Zander Dulac

Tag: movies (Page 3 of 4)

Watching Anime: The Many Faces of Astro Boy

May 20, 2025 /

Astro Boy (Tetsuwan Atom) is more than just a cartoon character. He’s a cornerstone of modern Japanese pop culture and a foundational figure in global science fiction storytelling. Created by Osamu Tezuka, the so-called “God of Manga”, Astro Boy first appeared on the printed page in 1952, eventually becoming the star of Japan’s first major animated television series in 1963. Astro is instantly recognizable with his big round eyes (according to Tezuka, inspired by Disney’s Bambi), jet-powered limbs, and heart of gold. But behind his charming appearance lies one of fiction’s most poignant origin stories: a tale of loss, abandonment, identity, and artificial humanity.

Tezuka, a trained medical doctor turned artist, was deeply influenced by Western literature, animation, and post-war trauma. His work often combined fantastical science fiction with deep human concerns. With Astro Boy, he created a character who was simultaneously a child, a weapon, and a mirror for human fears and hopes in an age of rapid technological change.

Astro’s origin story (rebuilt and reimagined across manga, tv, and film) reveals not just changing artistic styles, but also evolving philosophies of life, death, and what it means to be human.

One of Tezuka’s clearest inspirations for Astro Boy was Carlo Collodi’s Pinocchio. Like Geppetto’s wooden puppet, Astro is a creation born of love and grief, a substitute for a lost or absent child. And like Pinocchio, Astro must embark on a journey of self-discovery, confronting internal doubt and external hostility to become “real” in an emotional, if not biological, sense.

However, whereas Pinocchio centers on the transformation of a puppet into a human boy, Astro Boy reverses the trajectory. Astro is built to resemble a real boy but gradually realizes he is not human and never will be. His tragedy lies not in wanting to become human per se but in wanting to be accepted as he is. The constant tension between how he is perceived (a machine, a tool, a weapon) and how he sees himself (a boy with emotions and conscience) makes Astro a far more tragic and modern figure than Pinocchio.

Tezuka’s Astro Boy manga (1952–1968) begins with the death of Dr. Tenma’s young son Tobio in a car accident. Unable to cope with the loss, Tenma creates a robotic duplicate in Tobio’s image, Astro. At first, he believes the robot can fill the void in his heart, but when Astro fails to grow like a real child, Tenma goes cold and eventually sells him to a circus. It is Professor Ochanomizu who later rescues Astro, recognizing his potential and giving him purpose.

This origin emphasizes emotional realism and moral ambiguity. Tenma is both a grieving father and a failed god, a man who tries to cheat death and ends up compounding his tragedy. The story subtly explores whether love for a child must depend on their humanity or whether even a robot can deserve compassion. Astro’s journey is as much internal as external: a search for dignity, acceptance, and autonomy.

The 1963 Astro Boy anime series marked the birth of Japanese tv anime. Targeted at children and produced with limited resources, this version simplifies the manga’s origin story. Tenma still creates Astro after losing his son but abandons him with far less cruelty. Astro quickly transitions into a noble superhero, fighting crime and injustice with a smile.

What’s lost in psychological complexity is gained in accessibility. This version frames Astro as a cheerful icon of modernity, reflecting the era’s post-war optimism. Technology is seen not as a danger but as a friend, something to be embraced. Astro becomes less of a tragic figure and more of a model child: brave, honest, and kind.

The 1980 Astro Boy reboot attempts to restore some of the manga’s emotional depth. Dr. Tenma’s grief is shown with greater gravity, and Astro’s feelings of rejection are more fully explored. The show gives more time to his struggle to understand human behavior, emotion, and his place in society.

This version straddles two audiences: children and nostalgic adults. It maintains the accessibility of the 1963 series but reintroduces key philosophical questions. Can a machine feel love? Should robots have rights? What is the soul? It pushes Astro toward a more mature role, not just as a hero but as a child grappling with adult truths.

Astro Boy‘s 2003 adaptation is the most mature and morally complex. Created for the franchise’s 40th anniversary, it leans into the tragedy of Astro’s origin. Dr. Tenma becomes an obsessed and ultimately villainous figure. After failing to recreate Tobio, he rejects Astro not just emotionally but violently, erasing his memories and casting him into the world alone. Astro only learns about his origin in episode seven.

This version uses Astro’s story to critique social prejudice, AI ethics, and systemic inequality. Robots in this world are oppressed, segregated, and often exploited, echoing real-world histories of racism and classism. Astro becomes a hero and a figure of compassion and forgiveness in a society that dehumanizes him. It reflects the anxieties of its time: fears of surveillance, terrorism, and technological dehumanization. Where earlier versions asked “can robots be human?”, the 2003 series asks “how should we treat the ‘other’, even if it’s not human?”

In the 2009 CG-animated feature, produced by Hong Kong-based Imagi Animation Studios, Astro Boy is given a slick redesign and a simplified origin. Dr. Tenma (voiced by Nicolas Cage) creates Astro after Tobio’s death, rejects him briefly, but is quickly forgiven and redeemed. The story turns into a standard “chosen one” narrative: Astro runs away, finds friendship among outcasts, and returns to save the city from a militaristic villain (voiced by Donald Sutherland). Absent is the thematic depth of earlier versions. Gone are the questions of identity, suffering, or systemic bias. Instead, we get a story of self-acceptance and family-friendly adventure, in line with Hollywood animation conventions. While visually polished, the film loses the existential core of Tezuka’s creation.

Among Astro’s many foes, Pluto stands apart. Created by another scientist to destroy the world’s strongest robots (including Astro), Pluto becomes a tragic figure. In the original manga, he is a tool of hatred who slowly develops a sense of conscience, eventually refusing to kill and sacrificing himself. Pluto’s role is critical: he is Astro’s dark mirror, a machine built for war who comes to yearn for peace. Their confrontation is not just a battle of strength but a clash of ethics. Tezuka uses Pluto to explore how even “evil” machines can change, and whether morality is hardwired or learned.

This relationship was so rich that it became the centerpiece of Naoki Urasawa’s critically acclaimed manga Pluto (2003–2009), a noir-style reimagining that reframes Astro and Pluto’s story for adults, pushing the themes of trauma, war, and identity even further.

One of the most haunting aspects of Astro’s character is that he can never grow up. Built to resemble a 9-year-old boy, he is physically frozen in time, despite gaining wisdom, experience, and pain. Unlike Pinocchio, he will never become a “real boy”. Unlike other child heroes, he cannot age into adulthood.

This places him in the lineage of figures like Peter Pan, the boy who never grows up, and Claudia from Interview with the Vampire, the child turned immortal, cursed to stay young while her mind matures. Like Claudia, Astro’s eternal youth becomes a prison, especially in versions like the manga and the 2003 anime, where his longing for identity and love is rejected because of what he is. His childlike body disarms those around him but also prevents him from being taken seriously. He is too young to be feared, too artificial to be loved, and too powerful to be ignored. A poignant paradox that gives him enduring pathos.

Five Pearl Harbors

May 6, 2025 /

I’ve recently watched six movies that featured the Japanese attack on the US naval base at Pearl Harbor in Hawaii. It’s so interesting how they all used the historical event in different ways and with different purposes.

From Here to Eternity (Fred Zinnemann, 1953) ends with the attack. Before that, we see the intersecting lives of several characters around the island. Private Robert E. Lee Prewitt (Montgomery Clift), Sergeant Milton Warden (Burt Lancaster), and Private Angelo Maggio (Frank Sinatra) navigate the tensions of military life in Pearl Harbor. Karen Holmes (Deborah Kerr), the wife of Warden’s commanding officer, and Alma (Donna Reed), an “entertainer” working at a gentlemen’s club, explore what roles are available in a closed society made for men.

None of the characters are heroes. Prewitt is tragically stubborn, accepting undeserving punishment from his superiors and justifying it as personal integrity. Warden is cynical and pragmatic, caught in a doomed affair with his commanding officer’s wife. Maggio is a self-destructive underdog who has accepted his fate, trying to have a few moments of pleasure before it all ends. All three are locked into a system of institutional cruelty, masculinity under pressure, and the suffocating effects of rigid hierarchies, both military and societal.

The women occupy a paradoxical space, central to the story’s emotional undercurrents and, at the same time, only peripheral in a male-dominated world, their lives shaped by their relationships to the men and their limited agency within a patriarchal order. Karen is the archetype of the disillusioned military wife trapped in a sexless, loveless marriage with an unfaithful husband. Her affair with Warden is an act of both rebellion and desperation. Alma works as a prostitute and dreams of a respectable life back on the mainland. Her romance with Prewitt is fraught with illusions and pragmatism: she wants to love him, but not at the cost of her escape plan.

From Here to Eternity is a brooding, emotionally resonant war drama classic of mid-century American cinema. Adapted from James Jones’s 1951 novel, the film is often remembered for its iconic beachside kiss between Burt Lancaster and Deborah Kerr, but it is far more than a memorable still frame. It is a study of a repressive and masculinized institution that crushes those who don’t conform. The military, as depicted here, is less a protector of freedom than an engine of conformity. Dissent, even principled dissent, is punished. Compassion is a weakness. While sanitized compared to the novel, especially in its portrayal of sexuality and institutional corruption, it still tackles extramarital affairs, prostitution (thinly veiled), and brutality within the ranks with remarkable frankness for the time.

From Here to Eternity is easily the best movie of this batch. It captures a world on the brink of historical catastrophe, populated by people already living through private wars. It reflects the gender norms of its era, sometimes critically and sometimes uncritically, but always with emotional depth. Its women, while not given full narrative autonomy, are as vivid and wounded as the men, and their struggles underscore the film’s bleak view of a world where love is no match for duty, and integrity comes at the cost of survival.

In Harm’s Way (Otto Preminger, 1965) starts with the attack. From there, it tries to build a narrative of a sweeping World War II epic, echoing the grandeur and psychological nuance of earlier war dramas. And it fails. Miserably. In the mid-sixties, it is still trying to build heroes in the style of the mid-forties.

Playing Captain Rockwell Torrey, John Wayne is a paragon of stoicism, a figure of silent suffering and noble command. He is rarely questioned and even more rarely wrong. He begins the film as a granite-jawed archetype of military virtue and ends the same way. Perhaps that’s the point: he is the immovable rock in a sea of shifting loyalties and crises, but it leaves little room for psychological complexity. As the more volatile and morally compromised Commander Paul Eddington, Kirk Douglas offers a counterpoint: his character is flawed, scarred, and driven by guilt. Yet his arc, involving a sexual assault subplot that is handled with both narrative bluntness and emotional detachment, feels poorly justified and oddly sanitized. Patricia Neal is given the unenviable role of Lieutenant Maggie Haines, the nurse who exists primarily to be Wayne’s emotional salve. There is a quiet dignity in her performance but, like all the women in the film, she is relegated to the periphery of a man’s world. Jill Haworth and Paula Prentiss play roles that are at best ornamental and at worst exploitative, especially in scenes where trauma is either brushed aside or used solely as motivation for male characters.

In Harm’s Way is based on James Bassett’s 1962 novel of the same name, but it streamlines, sanitizes, and sentimentalizes much of the content. Where the book offers a mature, morally complex portrait of military life during World War II, the film opts for broad strokes, traditional heroism, and a less introspective tone. And the movie goes on for 165 minutes, trying to weave together a personal melodrama with a broader military campaign but never giving either element the depth or pacing it needs. The romantic subplot feels like a studio-mandated softening of the action, while the strategic developments often devolve into scenes of men staring at maps.

Tora! Tora! Tora! (Richard Fleischer & Toshio Masuda & Kinji Fukasaku, 1970) is all about the attack on Pearl Harbor. While the two movies I commented on previously were based on novels, this one is based on historical documents. Instead of using the episode as the opening or the closing of a fictional story, the goal here was to present the attack as closely as possible to the facts. Tora! Tora! Tora! presents a level of historical fidelity that was rare in war films of its time. Eschewing the melodrama typical of World War II cinema, the film adopts a more analytical, even clinical tone in its dissection of the political and military machinery on both sides of the Pacific.

The American military and intelligence community is shown to be hamstrung by layers of bureaucracy, inter-service rivalry, and a failure of imagination. Rather than depicting the USA as simply caught off guard, Tora! Tora! Tora! presents a nuanced picture of systemic failure. Commanders like Admiral Kimmel and General Short are portrayed as competent men working within a confused and compartmentalized system. Intelligence officers pick up ominous signals, like decoded messages and reports of Japanese fleet movement, but these warnings are either dismissed, misinterpreted, or bogged down by red tape and interdepartmental inertia. The film underscores how rigid thinking and an overreliance on protocol dulled America’s preparedness. This dramatization of bureaucratic dysfunction doesn’t scapegoat individuals. Instead, it indicts a system structurally incapable of responding swiftly and decisively. It’s a chilling message, made all the more effective by the film’s docudrama style.

On the Japanese side, Tora! Tora! Tora! is equally committed to portraying internal divisions and philosophical disagreements. The film avoids reducing the Japanese military to a monolithic villain. Instead, it emphasizes the profound ambivalence among Japanese leaders about the wisdom and morality of attacking the United States. Admiral Yamamoto emerges as a tragic figure, a strategist with grave reservations about war with the USA, famously noting that Japan would only “run wild” for six months before American industrial might turned the tide. His internal conflict is rendered with restraint but clarity, contrasting him with more hawkish elements within the Imperial Navy and Army. The cabinet debates, the vacillations, and the forced consensus all contribute to a portrait of a nation not inexorably driven to war but pushed into it by a mix of pride, desperation, and flawed assumptions.

While Tora! Tora! Tora! earns praise for its accuracy and evenhandedness, its austere tone can also be a liability. Characters often feel more like avatars of historical forces than fully realized individuals, and the narrative momentum occasionally stalls under the weight of procedural detail. Yet this same quality also lends the film a unique power. It plays less like an adventure movie and more like a fatalistic tragedy unfolding with the inevitability of a Greek play.

In Pearl Harbor (Michael Bay, 2001), the attack happens around the middle of the movie. It wanted us to already know the characters when they are impacted by the attack on Pearl Harbor, but it also wanted to end with a victory (even at the expense of historical integrity). It’s a sweeping war-romance epic that attempts to dramatize a devastating and pivotal moment in American history by inserting a love triangle between Ben Affleck, Josh Hartnett, and Kate Beckinsale, plus a collection of history inaccuracies.

The film takes serious liberties with historical facts, especially in how it inserts its fictional protagonists into the center of the attack’s response. Affleck and Hartnett play Rafe McCawley and Danny Walker, two fighter pilots who manage to get airborne during the surprise attack and shoot down multiple Japanese planes in what can only be described as a heroic fantasy. While a handful of American pilots did manage to get airborne and resist, the depiction in Pearl Harbor exaggerates the success and agility of the defenders. In reality, the US response was largely uncoordinated and overwhelmed by the scale and surprise of the assault.

The film also blurs lines between real and fictional elements. For example, the Doolittle Raid, which the protagonists participate in near the end, is portrayed as a natural progression of their personal storylines. Historically, the Doolittle Raid was a daring bombing mission on Tokyo that took place months after Pearl Harbor and was carried out by specially trained volunteers. Affleck and Hartnett’s inclusion feels forced and serves more to give the characters a satisfying arc than to honor that mission’s real complexity and risk.

Bay’s signature style of slow-motion hero shots, grandiose music, and pyrotechnic-heavy action is fully displayed during the Pearl Harbor attack sequence. The recreation of the Japanese aerial assault is visually impressive, with soaring camera work and chaotic, visceral imagery that captures some sense of confusion and horror. However, while the visual effects are technically remarkable, they are emotionally hollow, often more interested in choreographed destruction than in the human tragedy it represents. The attack becomes an action set piece rather than a historical turning point.

There are brief glimpses of the real human cost of war, such as wounded soldiers flooding the hospital and nurses scrambling to respond, but these moments are fleeting. Cuba Gooding Jr.’s role as real-life Navy cook Doris “Dorie” Miller, who earned the Navy Cross for his valor, is powerful but underdeveloped. His presence is a reminder that Pearl Harbor could have been more impactful had it chosen to center on real historical figures rather than fictional heroes. Instead, we get an earnest but misguided epic that sacrifices historical accuracy and emotional authenticity for romantic clichés and explosive spectacle.

I included The Final Countdown (Don Taylor, 1980) on the list because of its intriguing premise: What if a modern US aircraft carrier were transported back in time to the day before the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor? Unfortunately, the film ultimately falls short of its philosophical and narrative potential, opting instead for a conservative and somewhat superficial approach to its central dilemma.

The nuclear-powered USS Nimitz is caught in a mysterious storm and hurled back to December 6, 1941. The question becomes: should the crew intervene in the course of history and prevent the Pearl Harbor attack, potentially saving thousands of lives but also rewriting world events?

The premise offers immense dramatic and intellectual potential, yet the movie shies away from exploring the consequences of time travel in any meaningful way. Instead, the narrative is tightly controlled and ultimately resolves itself with a deus ex machina: the return of the Nimitz to the present before any intervention can occur. This decision preserves the historical status quo and sidesteps any messy philosophical questions about the morality of altering history, the unpredictability of time, or the ripple effects of technology out of its era.

Though the cast features solid performances, the characters are largely archetypal and underdeveloped. Kirk Douglas plays Captain Yelland with stoic authority, representing military pragmatism and responsibility. Martin Sheen’s character, Warren Lasky, a civilian observer, is meant to offer a more philosophical perspective, but he’s never fully utilized as a moral or intellectual foil to Yelland. Charles Durning plays Senator Samuel Chapman, a 1941-era politician whose presence allows the film to briefly explore the cultural and political mindset of the past. Yet even this opportunity is muted, as the film is more interested in showcasing aircraft maneuvers than interrogating ideological contrasts between 1941 and 1980.

The most glaring weakness of The Final Countdown is its reluctance to engage with the philosophical implications of its own plot. The film flirts with questions of fate, determinism, and the ethics of historical intervention but never commits to any position. This indecision makes the film feel safe, even timid, when it could have been bold and provocative. Moreover, the paradoxes inherent in time travel (causality loops, alternate timelines, the grandfather paradox) are ignored or waved away. In contrast to more intellectually ambitious time travel films of the 1970s (like Time After Time) or the 1980s (like The Terminator), The Final Countdown seems content with its own superficiality.

M x 3

March 11, 2025 /

I always find it interesting how different moviemakers adapt the same book for the screen. But it feels a bit uncomfortable when the source material is not a book but another movie. It’s like the director of the remake is saying to the original director, “I can make your movie better than you can”. And, more often than not, it’s not better. With very few exceptions (like Scarface, The Fly, or The Departed), remakes have very little to offer.

This week, I watched one original movie and two remakes, just trying to understand why someone would think it was a good idea to reinvent one of the most influential films in cinema history, often regarded as the bridge between silent expressionist cinema and modern sound filmmaking. I’m talking about Fritz Lang’s M (1931), a tense psychological thriller and social critique telling the story of a serial child murderer terrorizing a German city and the desperate hunt to capture him, both by the police and the criminal underworld. The film’s groundbreaking use of sound, visual storytelling, and deep thematic exploration make it a cornerstone of world cinema.

M was one of Germany’s first sound films and demonstrated how sound could be used creatively rather than just as a technical novelty. Unlike many early talkies that relied heavily on dialogue, M employs silence and selective soundscapes to heighten tension. The most famous example is the killer’s whistling of In the Hall of the Mountain King (an orchestral piece composed by Edvard Grieg), which serves as an aural motif signaling his presence and eventual downfall. Lang also uses off-screen sound innovatively, allowing unseen actions to be heard, creating suspense and a sense of lurking danger.

While M precedes the classic film noir era, its dark cityscapes, moral ambiguity, and focus on crime and psychology profoundly influenced the genre. It also established many conventions of the psychological thriller, particularly depicting a disturbed protagonist and the society that hunts him.

M is not a full-fledged expressionist film like Lang’s earlier Metropolis (1927), but it retains the movement’s influence in its high-contrast lighting, distorted cityscapes, and striking use of shadow. Fritz Arno Wagner’s cinematography uses deep shadows and stark compositions to evoke paranoia and entrapment, reinforcing the film’s themes of surveillance and pursuit.

Released during the final years of the Weimar Republic, M reflects the anxieties of a German society in turmoil. Economic instability, rising crime, and the growing power of authoritarianism are all subtly present in the film. The public hysteria and mob mentality depicted eerily foreshadow the rise of Nazi Germany, where scapegoating and vigilantism became state policy.

Peter Lorre’s portrayal of Hans Beckert, the child murderer, is one of the most chilling yet sympathetic performances in film history. Unlike traditional movie villains, Beckert is not a faceless monster but a tormented man driven by impulses he cannot control. His climactic monologue, in which he pleads for understanding, complicates the audience’s feelings toward him, making M one of the first films to explore the psychology of a killer in depth.

The film also avoids simplistic portrayals of good and evil. The criminals, led by Schränker, organize themselves as vigilantes, highlighting the blurred line between law and crime. The police and underworld both pursue Beckert with equal fervor, but for different reasons: justice versus self-preservation.

Lang structures the film like a procedural, showing the parallel investigations of the police and the criminal syndicate with a methodical precision that heightens the suspense. The intercutting between these two factions, particularly in the film’s latter half, is an early example of dynamic montage editing, keeping the tension tight and the narrative fluid.

Beyond its surface as a crime thriller, M is a meditation on justice and society’s response to evil. The film’s final moments, where Beckert faces an unofficial “trial” by the criminal underworld, raise difficult questions: does justice require legal institutions, or can mob rule be just as effective? The film offers no clear answers, leaving the viewer in a state of moral unease.

Lang himself would flee Germany soon after M, as the Nazis sought to co-opt his talents for propaganda. His later Hollywood films, including The Big Heat (1953) and Scarlet Street (1945), continued exploring crime and moral ambiguity themes, but M remains his most haunting and prescient work.

Twenty years later, someone in Hollywood decided it was a good idea to offer a new version of this classic movie. Joseph Losey’s M (1951) is a relatively faithful adaptation, relocating the story from Weimar Germany to postwar Los Angeles. The basic premise remains: a city is terrorized by a child murderer, prompting both the police and the criminal underworld to hunt him down. However, some key differences stand out.

The 1951 film reinterprets the themes of surveillance, paranoia, and societal breakdown within the context of postwar America, a country grappling with the Red Scare and growing anxieties about urban crime. The movie hints at the increasing role of police surveillance in public life, an element that wasn’t as pronounced in Lang’s version. Losey’s M also places a heavier emphasis on police work, making it feel more like a crime procedural than a psychological thriller. While competently executed, the investigation scenes lack the tension and visual inventiveness of Lang’s film.

Peter Lorre’s portrayal of Hans Beckert in the original is iconic, a mix of childlike vulnerability and monstrous compulsion. David Wayne does a respectable job in the 1951 remake, but his performance lacks the same intensity. His climactic monologue, one of the most important scenes in Lang’s film, feels weaker and less impactful.

Joseph Losey’s M doesn’t really justify its existence. While Losey was a skilled filmmaker, and some of his later works (The Servant and The Prowler, in particular) showcase his talent, his M fails to escape the shadow of the original. The remake suffers from being too close to Lang’s film while offering little that is genuinely innovative. If anything, it demonstrates how crucial style and directorial vision are, since M (1951) retains much of the plot but loses the eerie, unsettling atmosphere that made Lang’s version unforgettable.

Only two years later, we got another adaptation, this time coming from Argentina. Unlike Losey’s remake, El Vampiro Negro (The Black Vampire), directed by Román Viñoly Barreto, is more of a reimagining than a direct remake. The film keeps the basic premise (a child murderer being pursued by both the police and criminals) but shifts the focus in a way that gives it a unique identity.

The most significant and interesting change is the introduction of a nightclub singer (played by Olga Zubarry) as the protagonist. She becomes a key witness in the case, and the film uses her perspective to explore themes of powerlessness, moral complicity, and social injustice. This provides a fresh angle, as the original movie was primarily focused on male characters. By introducing the singer as a major character, the film incorporates themes of gendered violence and societal hypocrisy. She is marginalized by men in power, making her struggle parallel to the larger moral questions the film poses about justice and corruption.

Instead of a grotesque figure like Peter Lorre’s Beckert, the killer in El Vampiro Negro (played by Nathán Pinzón) is depicted as a more subdued and tormented figure. The film leans more into psychological drama than horror, making the murderer’s presence feel less terrifying but more pitiable. Unlike Lang’s stark and clinical approach, El Vampiro Negro has a more melodramatic style, emphasizing emotional turmoil. The noir-style cinematography is striking, though still not as innovative as Lang’s expressionist techniques.

Surprisingly, El Vampiro Negro takes a more creative approach, providing a different perspective and thematic depth. The focus on a female character and the inclusion of gendered violence and systemic injustice make it stand out. It shifts the narrative from a strictly procedural crime thriller to something more emotionally resonant and socially aware. While it doesn’t surpass Lang’s original, at least it offers a new lens through which to view the story. The change in emphasis, from a study of justice and mob mentality to an exploration of gender and power, gives it artistic merit as a reinterpretation rather than just a copy.

If one were to watch any of the remakes, El Vampiro Negro is the more interesting and justifiable reinterpretation, while Losey’s M is an example of how difficult it is to remake a masterpiece without adding something genuinely new. Fritz Lang’s M is not just a masterful thriller. It is a profound statement on justice, paranoia, and humanity’s darker instincts. Its technical innovations, narrative complexity, and psychological depth make it one of the greatest films ever. Nearly a century after its release, M remains as chilling and thought-provoking as ever.

Several trucks full of nitroglycerin

January 14, 2025 /

I’m fascinated by how different moviemakers adapt the same book to the screen. Recently, I was able to watch four versions of the same story. It’s a French novel I read many years ago in Spanish during a Costa Brava vacation: Le Salaire de la Peur (my translated version was called El Salario del Miedo), by Georges Arnaud, originally published in 1950. Comparing the 1953, 1958, 1977, and 2024 adaptations offers insights into how different filmmakers have approached the same material, reflecting their eras, styles, and societal concerns.

Le Salaire de la Peur (Henri-Georges Clouzot, 1953) is often hailed as a masterclass in tension and atmosphere, capturing the grim existential dread that runs through Arnaud’s novel. The story follows four desperate men hired to drive two trucks filled with nitroglycerin across treacherous terrain in a Latin American country, with their lives hanging by a thread.

The strength of this adaptation lies in its stark realism and relentless pacing. Clouzot builds tension slowly, using the dangerous journey as a metaphor for the fragile nature of life, particularly in the post-war world. The film’s social commentary focuses on the exploitation of the working class by capitalist forces, emphasizing how these men are expendable tools in the face of profit. It’s also a deeply cynical film, with its tone of despair resonating with the nihilism of European cinema in the early 1950s. The black-and-white cinematography intensifies the desolation of both the physical landscape and the men’s mental state.

Clouzot’s version is known for its long takes and focus on the physicality of danger, often using silence and stillness to create unbearable suspense. The characters are morally ambiguous, with no real heroes, which further emphasizes the sense of human vulnerability and futility. This adaptation remains the most faithful to the novel’s bleak and pessimistic vision of humanity. If you are going to watch only one of these movies, choose Le Salaire de la Peur.

Violent Road (Howard W. Koch, 1958) is an Americanized version of the novel, and while it retains the general premise, it makes significant changes to the tone and focus. Set in the USA, the film shifts from the existential and social commentary of Clouzot’s version to a more straightforward action narrative. The drivers now transport volatile chemicals for a rocket base, tying into Cold War anxieties and America’s space race rather than the geopolitical complexities of Latin America.

This version downplays the existential angst of the original, opting instead for an adventure-oriented narrative that tries to focus on suspenseful set pieces (not always successfully). While the characters are still desperate men, their motivations and personalities are much simplified, offering less moral ambiguity. The film feels less critical of capitalism, framing the mission as a heroic endeavor rather than one born of exploitation. In this sense, Violent Road leans more into traditional Hollywood storytelling, where the characters have clearer arcs and are less morally complex.

While Violent Road lacks the artistry and depth of Clouzot’s adaptation, it still provides a somewhat tense, albeit more conventional, thriller. The change of setting and its focus on Cold War-era concerns reflect mid-century American anxieties, making it a culturally relevant interpretation for its time, though less enduring.

Sorcerer (William Friedkin, 1977) is arguably the most ambitious and controversial adaptation. Released in the same year as Star Wars, it was overshadowed at the box office but has since gained a cult following. Friedkin transports the story to Central America, drawing on the same grim atmosphere as Clouzot, but with a grittier, more modern aesthetic. Like Clouzot’s version, Sorcerer emphasizes existential dread and moral ambiguity, but Friedkin injects a deep sense of modern paranoia and disillusionment into the narrative.

The film is characterized by its unflinching portrayal of human desperation and the randomness of fate. Friedkin’s use of color, sound, and music (especially the electronic score by Tangerine Dream) adds to the film’s dreamlike yet nightmarish quality. The physical journey in Sorcerer is more harrowing than ever, with Friedkin pushing the boundaries of what audiences could endure in terms of suspense and psychological tension.

In contrast to Le Salaire de la Peur, Sorcerer delves deeper into the individual backstories of the protagonists, making their emotional journeys as important as the physical one. The film reflects the pessimism and disillusionment of the 1970s, particularly post-Vietnam and post-Watergate, where trust in institutions had eroded, and the pursuit of money or escape from one’s past felt as futile as it was dangerous. The film was a commercial failure upon release, but its gritty realism and philosophical depth have made it a favorite among cinephiles.

Le Salaire de la Peur (Julien Leclercq, 2024) is the most recent take on Arnaud’s novel and, while it returns to the original French title, it strays from the original tale about antiheroes and fully embraces the traditional hero with a past to atone for. Despite the visually immersive style, it’s closer to the shalowness of Violent Road and very far from the social realism of Clouzot’s Le Salaire de la Peur and the existential anxiety of Friedkin’s Sorcerer.

Set in a near-future dystopia, Leclercq uses the transportation of volatile cargo as a metaphor for the precariousness of human life in a world ravaged by climate change and economic inequality. The setting, though undefined, evokes a globalized environment where borders blur and human desperation transcends geography. Leclercq, much like Friedkin, explores the backstories of the characters in depth, adding layers of psychological complexity and emphasizing themes of guilt, redemption, and survival.

Visually, the film is stunning, with Leclercq’s use of large-scale landscapes and minimalist, meditative cinematography. The film balances moments of quiet introspection with heart-pounding tension, maintaining the essence of the original narrative while infusing it with contemporary relevance.

Leclercq’s The Wages of Fear is less bleak than the 1953 and 1977 versions, offering moments of human connection and solidarity amidst the chaos, though it retains the essential theme of survival at all costs. The film’s exploration of modern anxieties (technological, environmental, and moral) can be seen particularly timely by viewers trained to enjoy Hollywood tales, but the tone and the intention are so far from the original story that it almost feels like a betrayal.

Each adaptation of Le Salaire de la Peur reflects the concerns and aesthetics of its time. Clouzot’s Le Salaire de la Peur (1953) is a bleak, existential study of desperation and exploitation, while Violent Road (1958) trades depth for Cold War-era thrills. Friedkin’s Sorcerer (1977) heightens the intensity and philosophical despair, crafting a modern fable about the randomness of fate. Finally, Leclercq’s Le Salaire de la Peur (2024) reimagines the story for a globalized, dystopian world, merging existential tension with modern political and environmental anxieties.

The Lost World: One Book, Six Movies

December 17, 2024 /

My latest movie marathon was all about The Lost World. First I read the original novel by Conan Doyle (yes, the same guy who created Sherlock Holmes) and then watched six adaptations for the screen.

At the end of the 19th century, Sir H. Rider Haggard was the king of stories about lost worlds, with books like The People of the Mist (about a lost tribe in Africa) and Heart of the World (about a lost Mayan city in Mexico). But the genre got it’s masterpiece in 1912, when Sir Arthur Conan Doyle unleashed The Lost World. Explorers venturing to mysterious, uncharted lands teeming with prehistoric creatures? That’s the stuff that launched a thousand jungle expeditions, both literal and fictional. But while the book was groundbreaking, it wasn’t without its wobbles, especially the racist overtones and imperialist assumptions. Still, it’s hard to overstate its impact. Without The Lost World, we might not have had Edgar Rice Burroughs’s The Land That Time Forgot, or King Kong, or even Michael Crichton’s Jurassic Park.

The first crack at bringing Doyle’s tale to the silver screen, The Lost World (Harry O. Hoyt, 1925), was a silent masterpiece – and “masterpiece’ isn’t an exaggeration. Faithfulness to the novel? Decent enough. Professor Challenger and his team head to South America, find a plateau full of dinosaurs, and bring one back to London. Sure, liberties were taken (like adding a romance subplot), but the spirit was intact. The cinematography was beautiful for the time (I watched the tinted version restored in 2016), but the real star was the stop-motion wizardry of Willis O’Brien. Those dinosaurs were revolutionary, decades before CGI. O’Brien’s work on The Lost World paved the way for King Kong in 1933, which was like this movie’s rebellious teen cousin. Plot holes and pacing issues aside, the 1925 version remains a classic, with Challenger (played by Wallace Beery) as a brash, bearded and mustachioed force of nature.

With The Lost World (Irwin Allen, 1960), we enter B-movie territory. This adaptation swaps out Doyle’s intelligent, scientifically minded tale for lizards with glued-on horns. Yes, instead of lovingly crafted stop-motion dinosaurs, we get iguanas and crocodiles dressed in drag to look vaguely prehistoric. It’s as ridiculous as it sounds. The plot diverges wildly too. Gone is the novel’s thought-provoking narrative about science versus nature. Instead, we get melodrama, generic villains, and some dubious jungle antics. On the upside, the cast is stacked: Michael Rennie (The Day the Earth Stood Still) as Lord Roxton, Claude Rains (Casablanca) as Professor Challenger, and Jill St. John (who would later be the Bond Girl in Diamonds Are Forever) adding some glamour. But the sheer campiness of the production makes this one for die-hard dinosaur completists only.

Another thirty years and we got not one but two new adaptations, The Lost World (Timothy Bond, 1992) and its sequel Return to the Lost World (Timothy Bond, 1992). This version took some odd liberties. Instead of Doyle’s South American plateau, we’re now in Africa. Why? Probably because someone found an African savanna more budget-friendly than a South American rainforest. Lord Roxton is swapped for a new female character, Jenny Nielson (Tamara Gorski), in what feels like a half-hearted attempt at modernization. The rest of the cast is not bad: John Rhys-Davies (from the Indiana Jones movies) as Professor Challenger, David Warner (Jack the Ripper in Time After Time) as Professor Summerlee, and Eric McCormack (before becoming famous for Will & Grace) as Edward Malone. The special effects? Quite weak, even for a tv production, and definitely nothing you’d brag about at a paleontology conference. The dinosaurs really look like puppets. While they tried to retain some of the novel’s spirit, both films felt more like Saturday matinee fillers than genuine adaptations.

The next version of The Lost World (Bob Keen, 1998) is even worse. Only loosely based on the original novel, the action now happens in Mongolia. And the story is so much changed that only two members of the expedition return to London. Patrick Bergin plays Professor Challenger, in what may be the worst movie of his career. Dinosaurs? Not many, and several years after Jurassic Park none of them look impressive. Characters? Forgettable. Is it worth watching? Only if you enjoy movies that feel like they were cobbled together over a long weekend to cash in on a trend.

A few years later we got a new tv adaptation, The Lost World (Stuart Orme, 2001), with the advantage of having 145 minutes to tell the story (it was first broadcast in two 75 minutes episodes). They followed the story fairly closely (and even returning to the original setting in South America), but added a few new elements. Besides the romantic subplot that every adaptation insisted in including, there was also a detour about a religious fanatic trying to keep the lost world a secret because it could support Darwin’s theory of evolution and weaken the creationist dogma. Bob Hoskins as Professor Challenger was a great choice, and James Fox as Professor Summerlee is also a good contribution. The CGI dinosaurs are fine, nothing to get very excited about but not embarrassingly bad. What this film lacks in spectacle, it tries to make up for in earnestness, and there’s something endearing about that.

Which adaptation reigns supreme? If we consider them in the context of their time, the 1925 silent film is the winner. It’s not just a great adaptation, it’s a landmark in cinematic history, with Willis O’Brien’s dinosaurs setting a high standard for generations. Best special effects dinosaurs? Again, the 1925 version. No iguana cosplay here, just pure artistry. Best Professor Challenger? Bob Hoskins in 2001 nails the character’s mix of gruffness and charm. Best Lord Roxton? Michael Rennie from the 1960 version is hard to beat, even if the movie itself is a dud. Edward Malone, however, is such a dull character that he is forgetabble in all versions.

All the adaptations, whether faithful or not, wrestle with the clash between humanity and nature. Doyle’s novel asks whether we have the right to dominate nature, and that question lingers in every adaptation (even the ones with the lizards-in-costume nonsense). Each version also grapples with adventure and exploration, though often in ways that reflect the era of their production: awe in the 1920s, kitsch in the 1960s, and commercialism in the 1990s. At its heart, The Lost World remains a tale about discovery, danger, and our never-ending fascination with dinosaurs. Some adaptations soar, others stumble. But like the dinosaurs themselves, the story endures — an ancient, lumbering giant that refuses to go extinct.

Lost in Space: from Robinson Crusoe to the Stars

November 19, 2024 /

I’ve recently bingewatched the many iterations of Lost in Space. The “castaway as hero” idea is surprisingly adaptable. It has been marooned on islands, stranded on planets, and even hurled across galaxies. As a concept, it all started with one resourceful guy: Robinson Crusoe and his tale of survival that kicked off a whole genre, sparked imitators and adaptations, and eventually landed an entire family Lost in Space.

In 1719, Daniel Defoe’s Robinson Crusoe hit the shelves, changing the literary world forever. Possibly inspired by the true story of Alexander Selkirk, a marooned Scottish sailor who survived alone on an island for over four years, Defoe created a character that wasn’t just about survival. He was about resilience, ingenuity, and conquering the wilderness. Crusoe embodied the everyman, facing an unknown world with only his wits and some salvaged tools from his shipwreck. Robinson Crusoe became a huge hit, inspiring readers with its themes of self-reliance and adventure. The novel’s success wasn’t just due to its gripping story but also to Defoe’s new, realistic style that made readers feel like they were living each harrowing day alongside Crusoe.

But let’s not forget that Crusoe, by our contemporary standards, was not such a good guy. All that resilience, self-reliance, and determination were supported by his contemporary belief in European superiority, a mindset that defined much of the colonial age. When his shipwreck occurs, he’s en route to buy slaves, demonstrating his view of other people as property. Later, his treatment of Friday, the native man he rescues on the island, also reflects this perspective. Instead of asking for his name, Crusoe just names him “Friday” and establishes himself as “Master”, reinforcing the hierarchy typical of colonial relationships. While Crusoe teaches Friday his language and customs, he doesn’t treat him as an equal. Instead, he sees himself as “civilizing” Friday, which reflects a distinctly European, colonial view of the world and its people. Despite this (or perhaps because of this), Robinson Crusoe resonated widely with readers, not just as a tale of survival, but as a story that expressed Europe’s growing fascination with exploration and domination.

With Robinson Crusoe‘s massive popularity, writers rushed to create similar tales of isolation and survival in hostile environments. Thus was born the “Robinsonade”, a genre that echoed Crusoe’s trials, only with new settings, characters, and scenarios. Robinsonades often share certain characteristics: a protagonist isolated in a hostile or unfamiliar environment and forced to rely on ingenuity to survive, themes of self-discovery, and the idea of re-civilizing oneself while taming the wild around them.

Some notable examples include The Coral Island (1858), by R.M. Ballantyne, where three boys are stranded on a Polynesian island, and Lord of the Flies (1954), by William Golding, which turns the Robinsonade on its head by showing kids devolving into savagery rather than embracing civility. Robinsonades captivated readers by making them ask “What would I do in that situation?”.

If Robinson Crusoe did his thing solo, The Swiss Family Robinson (1812), by Johann David Wyss, took a family of castaways and set them loose on an exotic island. Here, we get the full family adventure, complete with domestic disputes, moral lessons, and an endless supply of miraculously useful shipwrecked supplies. The story follows a pastor, his wife, and their children as they shipwreck on an uninhabited island. Together, they build a treehouse, tame wild animals, and create a self-sustaining mini-society, all while keeping a spirit of togetherness and moral fortitude. Even as a kid, I found that book extremely boring. But in its time the novel became one of the most popular Robinsonades, particularly for children. It made the idea of surviving as a family team seem achievable and even fun, despite the occasionally outlandish plot devices.

Inspired by The Swiss Family Robinson, creator Irwin Allen brought a twist on the Robinsonade to the small screen with Lost in Space in the 1960s: here, the Robinson family is lost again, but in space. Set in the distant future of 1997 (which seemed much more futuristic in 1965, when the series was launched), the series follows the Robinson family as they embark on a mission to colonize a distant planet to escape Earth’s overpopulation. Their ship, the Jupiter 2, is sabotaged by the scheming Dr. Zachary Smith, who accidentally strands himself along with the Robinsons in an uncharted galaxy.

This version of Lost in Space brought us classic, campy 1960s scifi: clunky robots, cardboardy sets, and the iconic catchphrase “Danger, Will Robinson”. Dr. Smith, who began as a sinister villain, quickly morphed into a clumsy comedic character, stealing every scene with his cowardly antics. Though entertaining at times, the original Lost in Space made no effort to be realistic and relied too much on slapstick humor and “monster of the week” episodes. It was fine for its time, but it often lacked depth or continuity. However, it did spark imaginations and set the stage for the scifi family adventures to come.

In 1998 we got Lost in Space, the big-screen adaptation meant to reintroduce the Robinsons to a new generation. Starring Gary Oldman as a creepier Dr. Smith and a whole lot of CGI, this movie went full throttle with its special effects. The story largely stayed the same: the Robinson family, Dr. Smith’s betrayal, and the quest to return home. While the film had some cool moments, it also had a bit of an identity crisis. It was tonally inconsistent, wavering between scifi action and family drama, and it often got lost in its own convoluted plot twists. Despite the star-studded cast (William Hurt, Matt LeBlanc, Mimi Rogers, Heather Graham, and good old eerie Oldman), it fell flat with audiences, who were left scratching their heads over some confusing story choices (especially that poorly conceived time travel bit). It didn’t exactly do justice to the Robinsons’ legacy, unless you enjoy that kind of late-90s blockbuster energy. And that alien monkey is an unforgivably stupid idea.

And then came the 2018 Netflix reboot of Lost in Space. Finally, a version that explored the original concept with some depth and creativity. The Robinsons were once again stranded in a hostile galaxy, but this time with a serious upgrade in production, storytelling, and character depth. This series put the focus back on family dynamics, making each Robinson a fleshed-out character with distinct strengths, flaws, and personal arcs.

This Lost in Space skillfully blended high-stakes drama with visually stunning scifi worlds, bringing a modern spin to the Robinsonade. But what makes it really work is the reinvention of the main characters

John Robinson (Toby Stephens) is now a career military man. He begins the series as a somewhat distant father and husband. His years away on duty strained his relationship with his family, particularly Maureen, and left him struggling to connect with his children. However, throughout their perilous journey, John evolves into a steadfast protector and a more emotionally available father, proving his devotion to his family through acts of heroism and sacrifice. His practical mindset and combat skills are crucial in ensuring the family’s survival.

Maureen Robinson (Molly Parker), very differently from the previous versions, is now the brains behind the Robinsons’ mission to colonize space. She is a brilliant scientist, fiercely determined, resourceful, and willing to make tough decisions to ensure her family’s survival. Maureen’s love for her children is her main drive, though her single-minded focus sometimes causes friction, particularly when her ambition leads her to make morally ambiguous choices. She’s a powerful portrayal of a mother and leader in equal measure.

The Robinson sisters, who had very little agency in their previous iterations, now are strong figures with their own character arcs. Judy (Taylor Russell), the eldest, is now Maureen’s daughter from a previous relationship, adding an interesting dynamic to the family structure. A young doctor with nerves of steel, she is a natural leader and role model for her siblings. Her mixed-race heritage is a refreshing update to the character and adds a modern dimension to the family’s story. Penny (Mina Sundwall), the middle child, provides much of the series’ humor and heart. She’s sarcastic, creative, and sometimes impulsive, balancing the serious stakes of the story with her lighthearted quips and teenage perspective. She’s also, in a way, the narrator of the story.

Will Robinson (Maxwell Jenkins), boy genius, is in the center of the narrative, not so much for his personality but because of his link with the Robot. He can be an annoying character at times, especially when he combines an idealistic moral compass with the very naive and inexperieced decision making process of a child.

The Robot (Brian Steele) was completely reinvented for this series, from his looks to his origins. Now he is an alien machine with a mysterious past. Initially terrifying, he transforms into Will’s loyal guardian after an early act of compassion. The Robot’s arc explores themes of redemption and free will, as he struggles to reconcile his violent past with his new role as a family ally. His bond with Will is one of the show’s emotional pillars, offering moments of warmth and tension alike. And yes, the Robot says “Danger, Will Robinson”.

Someone decided that Don West (Ignacio Serricchio) should be the comedic character in the group, and he was demoted from the dashing pilot and adventurer of the original series to a bumbling roguish mechanic. I think he was supposed to be the lovable scoundrel with a heart of gold, but no character carrying a pet chicken can be taken seriously.

And finally, Dr. Smith (Parker Posey), the most interesting reinvention for this version of Lost in Space. Unlike the campy villain of the original series, this Dr. Smith is a cunning and dangerous sociopath, willing to exploit anyone to survive. Her backstory reveals a troubled and desperate individual who uses deception as her primary weapon. Despite her villainous tendencies, her complexity makes her a fascinating character, the kind you love to hate but can’t entirely dismiss. Her unpredictability keeps everyone on edge.

Where the original series was largely episodic, the 2018 reboot gave us a more serialized story that built real suspense and stakes, making each escape and confrontation feel genuinely perilous. The modern Lost in Space didn’t just update the effects, it also enriched the emotional layers and themes.

Traveling with Sinbad and Ray Harryhausen

October 22, 2024 /

The stop animation of Ray Harryhausen has always fascinated me. That sword fight against skeletons in Jason and the Argonauts (Don Chaffey, 1963) will forever have a place in my heart. So, when I recently had the chance to watch three of his films, I didn’t hesitate. None of these are great movies, but even the worst of them has some good moments.

The 7th Voyage of Sinbad (Nathan Juran, 1958) is a classic in the realm of fantasy cinema. At that point, it was a significant leap forward in visual effects, establishing itself as a milestone for stop-motion animation and popularizing the genre of mythological fantasy adventures.

The true standout of The 7th Voyage of Sinbad is Ray Harryhausen’s stop-motion animation, which brought to life some of the most iconic creatures in cinematic history. From the menacing cyclops to the serpentine dragon and the sword-fighting skeleton, Harryhausen’s work elevated the film far beyond its contemporaries. His unique Dynamation process, which combined live-action and stop-motion animation, allowed fantastical creatures to interact with the human characters in a way that felt groundbreaking at the time. The battle between Sinbad and the skeleton is particularly memorable, later influencing fantasy films like Jason and the Argonauts and even contemporary blockbusters. While the monsters may look dated by today’s standards of computer-generated imagery, they still hold a certain charm and sense of wonder. The tactile, handcrafted nature of Harryhausen’s animation gives the creatures a weight and physical presence that CGI often lacks. In fact, modern audiences may appreciate the artistry and patience required to bring these creatures to life frame by frame.

The film follows the basic structure of a classic adventure tale, with Sinbad and his crew embarking on a perilous journey to the island of Colossa in order to find a way to reverse the curse placed on Princess Parisa, who has been shrunk by the evil sorcerer Sokurah. The plot is simple, but it effectively serves as a vehicle for the fantastical encounters and adventures that unfold. This Sinbad (Kerwin Mathews), however, strays significantly from the original character from the Arabian Nights tales. Rather than focusing on Sinbad as a seasoned sailor, the film presents him more as a heroic adventurer, imbuing him with qualities of both a swashbuckling action hero and a chivalrous knight. This transformation aligns with mid-20th-century Hollywood’s tendency to simplify and romanticize complex source material for mainstream audiences, packaging it as family-friendly entertainment. The result is, unfortunately, largely one-dimensional, serving as the archetypal hero figure without much complexity.

The mythological elements also don’t conform with the original Middle Eastern tales and instead offer a blend with Greek mythology, perhaps in an attempt to have a broader, more universal appeal. However, this fusion sometimes lacks cohesion, feeling more like a showcase of Harryhausen’s creatures than a unified narrative. At some points, we wonder whether this is Sinbad or Ulysses.

The villain Sokurah (Torin Thatcher) ends up being a more interesting character, despite the over-the-top performance. Driven by ambition and greed, he is a classic antagonist in the tradition of mythological evil-doers, though he too remains somewhat shallow. The princess Parisa (Kathryn Grant) is given little to do besides being the damsel in distress. Her character, like many female roles in adventure films of the era, is underdeveloped and primarily serves as a plot device rather than an active participant in the story.

The rousing musical score, by no other than Bernard Herrmann, with its use of exotic instruments and bold, sweeping melodies, enhances the film’s mythical atmosphere and adds to the excitement of Sinbad’s various encounters. Yes, that’s the man who created the soundtrack for Orson Welles’s Citizen Kane and Alfred Hitchcock’s Vertigo, North by Northwest, Psycho, among many others.

It’s also worth noting that The 7th Voyage of Sinbad reflects the cultural attitudes of the 1950s, particularly in its portrayal of Middle Eastern characters and settings. Like many films of its era, it relies on Westernized interpretations of non-Western cultures, resulting in some problematic depictions and a lack of authenticity. Sinbad, for instance, is portrayed by a white actor, and the film’s version of the Middle East is filtered through an exotic, orientalist lens that flattens the culture into a fantasy world for Western audiences.

The Golden Voyage of Sinbad (Gordon Hessler, 1973), tries to repeat the success of The 7th Voyage of Sinbad using the same blend of mythological ambience, swashbuckling action, and groundbreaking stop-motion animation. But, for an adventure movie, it has a very slow pace. Some sequences, particularly in the middle portion of the film, feel sedate and lack the urgency needed to maintain momentum. The episodic structure of Sinbad’s journey can also make the film feel somewhat disjointed at times, with the plot sometimes pausing for the next creature encounter rather than unfolding organically.

This Sinbad (John Phillip Law) is a bit more charismatic than his predecessor, but once again doesn’t have the same screen presence as the villain Koura (Tom Baker, who would later achieve fame as the Fourth Doctor in Doctor Who), an evil magician (it’s always an evil magician, isn’t it?). Baker imbues Koura with a menacing presence and a deeper motivation than many fantasy villains of the time. His desperation to regain his youth and power adds a layer of pathos to his character, making him more than just a stock villain. Koura is cunning and relentless, using dark magic at great personal cost, which slowly drains his life force. This adds an intriguing dynamic between the hero and villain, as Koura becomes increasingly desperate and physically weakened as the story progresses, making him a tragic antagonist. In contrast, Sinbad’s love interest, Margiana (Caroline Munro) seems to be there just to display her cleavage, the only thing preventing her from disappearing in the background.

There are also some anachronisms. The original Sinbad from One Thousand and One Nights is supposed to have lived between the 8th and the 9th centuries. However, here he decides to travel to Lemuria, a lost continent hypothesized only in the 19th century by zoologist Philip Sclater. But this is a fantasy movie with magic and mythological creatures, so it may not matter.

Once again, the true star of The Golden Voyage of Sinbad is Ray Harryhausen’s stop-motion work. Among his extraordinary creatures, this time we have a centaur and a griffin in a deadly battle, and the fascinating six-armed goddess Kali, a statue brought to life. As always, Harryhausen’s work retains a sense of wonder even in a modern context, because the craftsmanship behind the animation feels tangible. The creatures possess a surreal quality that sets them apart from today’s computer-generated monsters, making the action sequences feel dreamlike and otherworldly.

Sinbad and the Eye of the Tiger (Sam Wanamaker, 1977), is the weakest in the Sinbad trilogy brought to life by producer Charles H. Schneer by Ray Harryhausen. It follows the same idea of having a Sinbad detached from the original Arabian Nights tales and mixed with elements from Greek mythology. At this point, however, there’s a sense of formulaic repetition.

This Sinbad (Patrick Wayne, the son of legendary actor John Wayne), is quite bland. He lacks the charisma and gravitas needed to make Sinbad a compelling figure, leaving the character as little more than a stoic action hero. The great villain this time is reduced to a yelling caricature, Zenobia (Margaret Whiting, the British actress, not the American country singer). Her transformation into various animals and her pursuit of Sinbad create some tension, but the character lacks the depth and tragic elements of Koura from The Golden Voyage of Sinbad. And all that yelling leaves you wondering if that is supposed to be funny or is just the result of overacting and poor directing skills. There’s also Melanthius (Patrick Troughton, known for his role as the Second Doctor in Doctor Who), introduced as a wise man and eccentric scientist, but his wisdom is highly doubtful. He manages to interrogate someone and give her more information than he is able to extract. Then, in the same scene, he acquires a potion that enlarges creatures and decides to test it on a poisonous wasp, creating a lethal monster that endangers everyone on the ship. Lastly, as expected, we have Princess Farah (Jane Seymour, who would later win two Golden Globes and one Emmy) largely relegated to a passive role, as is the fate of all of Sinbad’s love interests in this series.

Once more, Ray Harryhausen’s stop-motion creations are the most significant highlight of the film. There’s a mechanical minotaur (creatively named Minoton), a massive saber-toothed tiger, a giant troglodyte (which reminds us of the cyclops from the first movie), and a menacing baboon that houses the spirit of a cursed prince. Unfortunately, though, while impressive in its own right, the stop-motion animation feels less fluid and polished than in previous films, which may reflect both the demands of the increasing complexity of the creatures and the potential limitations of the budget or production schedule.

The quest structure (traveling from one mystical location to the next while overcoming a series of obstacles) follows the formula established in the previous films. However, it feels more mechanical here, with little sense of novelty or innovation. There are some anachronisms here too. Again, the original Sinbad from One Thousand and One Nights is supposed to have lived between the 8th and the 9th centuries. But Melanthius refers to Archimedes of Syracuse, who lived in the 3rd century BCE, as if they were contemporaries. Anyone cares about these inconsistencies?

If you have to choose just one of these movies, get the first one. The 7th Voyage of Sinbad remains a landmark film in the fantasy genre, particularly for its groundbreaking use of stop-motion animation. While its narrative and characters are somewhat shallow, the film succeeds in creating a world of wonder and adventure that continues to captivate audiences. Its influence on the genre is undeniable, paving the way for later films that embraced the fantastical and the mythological.

Six Terminators

September 24, 2024 /

How many Terminator movies can you watch in a single day? Well, if you are a geek like me and happens to be stranded at home feeling a bit sick, you can watch all of them. At the time of this writing, there are only six Terminator movies out there, so I was able to fit the whole 722 minutes (that’s a bit over twelve hours) into my totally not busy schedule for the day.

The Terminator (James Cameron, 1984) started everything. A near-unstoppable cyborg assassin (Arnold Schwarzenegger), is sent from a future dominated by machines, to kill Sarah Connor (Linda Hamilton), the mother of the future leader of the human resistance, while a guerrilla fighter (Michael Biehn) also travels back to protect her. We had seen time travel before, like for example in Time After Time (1979). We had seen computers declaring war on humanity, like in Colossus: The Forbin Project (1970). We had even seen determined killer androids, like in Westworld (1973). But all those elements combined into a cohesive story and presented in a gritty narrative made The Terminator an instant science fiction classic. The Terminator itself became an iconic figure, representing the cold, unfeeling nature of machines contrasted with the resilience and ingenuity of humans.

The Terminator does more than just tell a standalone story. It lays the groundwork for a complex mythology that would be expanded (and eventually ignored) in the subsequent films. The concept of Skynet, the self-aware AI that decides humanity is a threat, and the nuclear apocalypse known as Judgment Day, are pivotal in defining the thematic core of the series.

Like many time travel movies, it invites some questions regarding the logic of causes and consequences, and the possibility of paradoxes. If the Terminator succeeds in killing Sarah Connor, John Connor will not be born and will not become the leader of the resistence, and there will be no reason to send a Terminator back in time. Then, with no Terminator traveling to the past, who killed Sara Connor? Also, ironically, if Kyle Reese is not sent to stop the Terminator, he won’t father John Connor, which means it’s the Skynet mission to prevent John Connor’s existence what makes his existence possible.

Terminator 2: Judgment Day (James Cameron, 1991) picks up years after the events of the first film. A more advanced Terminator, the liquid-metal T-1000 (Robert Patrick), is sent back from the future by Skynet to kill John Connor (Edward Furlong), the future leader of the human resistance. He is supposed to be 10 years old, but he looks like a 14-year-old juvenile delinquent. To protect John, the resistance reprograms another Terminator, a T-800 (Arnold Schwarzenegger), and sends it back in time. The film explores Sarah Connor’s (Linda Hamilton) struggle to prevent Skynet’s creation and stop Judgment Day, the apocalyptic event in which Skynet becomes self-aware and triggers a nuclear holocaust.

The depiction of the characters one decade after the first movie is convincing. With the knowledge of what’s going to happen, Sarah Connor becomes a self-reliant paranoid survivalist. And her son, growing up from foster home to foster home, is a precocious proto-nihilist rebel. But what makes the sequel memorable is the return of the Terminator now as a heroic figure, this time sent back to protect John Connor.

In Terminator 2 we get a more detailed explanation of how Skynet was created. A company called Cyberdyne Systems reverse-engineered future technology found in the remnants of the dismantled Terminator from the first movie, and used it build Skynet. Sarah Connor is determined to prevent that by destroying the Terminator parts. No future technology, no Skynet, no Judgement Day. But if she succeeds in stopping that future from happening, who sent the Terminators in the first and second movies? And if she fails and Skynet is created, that’s a classic closed loop time travel paradox: Skynet exists because of the technology that only exists due to its own future existence, being at the same time the cause and the consequence.

The new model of Terminator is visually striking but also raises some questions. First, we know that the time travel machine only allows for live tissue to go through. Kyle Reese was human and the T-800 model was fully covered in live human tissue. But if the T-1000 model is all liquid metal, how was it able to travel? Second, while the T-800 has a power source (and even an alternative battery), the T-1000 doesn’t (it’s all liquid metal). Quite a lot of energy is spent running after the protagonists, changing shapes, or even taking a walk, but that mass of mimetic polyalloy is not receiving energy from anywhere. It just spends it, never acquires any. That’s never explained.

Terminator 3: Rise of the Machines (Jonathan Mostow, 2003) is much weaker than the previous two movies. Nick Stahl as a young adult John Connor is very unconvincing. He has a passive or reactive role, lacking decisiveness and leadership qualities. That’s not someone capable of organizing a weekend camping trip, much less of leading the human resistance against the machines. And we are missing Sarah Connor in this movie, because she apparently has died.

The new Terminator model, the T-X (Kristanna Loken), is too powerful to be credible. It can do everything the T-1000 could do, plus it can create machines with moving parts, sophisticated electronic devices, remote controls vehicles, and even has an internal mini-lab for DNA testing. Power source? T-800 says she’s driven by a plasma reactor. It looks more like magic. Claire Danes as Kate Brewster, future wife and fellow resistance fighter of John Connor, is a nice addition. But the few good moments here are actually provided by Arnold Schwarzenegger as a new (and funny) good Terminator.

Terminator 3 negates the plot achievements of Terminator 2. Sarah and John believed that by destroying Cyberdyne Systems and the T-800’s arm and chip they had averted the creation of Skynet. But here we learn that Skynet’s development seems inevitable, regardless of Cyberdyne’s destruction. And the proof that Skynet is alive and well in the future is that it keeps sending Terminators to hunt John Connor and his associates.

Terminator Salvation (McG, 2009) is the first film in the series to take place completely in the post-apocalyptical world that follows Judgement Day. After unborn John Connor, child John Connor, and youngster John Connor, it’s logical this time we get adult John Connor. Christian Bale is very good in the role. Anton Yelchin as young Kyle Reese is also a good surprise. Bryce Dallas Howard replaces Claire Danes as Kate Brewster, now Kate Connor. Sam Worthington is Marcus Wright, a human-terminator hybrid experiment. Schwarzenegger, governor of California at the time, allowed his CGI image to be used so the original T-800 could be in the story. Overall, the movie feels like a big improvement after the weak Terminator 3.

Time travel is just hinted here, and only because we already know about the Kyle Reese versus T-800 battles from the first movie. It focuses instead on the ongoing clash between humanity and Skynet, emphasizing war, survival, and moral ambiguity. It’s possibly the darker film in the series. One of the more compelling aspects of Terminator Salvation is Marcus Wright’s journey. Marcus, who is revealed to be a cyborg, grapples with questions of identity, free will, and what it means to be human. His internal conflict drives much of the emotional weight of the film, adding some complexity to a narrative that otherwise focuses heavily on action. It’s unclear, however, why human-machine hybrids aren’t used more widely by Skynet, and why Marcus is the only one we’ve seen.

Terminator Genisys (Alan Taylor, 2015), the fifth movie in the series, makes some unexpected choices. It ambitiously revisits and reinterprets the franchise’s mythology, especially the first two iconic films, while disregarding the later sequels. By doing that, it basically reboots the series by offering an alternate timeline that alters key events from the original films.

The movie opens with familiar territory: the year is 2029, and the human resistance, led by John Connor (Jason Clarke), is on the verge of defeating Skynet. Skynet’s last-ditch effort is to send a Terminator (Arnold Schwarzenegger) back to 1984 to kill Sarah Connor (Emilia Clarke) before she can give birth to John. In response, John sends Kyle Reese (Jai Courtney) back in time to protect her. However, when Reese arrives in 1984, he finds that the timeline has been altered: Sarah Connor is already a skilled fighter and is protected by an aging T-800, affectionately called Pops (also played by Schwarzenegger). This sets off a series of events involving alternate timelines, new villains, and the discovery that John Connor himself has been turned into a machine by Skynet.

Surprisingly, there are many things that work very well here. The opening sequence is a direct homage to The Terminator, with shot-for-shot recreations of iconic scenes, such as the arrival of the T-800 at the Griffith Observatory. The movie taps into nostalgia by revisiting familiar moments and offering new spins on key events, like Sarah Connor’s first encounter with the T-800. Schwarzenegger returning as the T-800 brings a new twist, as he is now playing an older version of the character, the Pops Terminator, with a blend of action prowess and humor. His interactions with Emilia Clarke’s Sarah Connor (a good choice for the role) provide some of the film’s more heartfelt and comedic moments, especially in the dynamic of their surrogate father-daughter relationship.

The new takes on established characters (for example, Sarah Connor is no longer the vulnerable, unsuspecting woman from the first film, but instead she has been raised by the T-800 and is fully aware of her role in shaping humanity’s future) and the idea of a fractured timeline (events from the original films have been altered) bring a much needed freshness to the series.

The new logic of time travel, however, raises new problems. For example, if the timeline has been altered, why does Skynet send the original T-800 back to 1984 when the Sarah Connor of that timeline is already prepared for him? The film never adequately explains why Skynet and the resistance continue to send agents back in time despite the timeline having already changed. If Skynet is aware that the timeline has been altered, why does it still use strategies from the original timeline?

Despite what some people may consider cheating (ignoring the events of Terminator 3 and Terminator Salvation) and despite the plot holes (how many movies about time travel avoid those?), Terminator Genisys can be quite entertaining.

Terminator: Dark Fate (Tim Miller, 2019) feels like a bad joke. After the alternative view offered by the previous movie, this one goes with “forget everything not made by James Cameron and let’s pretend this is the third installment of the franchise”. Not surprisingly, Cameron is the producer and one of the story creators. The film begins with a shocking and controversial twist: John Connor, the leader of the future human resistance, is killed by a rogue T-800 Terminator shortly after the events of Terminator 2. That reduces the importance of the character’s story arc, which was central to the original films. Killing him off in the opening scene not only feels disrespectful to the character but also undermines the emotional investment fans had in his journey. The whole “John Connor must live because he will lead the human resistance against the machines” becomes irrelevant. Why would they do that? It feels like a bad decision fueled by the desire to pander to a woke audience: let’s kill the white male hero and replace him with a hispanic female protagonist. I like stories with strong female leads, but not when that requires disrespecting the legacy of an established plot line.

In conclusion, and in very simple terms: The Terminator (1984), Terminator 2: Judgment Day (1991), Terminator Salvation (2009), Terminator Genisys (2015), all good. Terminator 3: Rise of the Machines (2003), Terminator: Dark Fate (2019), not good. But I’m sure sooner or later there will be more Terminator movies. Like Schwarzenegger would say, “I’ll be back”.

Favorite Movies 2011-2020

September 3, 2024 /

In chronological order, only one movie per director.

  • Mientras Duermes (Jaume Balagueró, 2011)
  • Her (Spike Jonze, 2013)
  • About Time (Richard Curtis, 2013)
  • Only Lovers Left Alive (Jim Jarmush, 2013)
  • The Grand Budapest Hotel (Wes Anderson, 2014)
  • Birdman (Alejandro González Iñárritu, 2014)
  • Ex Machina (Alex Garland, 2014)
  • Relatos Salvajes (Damián Szifrón, 2014)
  • The Hateful Eight (Quentin Tarantino, 2015)
  • The Lobster (Yorgos Lanthimos, 2015)
  • Trumbo (Jay Roach, 2015)
  • Captain Fantastic (Matt Ross, 2016)
  • The Shape of Water (Guillermo del Toro, 2017)
  • Marjorie Prime (Michael Almereyda, 2017)
  • Get Out (Jordan Peele, 2017)
  • Parasite (Bong Joon-ho, 2019)
  • Dolor y Gloria (Pedro Almodóvar, 2019)
  • Waiting for the Barbarians (Ciro Guerra, 2019)
  • Ventajas de Viajar en Tren (Aritz Moreno, 2019)
  • The Midnight Sky (George Clooney, 2020)

Favorite Movies 2001-2010

August 20, 2024 /

In chronological order, only one movie per director.

  • The Lord of the Rings (Peter Jackson, 2001/2003)
  • The Ring (Gore Verbinski, 2002)
  • Basic (John McTiernan, 2003)
  • The Dreamers (Bernardo Bertolucci, 2003)
  • Lost in Translation (Sofia Coppola, 2003)
  • Kill Bill: Volume 1 / Volume 2 (Quentin Tarantino, 2003/2004)
  • Sideways (Alexander Payne, 2004)
  • Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind (Michel Gondry, 2004)
  • Crash (Paul Haggis, 2004)
  • House of Flying Daggers (Zhang Yimou, 2004)
  • Match Point (Woody Allen, 2005)
  • A History of Violence (David Cronenberg, 2005)
  • La Moustache (Emmanuel Carrère, 2005)
  • Pan’s Labyrinth (Guillermo del Toro, 2006)
  • Volver (Pedro Almodóvar, 2006)
  • The Lives of Others (Florian Henckel von Donnersmarck, 2006)
  • The Man from Earth (Richard Schenkman, 2007)
  • Synecdoche, New York (Charlie Kaufman, 2008)
  • The Time Traveler’s Wife (Robert Schwentke, 2009)
  • Inception (Christopher Nolan, 2010)
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