her be an active threat lends a consistent sense of dread to the feature, while also facilitating a varied array of near-death setpieces. A little too clumsy in the execution of its action scenes to stand as a superior example of the genre, but c’mon, we’re hanging out with Cage and Perlman here. It’s not hard to have a fun time.

Last up for this week was Eyes Without a Face, a classic of French horror that’s long been on my list of proto-horror essentials. The film centers on Dr. Génessier, an accomplished plastic surgeon, and his daughter Christiane, whose face was horribly disfigured in an auto accident. The doctor dreams of restoring his daughter’s beauty, but in order to do that, he needs tissue donors. And so the doctor’s assistant Louise turns to the streets of Paris, abducting women whose features might be grafted to Christiane, and disposing of the failures by any means necessary.

Eyes Without a Face feels like a film elevated in large part by its own limitations. Owing to the combined requirements of French, German, and English censors, the film was forbidden from portraying significant blood, animal abuse, or mad scientists (all of which were present in the original novel). In weaving its narrative between these strict barriers, Eyes Without a Face offers something poignant and dreamlike, prioritizing the melancholy existence of Christiane over the grim fascinations of her father.

Both Édith Scob’s wraithlike, balletic movements and the appearance of her porcelain mask serve to present her as a ghost among mortals, flitting gently about her father’s estate, never settling into the solidity of everyday life. While her father always insists his next operation will be a success, Christiane seems to already understand she has passed on from this world, and strains against her gilded cage. Though all mirrors have been removed from the house, she still lives in fear of discovering her own visage; she tiptoes around her home like she’s avoiding a monster, but the only monster here is cognizance of her own misfortune.

Georges Franju’s elegant photography further elevates the contrast of Christiane against her environment, while building an effective labyrinth of the hallways and stairwells that compose her prison. And though Christiane is the clear highlight, the foundations surrounding her are sturdy and handsome, buttressing her otherworldly scenes with a propulsive thriller shell. From its formal beauty to its enchanting atmosphere to its ambiguous moral melancholy, Eyes Without a Face seduces with every facet, and earns my highest recommendation.