Hello folks, and welcome back to Wrong Every Time. It’s been a busy few weeks in our neck of the woods, as we’ve returned to regular weekly DnD sessions while maintaining our usual program of film and TV spectacles. Our new campaign’s party is now battling through a tournament in the pirate city of Westgate, while our previous party has just set off for another sojourn in the nine hells. We’re reaching the point of narrative ambition where we might consider some actual crossover drama, but for now, it’s just nice to be once again hanging out, rolling dice, and incinerating waves of enemies with the force of my mild-mannered goblin’s Spirit Guardians (man that spell is ridiculous). I’ll surely provide more updates on our adventures as they proceed, but for now, let’s run down the week in film!
First up this week was The Bat, a ‘59 thriller centering on a small town that has fallen under the shadow of the titular killer, a mysterious faceless figure who is said to tear out women’s throats with his claw-like hands. Vincent Price stars as the town’s local doctor, who collaborates with a mystery author renting a local estate (Agnes Moorehead) and the chief of police (Gavin Gordon) in their quest to both find the killer and locate a fortune stolen from the town bank.
The Bat offers a delightful combination of mystery deductions and serial killer spook-ems, stuffing its swift running time with plots, betrayals, and menacing shapes in the dark. Setting an actual murder-mystery writer as one of the main characters gives the film a sort of Agatha Christie-reminiscent self-awareness, facilitating fun scenes where Moorehead and Price get to discuss how they would have done it, if they were actually the killer. And the film makes excellent use of its central villa venue, employing ominous corridors, impromptu barricades, and secret chambers to sturdy dramatic effect. Most pre-’60s horror won’t really spook modern eyes, and The Bat is no exception, but an excellent stock of actors (Price is in top form here) and a sturdy yet ever-twisting narrative ensure the film is still full of pleasures.
We then checked out Thrash, a recent Netflix production centered on a coastal town in the path of a Category 5 hurricane, poised to be flooded out of existence entirely. What’s worse, it seems that ocean swell is absolutely brimming with angry bull sharks, all intent on enjoying this impromptu human buffet. And what’s that, a giant truck full of steaks just crashed and is leaking blood right in the middle of town? And is that lady stuck in her car pregnant?
So yes, Thrash stacks its dramatic variables with Calvin-esque aplomb, layering one threat on top of the last until the whole assembly threatens to collapse. And frankly, it sort of does collapse.
I actually quite liked this film’s “countdown to landfall” opening act, which efficiently established its cast while presenting the visceral time bomb of the town’s increasingly dire circumstances. However, its ensuing shark-focused setpieces never rise above the rote and predictable; folks occasionally disappear beneath the surf, but once that lady gets out of her car, the film fails to offer any suitably threatening or dynamically constructed horror or disaster setpieces. With its third act floundering in uncertain waters, Trash turns out to be an unfortunately toothless creature feature. But hey, at least it lets me get away with awful sentences like that one!
Next up was Kill, Baby, Kill, a ‘66 gothic horror feature directed by the legendary Mario Bava. The film takes place in 1907, centered on a physician who is sent to a remote village in order to perform an autopsy on a woman who died under mysterious circumstances (i.e. was compelled to throw herself onto a spiked fence by a ghost). After discovering a silver coin lodged within the victim’s heart, he begins to unravel a mystery that flies in the face of all modern medicine, and a curse that holds the entire town under its thrall.
God, how much of modern horror would we lose without Bava? The man’s influence is preposterous, and in Kill, Baby, Kill we see him essentially constructing giallo out of gothic horror and crime procedurals, complete with colored lighting and hostile framing that would feel right at home in Suspiria. While the production’s narrative is a touch convoluted (Bava claims much of the script was improvised, and I am not inclined to doubt him), Kill, Baby, Kill’s aesthetic pleasures are lovely and plentiful, making terrific use of the crumbling villas and forbidding alleys of mid-century Italy. Bit of a cheat code, really – just bring some colored light filters and corpse paint to your local ancient fortified township, and bam, horror classic in the making (so long as you’re as much of a cinematographic genius as Bava, of course).
I then checked out the 1990 adaptation of the Dick Tracy comics, directed by and starring Warren Beatty as the titular detective. In a city menaced by the machinations of crime maestro Alphonse “Big Boy” Caprice (Al Pacino), Tracy must buckle down and bend the law to finally put his nemesis behind bars. Along the way, he’ll have to juggle the affections of his girlfriend Tess Trueheart (Glenne Headley) and sultry singer Breathless Mahoney (Madonna), all while contending with the inexplicable interference of a vigilante with no face and no name.
I am generally in favor of adaptations that embrace the distinct aesthetic sensibilities of their source material, and god damn does Dick Tracy go for it. This film’s costuming, colors, and production design are absolutely stunning, bringing Tracy’s city to life in sumptuous art deco detail, and populating it with characters whose forms dazzle and colors pop, from the bright yellow of Tracy’s signature coat to the bizarre layers of makeup work involved in bringing such cartoonish forms as “Lips” Manlis or “Flattop” to life. Every shot of the city is a treat, every dive into its alleys is an adventure, and every goon we encounter is an endearing, distinctive gargoyle ripped right from the papers.
If you’re coming to Dick Tracy for a pulse-pounding crime drama, you’ll likely be disappointed; the film is too broad for that, intentionally hewing towards comic book cliches that better suit its larger-than-life tone. Beatty’s attempts to infuse some pathos into the journey of Dick Tracy is thus necessarily a bit of a fool’s errand, but fortunately, the supporting cast here fully understand the assignment. Al Pacino is clearly in his element as the ever-flailing Big Boy, and Madonna absolutely commands the screen as our resident femme fatale, proving equally comfortable belting out musical numbers and rasping her way into Dick Tracy’s heart. Just a generous, larger-than-life spectacle in all the right ways.
