Hello folks, and welcome back to Wrong Every Time. Today I write to you from the midst of a spring cleaning embodying mind, body, and home, as dusting and vacuuming are accompanied by a renewed commitment to a regular exercise regimen. I know, I know, I say this every spring, but I really mean it this time! And don’t worry, this alleged commitment to self-care hasn’t gotten in the way of vegetating in front of various media objects. I’m actually over halfway through Dennou Coil at this point, and though the start was a bit slow, I’m at last fully engaged with its rogue-data-as-folklore episodic conceits, as well as its quiet lament for the death of neighborhoods that facilitate such idyllic childhoods. It’s got both Patlabor The Movie and Rainbow Fireflies vibes, and that is a very good place to be. Anyway, I’ll have more composed thoughts on Dennou Coil once I’ve finished. For now, let’s charge through a fresh collection of feature films!

First up this week was McCabe and Mrs. Miller, Robert Altman’s self-declared “anti-western,” about a gambler and a prostitute who strike up an unlikely business partnership. In the sleepy mining town of Presbyterian Church, the two build an empire spanning a bathhouse, brothel, and bar, and do exceedingly well for themselves – almost too well, as it turns out. Their success eventually attracts the notice of a major mining company, and when McCabe refuses to sell out, the forces that truly determine success in America step in.

It’s easy to see why Altman considers this an anti-western, as it is less a traditional western film than a film about the people who westerns happen to, the unfortunate locals who are simply trying to live their lives and increase their fortunes day by day. Most people aren’t famous gunslingers, and most material conflicts aren’t clashes of larger-than-life personalities. For folks like that, the alleged romance of the old west is a storm to be avoided, until personal success inevitably leads to corporate noses, and those noses either claim what they want or send a man with a gun.

Warren Beatty and Julie Christie are each captivating in the title roles. Beatty succeeds marvelously in playing the double role of both who McCabe pretends to be (a tough-as-nails former gunslinger) and who he actually is (a gambler in over his head, attempting to paper over inexperience with bravado). In contrast, Mrs. Miller is always completely herself, bowling over McCabe from their first meeting with her blunt manner, competence, and certainty of her destination. Each of them is guarded in their own way, but together, they approach something verging on honest affection.

And of course, as this is an Altman film, the margins of their story are brimming with dozens of memorable side characters, who are frequently spared room to express their own feelings and eccentricities. Altman favors ensemble almost to a fault, but it works marvelously for McCabe and Mrs. Miller. Through all these tiny incidental journeys, we get to share in the transformation of Presbyterian Church from a dank mining hovel to a proud community – meaning that the conclusion, where the town rallies together to put out a fire as McCabe settles accounts with his personal demons, possesses a uniquely bittersweet flavor. The forces of capital may always crush our overambitious dreamers, but no gunman can destroy what McCabe and Mrs. Miller created.

Next up was the 2011 remake of The Thing, which is actually framed as a prequel to Carpenter’s classic, revealing what happened at the doomed Norwegian camp that first encountered the entity. I came into this film fearing dubious CGI and an overall sense of inessentiality, given how perfectly Carpenter’s movie executed this concept. Both those fears proved well-founded, but neither fault proved fatal. The CG was both better than I expected and accompanied with some welcome practical effects, while in spite of feeling somewhat like a retread, the film nonetheless served as a reminder that The Thing’s combination of social distrust and body horror is a uniquely compelling mix, one that can easily furnish more than one film’s worth of terrors.

This version of the tale lets the cast simmer for a while before unveiling its threat, a choice I initially saw as inferior to Carpenter’s breakneck opening, but ultimately came to appreciate as the necessary foundation for a more character drama-focused take on the material. The gambit only works because of the generally excellent cast; Ulrich Thomsen oozes condescension as the expedition’s leader, Eric Christian Olsen is charming enough that I felt bad for only recognizing him as Community’s tiny nipples guy, and Mary Elizabeth Winstead was seemingly born to wield a flamethrower, making the absolute most of her turn as a scifi action lead. Seriously, give this woman more flamethrowers.

We then watched Shutter Island, a Scorsese feature starring Leonardo DiCaprio as a federal marshal, who alongside his new partner Mark Ruffalo are investigating the disappearance of a patient from a psychiatric facility for the criminally insane. Upon arriving at the island housing the facility, DiCaprio finds the lead psychiatrist (Ben Kingsley) supremely unhelpful, and begins to suspect there is some sort of conspiracy afoot.

Given this is a Scorsese feature, it should be no surprise that Shutter Island is beautifully shot, confidently structured, and stuffed with great performances. Tonally and visually, the film feels somewhat akin to Coppola’s Dracula, as if it is intentionally evoking the soundstage-driven unreality of Hammer horror films. But while DiCaprio’s evocation of a tormented man is gripping, the actual narrative here is all stuff and flimflam, misdirection attempting to dress up a hollow core.

Not only does the film revel in the drama-undercutting ambiguity of “is anything we’re experiencing real or imagined,” it commits the secondary crime of making the actual truth of the situation obvious from the start, meaning most of the film is spent waiting for DiCaprio to dispense with the fake drama he’s embroiled in and catch up with the rest of us. Dramatic irony can be used to agonizing narrative effect, but it must be employed to direct a character towards some dramatically useful end; when it’s just steering a character in circles, it feels more like treading water. There is an excellent character study hidden somewhere within Shutter Island, but the film’s delight at its own narrative parlor tricks keeps it from achieving genuine success.

Our last feature of the week was She Will, a recent psychological horror film about Veronica Ghent (Alice Krige), a former film star recovering from a double mastectomy. Traveling with her nurse Desi (Kota Eberhardt) to an allegedly private retreat, she is alarmed to discover the woodland retreat playing host to an array of odd and inquisitive guests, and is initially determined to leave. However, something about this forest calls out to her – here, where witches were once burned at the stake, their ashes still enriching its soil. Ghent soon finds herself strangely invigorated by this place, and imbued with the power to right some ancient wrongs.

She Will is a slow smolder towards a magnificent bonfire, elevated by both first-time director Charlotte Colbert’s gorgeous photography and Alice Krige’s multifaceted, vulnerable performance. Visually, the film calls back both to the cavernous woodland cinematography of The Witch, as well as the ornate, labyrinthian set design of Argento (one scene late in the film seems like a deliberate nod to Suspiria, and Argento actually served as executive producer on the film). Narratively, the film trades more in the character-rich doppelganger musings of Bergman’s Persona, lingering over Ghent’s process of finding first unhappy distances, then odd points of commonality between herself and Desi. Though Ghent cannot help but covet Desi’s youth, and finds her cynicism superficial in the face of Ghent’s own experiences, the two are ultimately bonded through shared hardship, each finding something to admire in the other’s sharper angles. The film’s supernatural elements hang a shroud of dread over this process of discovery, but the fulfillment of those horrors comes as a delirious, ecstatic release. Highly recommended.