Hello folks, and welcome back to Wrong Every Time. This week has been a productive one on a variety of fronts, as I’ve been clearing out the last of my outstanding essay projects while also catching up on anime of both recent and venerable vintage. My viewing party just finished season one of the excellent Delicious in Dungeon, which now stands proudly beside Edgerunners among my favorite Trigger properties. Given my distaste for Imaishi’s dramatic preferences, I suppose it’s little surprise that I most enjoy Trigger’s more far-flung adaptations, but I nonetheless had a fantastic time with Laois and his crew. I’ve also been continuing my Gundam journey with Victory Gundam, which so far has proven one of the most tightly composed and altogether satisfying Gundams since the original series. And then of course, there have been The Films, a wandering collection of features spurred by idle whimsy, recommendations on Twitter, or just whatever happens to show up on Netflix. Let’s get to it!
First up this week was David Lynch’s Dune, a box office flop that has since developed a significant cult following. The film itself makes both its initial performance and ultimate long tail perfectly understandable; Dune is a film of magnificent fragments and sprawling disappointments, capturing the inherent strangeness of Herbert’s tale far more accurately than Villeneuve, but failing to cohere into a propulsive or satisfying feature film.
Admittedly, much of this comes down to the nature of the book itself. Like Lynch’s feature, Herbert’s novel soars upon vivid inventions and political intrigue through its first half, then hits a brick wall of pacing and self-important philosophizing once Paul reaches the desert. The sense of inevitability, of time being a fixed canvas which only a blessed or cursed few can fully admire, is essential to Dune’s effect, but also disastrous to any sense of cinematic tension or intrigue. Dune is the story of a very dangerous man rising to an inevitable peak of power, at which point the disposal of his enemies becomes an effortless afterthought. A compelling thought experiment, but to make an epic fantasy film out of it, some pointed embellishments are required.
So yeah, structurally, Dune simply does not lend itself to traditional blockbuster storytelling. Overcoming that hurdle requires making a true narrative out of Dune’s desert-focused half, which was apparently Villeneuve’s approach. Lynch does not do that; he adapts Dune largely as-is, meaning the film’s second half is told mostly through montage, and there’s basically no sense of conflict or threat to speak of once House Atreides is on the back foot. Lots of great character actors (Brad Dourif! Patrick Stewart! Max von Sydow!), and absolutely delectable costuming, but Lynch’s Dune ultimately proves itself more intriguing historical artifact than successful film feature.
Spurred on by the series’ recent revival, we then checked out Beverly Hills Cop 2. The first Beverly Hills Cop is an unimpeachable classic, featuring Eddie Murphy in peak form with an admirable squad of supporting actors. Detective Axel Foley is simply a perfect fit for Murphy; the man’s ungodly charisma and ability to embody basically any persona makes it easy to buy him as a master of misdirection, lying his ass off to sneak into any exclusive venue, and then offering a guileless fool’s stare to usher him out again.
Beverly Hills Cop 2 is largely more of the same, though the film definitely has to stretch its premise in order to maintain Foley’s presence as an underdog rather than a returning champion. The sequel also leans more heavily on swears and sex appeal to fill in the gaps between genuinely inspired comedy segments, demonstrating clearly that most of Murphy’s best ideas were used up in the original. Nonetheless, Murphy, Judge Reinhold, and John Ashton still make for a brilliant buddy dynamic, and Murphy’s personal charisma is as captivating as ever. It might be lesser peak-era Murphy, but it’s still peak-era Murphy.
Our next viewing was Raw, the full-length debut feature of Julia Decourna, who’d go on to direct the visceral Titane. Raw falls perfectly in line with Titane’s body horror ruminations, following a young vegetarian (Garance Marillier) through her first year at veterinary school, where persistent hazing by upperclassmen swiftly awakens a hunger for human flesh. Guided by her suspiciously accommodating sister (Ella Rumpf), she emerges into a frightening yet alluring world of desecration and desire.
Though you could easily lump Decourna’s work in with other works of body horror, or even consider it an offshoot of the French Extreme wave of the late ‘00s, her work is significantly more textured and specific than its genre compatriots. Decourna isn’t interested in chopping bodies up; she’s more fascinated with how bodies are already, inherently terrifying, how processes like puberty or pregnancy are grotesque and frightening even before you add a Carpenter synth score. Titane pushed this curiosity to the point of outright fantasy, but Raw is more intimate and approachable; you can truly feel Marillier’s fear at what she is becoming, as well as that undeniable urge to see what will emerge from the cocoon.
Individual scenes of Raw had me gagging and averting my eyes, not because they were so grotesque or alarming, but because Decourna set up her acts of violation so well that I felt as if I were tasting flesh right alongside our hungry heroine. The film never sacrifices intimacy for spectacle, consistently bonding its most transgressive and most sympathetic urges, and thereby refusing the comfort of alienation, the safety of not recognizing yourself in its deviant leads. Raw challenges the sanctity of the body so successfully that it could make anyone feel a stranger in their own skin, surrounded not by an extension of the self, but merely by bone and skin and tissue, flesh no different from that of any animal.
Next up was the quirky ‘80s comedy Moscow on the Hudson, starring Robin Williams as Vladimir Ivanoff, a Russian saxophonist who plays for the Moscow circus. On a trip to perform in New York City, Vladimir defects from Russia in Bloomingdales, and swiftly finds himself immersed in America’s strange, contradictory culture. Aided by his best friend Lionel (Cleavant Derricks) and girlfriend Lucia (María Conchita Alonso), Vladimir does his best to achieve something resembling happiness in this brave new world.
Moscow on the Hudson’s premise had me expecting a very different sort of film, some sort of riotous fish-out-of-water story in the model of Coming to America. But Paul Mazurky’s feature is a very different beast; a slower, more somber sort of quasi-comedy, illustrating both the humorous absurdities of life and the long, ambiguous stretches in between.
Williams is excellent as Vladimir, springboarding from his television persona into the more pensive mode that would characterize much of his best work. The man knows sadness too well, and Moscow on the Hudson is sad and funny at once in the way life often is, full of odd turns and unexpected low ebbs. More a series of character studies than a laugh-out-loud feature, the film proceeds through slight victories and sudden malaise, refusing to offer easy solutions or convenient happy endings. Vladimir is just an immigrant struggling to get along like everyone else; his fame as a defector is barely mentioned after the first act, with most of the film instead dedicated to him struggling to define himself as a Russian or American, musician or capitalist, success story or cautionary tale. The film’s tonal ambiguity, structural meandering, and firm humanism collectively touched me far more than I was expecting; I will absolutely be checking out more of Paul Mazurky’s catalog.
