Over the Easter break, I made it my goal to watch one eighties fantasy film per night, partly because why not, and partly because I’m so exhausted with the churn of today’s media. At the risk of sounding like an old fogey, nothing excites me anymore – all the biggest franchises are just remakes and reboots and sequels and prequels and I am SO BORED with all of it. So I deemed it was time to revisit my childhood and watch some cult-classics.
They ended up being The NeverEnding Story, Ladyhawke, Legend, Labyrinth, The Princess Bride and Willow. Good times.
This post also kicks off SLAVIC FANTASY MONTH, which may well last until the end of the year given all the books I have to read in this niche subgenre. It’s something I’ve been organizing for a while now, with at least twenty-five books based on Slavic folklore and legend stacked in a neat pile next to my bookcase:
It’s going to take me a while to get through all of these, so buckle up.
And as it happens, I’m about to start a new job. I’ll still be a librarian, but at a different – much bigger – library. I have mixed feelings. The position I was in was full-time, but its permanency depended on whether the colleague I had taken over for would be able to secure a promotion in another library.
And... she wasn’t. Which means that when I was offered a full-time, permanent position elsewhere, I didn’t have much choice but to accept. On the one hand, I’m looking forward to a change of scenery and the chance to meet more people; on the other, I’m going to be well outside my comfort zone and forced into a half-hour commute in rush hour traffic each morning. That I’m not looking forward to, especially not in the dark winter months.
But it would seem the universe wants me to try something new, and who am I to argue with that? My mortgage won’t let me.
A World Full of Spooky Stories: 50 Tales to Make Your Spine Tingle by Angela McAllister
I’ve had this book checked out of the library since LAST MAY. No idea why it took me that long to read through it all, but I’ve managed it now.
I’ve always loved scary stories, even when they kept me up at night, and merging them with fairy tales was an extra stroke of genius. These stories are divided into where they take place, with segments called: Into the Woods, Down by the Water, Enchanted Places, Strangers at the Door, In Farm and Field, Home of the Spirits, Graveyard, Upon the Ocean/Under the Sea, Frozen Lands, In Castle Hall and On a Mountain Path. In other words, nowhere is safe.
They are derived from East and West Europe, Brazil, Japan, Scotland, Wales, West Africa, New Zealand, Australia, Tibet, Persia, Spain and Bermuda, plus some Native American legends – the net is cast wide, and the only constant is that something spooky is going on. There are plenty of familiar ones, such as Tam Lin and Gawain and the Green Knight, not to mention The Seal Wife and Hansel and Gretel and Rumpelstiltskin, but plenty more followed familiar fairy tale formats: evading a beautiful seductive woman, outwitting the devil’s tricks, or defeating a monster.
Most of them have happy endings for our heroes, but not all! The Talking Skull is here, a cautionary tale about not being boastful, as is The Spirit of the Singing House, where the protagonist eventually dies of fight. Oh, and the original tale of Yallery Brown, which I read as a retelling in Catherine Fisher’s The Red Gloves. She was right – it is a very unsettling story.
And of course, the Fox is here, either as a hero, villain, or in one interesting case, an ally to the monster. When an ogre is tricked out of his wealth, the hero sets off happily, only to see him returning with a fox (who has not featured in the story up till this point) by his side. “Amin was alarmed by the ogre’s angry expression. He guessed at once that the fox must have heard about his trick and revealed the truth.” You have to be careful when a fox is present.
The book also gave me the original story of Herne the Hunter, which was not at all what I expected. I had assumed Herne was a Celtic god, but apparently he actually derives from an Old English legend.
Madalina Andronic’s illustrations are appealing in that they’re quite stylized, but also set against the white of the pages, often just as symbols or images related to the story as opposed to dramatizations of what actually happens. That sort of aesthetic always appealed to me as a child, being very clean and clear and precise.
It may have taken me almost a full year, but I got there in the end.
Tidesong by Wendy Xu
In a story that’s very reminiscent of Kiki’s Delivery Service and Spirited Away, a young witch is sent to a seaside house for training in the magical arts, where she meets and befriends a shapeshifting water dragon. The Wu clan are the descendants of a union between a water dragon and a mortal fisherman, and have retained the ability to control the wind and seas, using their gifts to help those that rely on the ocean for sustenance.
Sophie Wu is eager to begin her training, but becomes discouraged by her teacher (her grandmother’s sister) who is strict and unyielding. Sophie has great talent but no discipline, and struggles with Great-Aunt Lan’s teaching methods. She works a little better under the tutelage of a fellow student called Sage, but her anxiety and self-doubt is apparent – as in, it’s literally on the page as jagged red speech bubbles filled with harsh criticism.
Sophie sneaks out to the beach one night in order to practice on her own, and inevitably ends up getting into trouble when she’s pulled underwater – good thing there’s a water dragon nearby to rescue her, though in the process their magics end up entangled. Going by the name of Lir, the dragon takes on human form and joins the school, though this ends up having consequences of its own.
This is a reasonably light and pleasant family drama, in which every character has a specific issue with another character to work through: Lir with his father, Sophie with her aunt, and Aunt Lan with her sister, Sophie’s grandmother. And they’re all about everyone’s current favourite subject: intergenerational trauma. Gradually everyone identifies what’s upsetting them and communicates their issues to one another, so that life can go on a bit more peacefully.
The art is a bit blobby and the colours operate on a fairly strict muted palette (it reminded me a bit of Netflix’s She Ra, actually) but it’s a sweet little story, and there’s not much to complain about.
City of Secrets and City of Illusion by Victoria Ying
I was familiar with Ying’s work due to a Wonder Woman graphic novel for kids I read a while back, though her art is much rougher in this duology – the backgrounds are often just blobs of colour, and the people and mechanisms have a sketchy, unfinished quality to them.
This poses a problem for several reasons, though I’ll start with the basics. In the vaguely steampunkish city of Oskars, several young women man the Switchboard Operating Facility, the hub of all the city’s communications, watched over by the strict Madame Alexander. Tensions are high, as there are rumours of an impending war with their sister-city, Edmonda.
The girls regularly leave out food for a young orphan boy called Ever, who lives alone in the depths of the old theatre, having been taught about the building’s variety of levers and pulley systems, secret doors and moving staircases by his deceased father. The place is filled with moving components, all elaborately interconnected.
Who doesn’t love secret passages and clockwork mechanisms, especially in the setting of an old theatre? It sounds like a great backdrop for a story filled with secret societies and assassin guilds, but unfortunately Ying’s story and illustrations don’t do the premise justice. The mechanisms aren’t particularly attractive or detailed, and we get no real sense of their intricacies or spatial relationships within the theatre.
If you’re going to convey a steampunk/mechanical/clockwork aesthetic, culminating in a Pacific Rim-esque giant mecha, then you gotta make sure that shit is detailed. Here it’s all lumpy backgrounds, half-sketched images and a few arrows to denote movement.
And much like in The Pathfinders Society, you’ve got massive edifices rigged out with all manner of mechanisms, levers, counterweights, pulley systems... but who designed all this? Who built it? We’re looking at hundreds of hours worth of manpower and thousands of millions of dollars sunk into this infrastructure – and we’re meant to believe it’s a secret to everyone but an orphan boy? It just bugged me.
Plotwise, it involves our young orphan Ever teaming up with a lonely rich girl called Hannah to solve a mystery. Ever is initially determined to stay hidden after the murder of his father, but Hannah is tenacious, wanting to find out more about the mysterious contents of the safe that Ever was tasked with protecting. Soon enough, Ever is attacked by a group of assassins, each sporting the tattoo of a triangle filled with three eyes, who also want access to the safe.
There is an interesting undercurrent of a grand conspiracy, and the solution to the intrigue is rather fascinating: turns out that the Canary Society is made up of four families that each protect secrets that can safeguard Oskars. But to keep the four secrets properly guarded, each family only knows two, with one secret overlapping with another family’s. That way no single family bears the responsibility alone, but no one is able to betray the others.
Spoiler alert, the secret ends up being a giant automaton, which is a bit silly, and it’s difficult to really invest in the city itself since it’s so roughly depicted. As in Tidesong, there’s a limited amount of colour, but unlike Tidesong (which at least used attractive pastels) this book is filled with blacks, beiges, and washed-out yellows.
The human figures are very expressive, but the backdrops and movements are sometimes difficult to follow – I found myself re-reading a few pages just to get an idea of where things were. And honestly, after introducing us to the switchboard girls before transferring to Ever and Hannah as the protagonists, I was left wishing that the story had remained focused on the girls. They were a lot of fun, and more original than “sad orphan” and “poor little rich girl” as main characters.
The sequel involves a shift in setting to the city of Alexios, though you’ll be disappointed to realize that it’s completely indistinguishable from Oskars. Ever and Hannah are visiting with the latter’s parents, where a gang of busking street-artists catch their attention at about the same time Hannah’s father goes missing.
Naturally the street kids and the disappearance of Hannah’s father are connected, and those pulling the strings at the top of the conspiracy are out to cause trouble. It’s a bit of a strange story, which not only inexplicably introduces the existence of magic in the second half, but moves from Pacific Rim to Transformers in its use of giant mechas.
If it feels like I’m being a bit too harsh, it’s only because I’ve read some incredibly good graphic novels lately, and this duology just didn’t measure up.
Lightfall: The Girl and the Galdurian by Tim Probert
This is what I mean by one of the incredibly good ones. It’s gorgeous to look at, with great characters and a solid story, like a Studio Ghibli film unfolding on the page. The artwork is stunning, especially in its use of light and colour: amber, turquoise, violet – everything looks so honeyed and golden.
Beatrice is a young girl (at least I think she is, she’s quite stylized with a rectangular head and huge eyes – maybe she’s meant to be another species) who lives with her adopted father, the Pig Wizard, a guy who looks exactly as you’d expect with a name like that. They run an apothecary and have a pet cat.
She’s the keeper of a strange flame in a glass bauble that she takes with her everywhere – which possibly has something to do with vague mentions of Eight Lights in the sky, one of which fell mysteriously, and the depiction of this world being lit not by a sun, but encased light fixtures. At this point, the world-building is deliberately being kept a little opaque.
Beatrice leaves for her morning foraging, only to run into (or fall onto) a Galdurian. Best described as a large amphibian, he’s the optimistic “everything will work out” foil to Beatrice’s anxious, worrisome nature, which literally manifests as a dark aura whenever her nerves are piqued. He’s goes with her when she returns home to find the Pig Wizard missing, and offers to help her search for him. So the adventure begins.
But there is danger too. Bird-like creatures obviously inspired by The Dark Crystal’s Skeksis are on the prowl, searching for something specific; something which may very well be in Beatrice’s possession.
It’s easy to compare graphic novels to Studio Ghibli – I’ve already done so with this one and Tidesong, but if that story was Kiki’s Delivery Service, then Lightfall is Princess Mononoke. (There are even some deer that look exactly like Ashitaka’s antelope/horse). As you turn each page, you stop to just to soak in the beautiful visuals that Probert has created: the ancient moss-covered statues, the strange alien wildlife, the massive trees and sprawling mountain ranges, bustling towns and ancient temples. Some panels exist solely to enrich the beauty of this world, and you can tell he’s enjoying his own stay in this place.
It's up there with 5 Worlds as an epic fantasy/sci-fi graphic novel adventure, and I’m reading the next one ASAP.
Dawn on the Coast by Anne M. Martin
Another instalment that I’d never read before! Unfortunately, it wasn’t a particularly good entry in the ongoing trials and tribulations of seven teenage babysitters. Dawn goes to visit her father and brother in California, finds herself having such a great time that she ponders staying permanently, and then decides no – her home is in Stoneybrook with her mother and the Babysitters Club. That’s it. That’s the whole thing.
As someone who only visited California once as a twelve-year-old, even I found the depiction somewhat amusing. Are we really meant to believe that absolutely everyone is blonde? That teenage girls exclusively eat health food? That there’s an area in Disneyland called “Jungleland”? (It’s Adventureland, and always has been).
So whatever enjoyment we could have gotten out of this book as a travelogue of sorts, is undermined by the fact it’s fairly obvious that Martin (or the ghostwriter, I think they’d been brought on board by this point) knows very little about the state. One hilarious detail is Dawn’s ongoing admiration for how easy-going everyone is, to the point where she’s stunned by the way her friend Sunny runs her babysitting business. When a client calls during one of their meetings, the girls keep the line open and just casually discuss who wants the job, then immediately inform the client of their decision.
This, to me, feels like a much better way of doing things than the Babysitters Club, who take the clients’ details, hang up, and then call back once they’ve made the choice on who’s accepted the position. Isn’t it much more convenient to just keep the line open?
There are some amusing bits, like a terrible stewardess that looks like a Kewpie doll, and an introduction to characters Maggie and Jill of the “We [heart] Kids Club” (who will become main characters in Dawn’s spin-off California Diaries – yes, she does go back to California permanently later down the track). Back in Stoneybrook, the B-plot is just a number of babysitter experiences with no underlying theme. Moving on...
Kristy and the Mother’s Day Surprise by Anne M. Martin
This book was something of a milestone: the very first Babysitters Club I ever read (so somewhat funny that it came on the heels of one I’ve just read for the first time). As I recall, I was about nine or ten years old, and barely understood what was going on. Rereading as an adult, it’s easy to see why: there are so many characters in this book. All the girls, their families, the babysitting charges, and even Stacey back from New York (Martin was clearly feeling the heat from fans of that character).
Mother’s Day is coming up, and the girls in the club are struggling to think of what to get their respective mums. Then Kristy has one of her Great Ideas: to reward not only their own parents, but their favourite clients in the neighbourhood by giving them a day off and collectively sitting all their children.
Already I can spot two problems: firstly, that this idea only helps THREE of the six members of the club. Secondly, that the whole point of Mother’s Day is that you spend time with your mother. Would any mum really appreciate the chance to ditch her kids on a day specifically about motherhood? (Martin comes to this conclusion herself, as it turns out the gift of a day off actually falls on the day before Mother’s Day).
Much like the mass babysitting in Kristy’s Big Day, the playgroup in Claudia and Mean Janine, and the fieldtrip in Stacey’s Mistake, this is another of those stories that involve the girls taking on a large-scale childcare job. I think Martin really liked writing this specific kind of story, especially the lead-up to the day itself: the planning stages, the more in-depth organization, the excitement building up to the event...
In this case, the babysitters decide to take their charges to a local carnival, and despite a few mishaps involving the spook house, some motion sickness, and a fountain that sprays people, everything goes relatively smoothly. Then we get to the REAL Mother’s Day Surprise, and YIKES. Turns out that Kristy’s mother and stepfather have adopted a Vietnamese girl called Emily Michelle (I’m going out on a limb here and assuming that’s not her birthname) by making a few phone calls.
Okay, perhaps we can infer that there was more going on behind-the-scenes than Kristy was cognizant of, but Watson and Elizabeth have a. certainly never been to Vietnam, b. never been assessed at their own home (and yes, the assorted siblings and step-siblings would have been a part of that process) and c. decide that the best way to spring this on their own children is to keep it all a secret and only tell them about it the day before Emily arrives. The whole thing is handled atrociously. No wonder I was confused as a kid.
Things like the impending divorce of Stacey’s parents and Mimi’s ongoing health issues are foreshadowed, and despite its obvious flaws I have to admit – as the first Babysitters Club book I ever read, it was a trip going back to it.
As You Wish: Inconceivable Tales from the Making of The Princess Bride by Cary Elwes
Inspired by the twenty-fifth anniversary of the beloved movie, Cary Elwes writes his recollections of filming The Princess Bride. It’s a warm and fuzzy book, though doesn’t it shed much insight on the filmmaking process, and Cary has nothing but good things to say about everything and everyone. In other words, you can tell it’s a book written from someone twenty-five years removed from the original experience, and that emotions rather than actual facts are the focus (Elwes admits not remembering if he went to the wrap-party, or if there even was one).
There are some interesting titbits strewn throughout: Elwes mentions a scene in which the Dread Pirate Roberts disembarks from his ship, which definitely isn’t in the film, as well as an alternative ending in which the Grandson gets out of bed and sees the four main characters of The Princess Bride beckoning him from outside his window. I’m glad they cut that. It was also Cary’s idea to have Westley dive head-first into the quicksand in the Fire Swamp, feeling that going feet-first wasn’t heroic enough – much to the consternation of the stunt people, who weren’t sure the trapdoor was going to work.
Also, you may or may not have noticed that he moves a little oddly in the scenes on the clifftop, right before Buttercup shoves him down the incline. That’s because he literally had a broken big toe for having been talked into driving Andre the Giant’s ATV and immediately crashing it. Meanwhile, Wallace Shaw was terrified he was going to be replaced, having got it into his head that Danny DeVito was the first choice to play Vizzini, and the famous swordfight between Westley and Inigo was shot last of all, just to give Cary and Mandy Patinkin as much time as possible to rehearse (which was every spare moment, thanks to the stunt guys in charge of the scene’s choreography).
Throughout Elwes’s narrative are little side-boxes filled with more anecdotes from the rest of the cast and crew. My favourite was Fred Savage pointing out that he never interacted with anyone during his days on set, and didn’t meet Mandy in person until years later, when they coincidentally crossed paths in the street, and hugged on account of having both been in the movie.
Andre the Giant is remembered fondly, and provides most of the best stories, from how he passed out in the hotel foyer and was just left there since there was no chance in hell of moving him, to how he was followed by a specially-appointed cop in New York to make sure nobody gave him any trouble.
It naturally made me want to watch the movie again (which I did), and Elwes conveys the very real sense that everyone was aware something special was happening in the making of this film. It makes it all the more rewarding when – after the mismarketing of the film on its release – the whole cast got to slowly but surely experience its growing acclaim as a cult-classic right under their noses.
The Turnkey by Allison Rushby
I can’t deny the uniqueness of this book’s premise, especially in a story meant for young readers. During WWII in London, all the cemeteries are watched over by a departed spirit known as a turnkey. They’re essentially the guardian of each cemetery, tasked with protecting the area and setting any restless souls to sleep.
Flossie Birdwhistle is the turnkey of Highgate Cemetery, who is surprisingly good at the job despite her youth (okay – that’s a weird one, because she died as a little girl, but has been dead for quite a while). However, the chaos of WWII is putting a strain on all the turnkeys of the city, especially once Flossie spots the spirit of a German soldier during one of the nightly air raids. Why is he in London? What’s he carrying around? How is he even there in the first place, since most ghosts return to their country of origin? And why does he flee on realizing Flossie has noticed him?
As Raiders of the Lost Ark told us, Hitler – and by extension, the Nazis – were nuts on the subject of the occult, and from that obsession they’ve come up with a way to communicate with their dead comrades and wage their way on two fronts: the living and the dead. Realizing that she’s the only one who can help the (living) Allied Forces against a threat they cannot even fathom, Flossie pulls together a team of ghosts to try and untangle the mystery before the Nazis pull off whatever evil scheme they’ve designed.
It manages to be a ghost story, historical fiction, and a mystery all at once, which is certainly a fun combination of genres. Ten points for originality, though the story has to lay a lot of groundwork (the responsibilities of the turnkeys, the nature of the war, the rules of the supernatural world) before its narrative can start properly, and there’s a lot of exposition to keep in mind once the plot kicks off.
The House with Chicken Legs by Sophie Anderson
This has the honour of being the first book I’ve read for my Slavic Fantasy Month(s), and is obviously based on the story of Baba Yaga, she who lives in the house with chicken legs. Anderson reimagines the mythology by making ‘Yaga’ a designation, and Baba Yaga being one of many individuals – such as Yaga Tatyana, Yaga Onekin and Yaga Elena, of varying ages and appearances – tasked with the responsibility of guiding the dead to their final resting place in the stars.
That particular concept is very reminiscent of Garth Nix’s Abhorsen series, and I’m not entirely sure how I feel about Yaga being a career option as opposed to an individual. It threatens to soften the sharp edges of the Baba Yaga stories, in which she is as terrifying as she is occasionally helpful – but more importantly, one of a kind.
Marinka is a young girl who lives with one of these Yagas, in the titular house with chicken legs. They never stay in one place for very long; always moving around so that they can gather the spirits of the dead and guide them through the Gate to the afterlife, after having listened to their stories and provided them with one last meal. Marinka’s task is to assemble the bone fence that always surrounds the temporary property, to deter any members of the living from investigating too closely.
She’s miserable. Lonely, burdened, uninterested in any of the responsibilities of the Yaga that await her – all she wants is the chance to settle down in one place and make friends. However, Baba Yaga has other plans for her, and any deviation from their routine has dire consequences for the souls of the dead.
I was curious about where exactly this story was heading: would it be one in which the youngster is proved justified in her desire for something more than the path laid out for her, or would it take the more unexpected route and have her eventually accept the very important task she’s being groomed for. (Spoiler, the narrative settles on a compromise).
It’s an unusual story, especially for a YA fantasy, in that there’s no real conflict beyond the one in Marinka’s heart. No villain, no romance, no world-saving challenge, just a young girl trying to discover what she wants in life and learning truths about herself. It’s very beautifully told, and I was surprised that something as simple as Marinka’s dissatisfaction with life – and the mistakes she makes trying to take control of it – was as compelling as it was, though unexpected in a fantasy context.
That said, there are some glaringly awful bits. At one point Marinka meets another Yaga and discovers that her house on chicken legs like to play a game that involves turning itself upside down and letting all the furniture fall onto the ceiling. How the hell is that a game and not the most aggravating thing in the world to go through? Later we’re treated to two chicken-legged houses playing football with each other, and a roller coaster made out of the bones that surround each house that have rearranged themselves to provide entertainment to the gathered Yagas. C’mon, that’s just silly.
But we’re off to a good start: I’ve got three more Sophie Anderson books to go before rereading Catherynne Valente’s Deathless. Looking forward to that one.
The Girl Who Speaks Bear by Sophie Anderson
The nicest thing about reading several books by the same author in succession that have been published over several years of their career is seeing how much they improve. The Girl Who Speaks Bear is a substantial improvement on The House with Chicken Legs, even as it’s similar in several ways. Once again it features a heroine on a journey of self-discovery, and again is rooted in Slavic myths and legends – it even contains a larger role for a minor character from the previous book.
Yanka was found abandoned by her parents in a cave as a baby, watched over by a giant bear. She’s always wondered where she comes from, and due to her size and strength has felt rather out of place among the people of her village. Still, she has a loving mother, a best friend, and a pet weasel called Mousetrap, and doesn’t want for anything. Until the day she wakes up with bear legs.
Frightened and horrified, she flees into the forest in search of answers, discovering along the way that she now has the ability to understand the animals. The adventure takes her deeper into the forest as she forms friendships with various creatures: an elk, a wolf, an owl, till she can gradually piece together the mystery of her origins.
This is done in quite a clever way, with various stories being sporadically retold throughout the larger narrative that initially seem unconnected, but are gradually revealed as Yanka’s entire backstory. (Theses pages are also given a woodland border to differentiate them from the main story). The whole thing culminates in a battle against a dragon, which this seems largely unnecessary as Yanka’s journey of self-discovery was satisfying enough without a big boss battle at the end.
Anderson pulls things several from Slavic myths in the crafting of this book: obviously Baba Yaga and the house with chicken legs, but also sorcerers who remove their hearts and become “Deathless,” magical wish-granting trees and three-headed dragons. It’s also beautifully told, in first-person narrative that really conveys Yanka’s sense of unbelonging, as well as her sensory experiences with the world around her.
So far my Eastern European-themed booklist is off to a good start; next is Anderson’s The Castle of Tangled Magic.
Roman Holiday (1953)
This is a quintessential movie in a way that’s difficult to describe. Maybe because it has just the right blend of romanticism and bittersweet realism, that was filmed on location throughout Rome (which was an unusual creative choice at the time), that contains a fairy tale ambiance which makes it timeless. I mean, just the words “runaway princess” fires up the imagination in all sorts of ways.
And of course, Audrey Hepburn in her most iconic role (yes, even more so than Breakfast at Tiffany’s). There’s just no understating how charming and winsome she is in this, playing Princess Ann of an unspecified European kingdom, out on her own for the first time in a goodwill tour around the continent. I say “on her own,” but she’s surrounded by an entourage that controls her every move, demonstrated beautifully in an opening scene in which she accidentally loses her shoe while meeting delegates at a royal function.
It's played for laughs, but also neatly establishes the restrictions she lives under. Anyone else would just have a laugh and grab the shoe; Ann has to carefully manoeuvre her billowing skirts over the shoe and put it back on her foot without anyone noticing. Meanwhile, her courtiers look on in horror at the near-disaster.
Finally fed up with it all, Ann is driven into hysterics and a doctor is called to administer a sedative, telling her that the best cure is to do whatever she wants for a while. He’s only joking, but as soon as she’s alone, Ann takes his advice and makes a run for it. Hiding in a delivery van, she’s out on the streets of Rome in no time... right before the sedative kicks in.
American reporter Joe Bradley finds her on a park bench, with every appearance that she’s stone-cold drunk. He’s chivalrous enough to give her a room for the night, but not chivalrous enough to give her the actual bed. She goes on the couch of his small apartment, unrecognized until the next day, when Joe calls into work and sees a picture of her in the local newspaper. Smelling a prime opportunity for a story, he calls in a photographer friend and contrives to “run into” Ann while she’s sightseeing, offering to take her around the city.
Of course, sparks fly during their adventure, which involves landmarks such as the Spanish Steps, the Trevi Fountain, the Colosseum, the Pantheon, and of course the Bocca della Verita (“Mouth of Truth”). If this movie doesn’t make you want to book a ticket to Rome, nothing will.
There are also more than a few surprisingly adult jokes, particularly the one in which Ann wakes up at Joe’s place, unexpectedly wearing his pyjamas, and quickly checks to see if she’s wearing bottoms. “Loose something?” Joe asks wryly, and she replies “no” with a relieved sigh. (They’re not just talking about the pyjama bottoms here, guys).
It’s a dream of a day, but all dreams have to end sometime. The film changes tone as the newfound lovers realize they have to part ways, and the final act, in which they come face-to-face for the last time, seeing each other as their true selves yet being unable to communicate in anything but coded language, is perhaps one of the greatest sequences ever put to film. I could watch it endlessly, but I don’t, because that would spoil the magic.
Hepburn obviously walks away with the film, and there are some who mourn the fact that Clark Gable passed on the project (apparently he felt he was too old for the role, though it’s also widely believed that he knew very well the princess would steal the show). And I wouldn’t change Gregory Peck for the world. It’s his kindness that makes him so attractive – it’s immediately apparent that Ann is perfectly safe with him while she’s passed out, and you know well before Joe himself does that he’s not going to give away her secret to the press.
In the midst of our current cultural debate about masculinity and what it means to be a man, Gregory Peck effortlessly demonstrates just what it does mean: being kind and honourable. That’s it. That’s the big secret a lot of people just can’t get their heads around. And just to prove it, he campaigned during filming that Audrey Hepburn be elevated to equal billing alongside himself – which was an unheard-of gesture in Hollywood at that time. He was validated by Hepburn’s star-making performance, though his own (specifically the very last scene in which he slowly departs the press conference) is the film’s perfect, heartrending capper.
The NeverEnding Story (1984)
If ever a movie could be described as THE movie of a person’s lifetime, then The NeverEnding Story would have to be mine. It was released the year I was born, so naturally I didn’t see it until much later in my childhood, but I have the distinct memory of my dad getting me out of bed because he had chanced across it while channel-flipping and thought I’d like to see it.
I recall having a very strong (positive) reaction to the racing snail, and the rest is history. Today, I can draw a straight line from this film’s content to my reading/viewing preferences: everything from dark fairy tales to going meta-textual on the nature of stories to an appreciation of practical effects. Seriously, they don’t make them like Falkor anymore.
Almost every scene, every line delivery, every note on the score is engrained on my subconscious. People talk about getting a “tingle down their spine” when they revisit certain things from their childhood; watching this was a full-blown electrical charge! (The scene in which Atreyu notices the ancient murals depicting scenes from his journey, culminating in his horror at the painting of the Gmork... damn). Truly one of my earliest memories is of watching this repeatedly on VCR, and rewatching it as an adult I could even anticipate when all the ad-breaks happened on our old video recording.
You have to understand that this was the first film I’d ever seen that involved a twist, and one that involved a fair amount of introspection. The film didn’t hold your hand, and it didn’t answer all your questions about the metaphysical, reality-breaking nature of its central concepts: Fantasia as the world of human fantasy, the Nothing as humanity’s despair and emptiness destroying its borders, its link to the Childlike Empress’s mysterious illness, the true purpose of Atreyu’s quest, the mystery of the book itself – it’s a puzzle-box plot on an epic scale.
With the advantage of hindsight, what we’re watching is a Batman Gambit put into effect by the Childlike Empress: she’s dying along with Fantasia due to the apathy of the human race (which manifests as the Nothing) and therefore needs to draw in an earthling child that can give her what she needs to save herself and rejuvenate her world – a new name. This is where Bastian comes in: he will read Atreyu’s story, inevitably become captivated by his adventures, and in doing so get emotionally invested in the fate of Fantasia. It’s a perfect plan, provided Bastian can make that leap of faith at the end.
None of this is fully spelt out in any great detail, in fact, a lot of details remain up in the air. Like... who exactly wrote The NeverEnding Story book that Bastian steals from the bookstore? Was Mr Coriander in on the plan (as he seems to be, given his enticing spiel about how the book is “not safe” and his smile when Bastian runs off with it)? If so, who recruited him and how?
As an adult, there’s even more resonance. The Swamps of Sadness are easily a metaphor for depression, while the Nothing and the Gmork are agents of nihilism and spiritual despair. There’s a line from Atreyu that still haunts me, when he asks the Gmork: “who are you really?” as though the creature is still not telling him everything, and the Gmork answers: “I am a servant of the force behind the Nothing.” But what could that force be? Something diabolical? The capitalization of storytelling? Fascism? We never find out, but even after the Nothing is defeated, we know that whatever was behind it is still out there.
And of course, there’s the mindscrew of the Childlike Empress not only knowing that she’s in a story, but that Bastian, the person reading that story, is himself in a story, being experienced by us, the viewer. How does this work? Could we ever get to the bottom of it?
It’s important that we don’t know the answers to these questions, as their existence is what provides so much food for thought and the film’s innate sense of mystery and intrigue. That moment when you realize the film’s framing device is actually an intrinsic part of the story’s climax – what a slam dunk! Compare it to The Princess Bride: the framework of the Grandfather reading to his Grandson is very sweet, but it doesn’t link up in the same way to the larger narrative.
The film is only ninety minutes long, and yet it feels like an odyssey. Much like Roald Dahl and his feelings toward The Witches, it’s a shame that Michael Ende hated this film, as of all the eighties fantasies I watched this month, it’s easily the best of the lot in terms of story and characterization and sheer imagination. But he called it a "gigantic melodrama of kitsch, commerce, plush and plastic", and even blamed the death of his wife on its existence, as she died in her sleep the same night she saw it at the cinema. Yikes.
Obviously, it only covers the first half – or perhaps just the first third – of his novel of the same name, but I always felt that this is what worked in its favour. People could discover the book on the heels of the film and discover “another story” (as the film’s final narration says). I recall being absolutely dumbstruck and delighted as a child on reading the book for the first time and realizing that the story went well beyond the conclusion of the film, making it perhaps the only film in existence you should watch before reading the book it’s based on.
(Of course, you must avoid the heinous movie sequels at all costs).
Even if you decide to treat the film as a primer to the book, there’s still a lot to love here. The three child actors – Barrett Oliver, Noah Hathaway, Tami Stronach – are phenomenal, carrying the entire film even though Atreyu doesn’t arrive until twenty minutes in, and the Childlike Empress only gets a single extended scene at the very end of the movie. (Okay, it is cringy by today’s standards that Hathaway is white despite Atreyu being obviously coded as Native American, but at least they didn’t put him in brownface. Small mercies).
Likewise, all of the adult and puppet characters pack a punch, even though most of them only get a handful of scenes in which to perform. But they perform. Thomas Hill as Mr Coreander! Tilo Prückner as the Night Hob! Moses Gunn as Cairon! Sydney Bromley as Engywook! Deep Roy as the teeny-weeny! (Sorry, but that’s how he’s credited on IMDB). They’re all so iconic, even with limited screentime.
And as incredible as it sounds, it was only during this rewatch that I learned Patricia Hayes was in both Willow and The NeverEnding Story, as Raziel and Urgl respectively. How many hundreds of times have I watched those films and not realized it?
Naturally, the puppets are unforgettable, and a testament to how bland and unpleasant (most) CGI creations are by comparison. Give me Falkor, the Gmork, Rock Biter, Morla, the racing snail and even the stupid bat over hyper-realistic pixellated nothings any day of the week. I don’t care how old that statement makes me sound, you simply cannot replicate the magic of a human actor interacting with a real puppet with a blue screen or a guy with green dots on his face. There is a tangible quality to it that simply cannot be done with computers.
The film itself is a masterclass on parsing out information to the audience and gradually cranking up the stakes. In the first two scenes alone we learn that Bastian is a devoted reader, grieving a deceased mother, struggling at school, and emotionally estranged from his father. That one scene with his father is rife with exposition that doesn’t sound like exposition, but which is conveyed in the sort of awkward conversation you’d hear between a father and son who are on completely different wavelengths.
Each scene flows gracefully into the next until we’re in the attic with him, delving into a secondary story filled with wonders. The beautiful music, the giant puppetry, the matte paintings – it all still holds up. It isn’t long before they hit us with the horrific scene of Artex’s death in the swamp (it wasn’t Atreyu’s begging that got to you, it was when he started calling his beloved mount a “stupid horse!” out of sheer desperation), followed by the grotesquery of Morla, the eerie terror of the laser-shooting sphinxes, the heart-breaking scene of the Rock Biter’s failure (“they look like good, strong hands, don’t they”).
I mean, this movie is just one hit after another. Those strange cloudscapes, the warmth and personality of Falkor, the crumbling faces of the Southern Oracle, the murals in the deserted village, the confrontation with Gmork, our first glimpse of the Empress (I gasp every time) – even the scene in the framing device in which school ends for the day and Bastian discreetly watches as everyone leaves the building is haunting in its own way, and the cuts between Atreyu on his adventure and Bastian vicariously experiencing it in the attic are superb, especially as the barriers between them start to falter.
My only issues are nitpicks. First of all, the existential horror of the Nothing isn’t quite as powerful as it’s depicted in the book. There, to look on it is to feel as though you’ve gone blind, and the denizens of Fantasia are frighteningly drawn to its emptiness. There’s one evocative scene in which some trolls invite Atreyu to climb a tree in order to see the Nothing for himself – when he descends, they’ve disappeared. We never find out what happened to them.
In the film, the Nothing manifests as a powerful storm, which clearly isn’t “nothing”, and is at odds with how the Rock Biter describes the disappearance of his land. That said, I concede it’s virtually impossible to convey a literal nothingness in a visual medium. It had to look like something.
But it also bothered me as a kid that the film simply reuses the models for the sphinxes for the Southern Oracle, simply changing their colour from yellow to blue. They couldn’t have come up with something more unique? Likewise, we really needed a more substantial scene with Atreya post-climax, one that wasn’t just him galloping across the plain from a distance. We spent most of the movie following this kid, and the last we really see of him in the main story is him getting crushed by debris in the Ivory Tower.
And what about Engywook and Urgl? They should have been in Bastian’s flying montage too!
Lastly, the final scene is of a busy street intersection with honking cars, in which a hitherto unheard narrator informs us that Bastian had many more adventures in Fantasia before returning to the ordinary world. Is that really the best they could do? It’s not a particularly evocative send-off for the movie (though I do like the implication that Falkor chasing the bullies was itself a complete fantasy, and not something that Bastian actually did in the real world).
But those are mostly just quibbles. This is a classic for a reason, and was the only one of the eighties fantasies in this post that was a definitive financial success upon release (The Princess Bride and Labyrinth are just as renowned these days, but it took a while for them to gain their cult-classic status). I adore it: the visuals, the music, the conceit of how the framing device becomes part of the story and the way it draws Bastian in to become the true hero... it’s the perfect lead-in to the book itself.
Ladyhawke (1985)
Of all the seminal eighties fantasy cult-classics, Ladyhawke is the one that will get you the most blank stares when namedropped. There’s a good chance the average person has never even heard of it, which certainly can’t be said for the likes of Labyrinth or The Princess Bride, which everyone knows about even if they’ve never seen them. It’s a beautifully shot and acted film, and renowned enough to have earned its cult-classic status – but by mainstream standards it remains fairly obscure, and isn’t at the forefront of anyone’s mind when the words “eighties fantasy” are uttered.
The only time you see it emerge in pop-culture discussions is whenever there’s an eclipse (though I’m pretty sure it also provided the basis for a Charmed episode) so for a while I was torn between it and Return to Oz as the last movie of the long Easter weekend.
It’s also the one most ripe for a remake. The likes of The Princess Bride and Labyrinth are sacred cows, but this one can only be improved by modern moviemaking: not just a less dated soundtrack and better special effects for the animal transformations, but also a revamp in general terms. A tighter script, a change of location, a deeper exploration into the predicament the lovers find themselves in. Imagine this story set in Byzantium or Ancient Egypt, in which the man turns into a hawk by day and the woman a wolf by night. What if it dropped Matthew Broderick’s Audience Surrogate character and focused solely on the lovers as they learned to navigate the conditions of their curse?
For instance, I always thought it was an odd omission that Navarre and Isabeau never communicated with each other via handwritten letters, or that they didn’t employ a trusted human intermediary sooner. It could have been fascinating to see how a relationship under these shapeshifting limitations actually worked.
In medieval Italy, a young thief known as the Mouse (played with a reasonable amount of charm by Matthew Broderick, but also an egregious amount of modernity – you simply can’t shake Ferris Bueller from the performer) escapes from prison and is saved from pursuing guards by an imposing man in black, riding an equally imposing stallion (also black).
On hearing that Mouse has recently escaped from the city of Aquila, the man – Etienne Navarre – decides to keep him on a tight leash. This is not particularly to Mouse’s liking, although he’s slowly drawn into the mystery of his saviour. Why does he carry a fettered hawk on his wrist? Where does he disappear to at night? And who is the mysterious woman who appears out of nowhere whenever the sun goes down?
Given the film’s main claim to fame is its central premise (to the point where the screenwriter eventually became annoyed by people assuming he’d borrowed it from a real legend instead of conceptualizing it himself) you probably already know the answers to these questions. Navarre and Isabeau are star-crossed lovers, living under a curse in which he’s a wolf by night and she a hawk by day, able to share only a few moments of togetherness in the liminal moments of daybreak and sunset. As Mouse puts it, they’re “always together, forever apart.”
Growing invested in their plight, Mouse agrees to help Navarre secretly return to Aquila and there confront the man who placed them under the curse in the first place: the jealous and lustful Bishop of Aquila.
Ladyhawke is an odd duck of a movie in many ways. It’s neither exceptionally good or terribly bad, but a workmanlike story that lacks any real urgency or emotional hook. Sure, we want the lovers to be reunited, but it’s difficult to really, truly, deeply care about a relationship when we never actually see them on screen together until the very end.
It’s a film I’d like to see reimagined from the ground up, and I found myself mentally rewriting it as I watched. First I’d cut Broderick’s character (who is technically the protagonist but not who the story is about) delving instead into the lovers and their plight: depicting their history together, dramatizing the curse, and exploring the difficulties of their day-to-day life together.
Like I said above, it would have been fascinating to watch the lovers try and circumvent the restrictions of the curse – if they were so desperate to communicate with each other, why not get a pen and parchment and write letters? Conversations would have been stretched by necessity over the course of several days and nights, leading to plenty of conflict if one wanted to travel one way, and the other another way. I can envision a tale in which the lovers are the only two characters in the entire film, working silently with or against each other, trying to find ways around their separation – a conundrum which really needed a cleverer solution than simply “there’s an eclipse.”
On a similar note, the film’s weakest element is its lacklustre villain. He’s neither a physical threat or a complex character, and that he called upon Satanic powers to curse the lovers strikes an odd tone. Suffice to say, the devil never appears in person, so the story either needed a much more formidable antagonist, or to instead make the curse a result of the lovers’ own transgressions – no third party required.
Here’s another odd aspect: despite the inherent magic of its core premise, the film is very much grounded in reality. Its depiction of medieval Italy contains a fair amount of historical accuracy (by which I mean there are no glaring anachronisms, and people look suitably grimy), namedrops plenty of real people and places, and utilizes on-location castles and landscapes. For such a fanciful premise, it’s placed in a very realistic setting.
There are naturally limitations when it comes to the transformation effects – perhaps we should be grateful they didn’t go with puppetry or facial prosthetics in capturing the shapeshifting in and out of animal forms, but instead we get fuzzy fade-outs which only look horribly dated by today’s standards. But the scenery is beautiful and – hey, is that Alfred Molina?!
Directed by none other than Richard Donner, this is a blockbuster that isn’t. Though it’s got all the trappings of an epic romance set against a conflict between good and evil, it ends up being far more lowkey and intimate than you might expect. I’ve watched it several times now, and continue to be a little bemused by the experience.
Legend (1985)
A more fitting title for this film would be Seasonal Myth or Fairy Tale with Biblical Overtones, but I can understand why they didn’t go with either of those choices. This is another bizarre movie, to the point where you wonder how it got made at all. Between the massive soundstage, the strange characters, the simplistic story, the copious amounts of glitter, and the surprising talent (it stars a young Tom Cruise and is directed by Ridley Scott, not to mention Tim Curry as a giant red devil) it plays out like a fever dream – and yet it has a hypnotic quality that can’t be denied. Something about its straightforwardness combined with its potent imagery is what puts it in the cult-classic basket.
Honestly, I love it. Much like The NeverEnding Story, my father is the one who discovered it while channel-surfing and invited me to watch it. Unlike The NeverEnding Story, I freaked out the moment Darkness came through the mirror to confront Princess Lili and couldn’t watch it to the end... at least not until many years later when I chanced across the DVD at the mall, realized what it was, and finally completed the story. Ah, the things you remember.
Princess Lili comes to visit her lover Jack in a fairy tale woods, where she’s been meeting him in secret for some time. Today, he invites her to witness something truly special: two unicorns that hold the balance of life and death in their horns. Unbeknownst to the lovers, a pair of goblins have been sent by their master, the Lord of Darkness, to destroy the unicorns, thereby ushering in an eternal winter and endless night. Using Lili as bait, who doesn’t heed Jack’s warning not to touch the creatures, the goblins manage to hit one of the unicorns with a poison dart and claim its horn.
Winter hurls over the land and the pair are separated. While attempting to defend the mare, Lili is captured by the goblins and taken to Darkness’s lair. Meanwhile, Jack teams up with a collection of the Fair Folk in order to free the captured unicorn and destroy Darkness itself.
The most interesting element of the film (at least IMO) is that its fairy tale inspirations limit the scope of the story, which takes place in what TV Tropes would call a World Limited to the Plot. Everything happens in either in the forest or in the lair of Darkness – if anything exists outside these locations, we never see or hear of them. Likewise, none of the characters are given any context at all. Why is Jack living rough in the woods by himself? Unknown. Where does Lili come from, how did she meet Jack in the first place, and what exactly is she a princess of? Unclear.
There is no world-building and no context to this particular fantasy world, and that makes for an intriguing tone. Half the time you feel as though you’re watching a play unfold, helped along by the quality of the soundstage, which makes everything feel enclosed and spatially limited.
It also strikes a unique tone among the other eighties fantasies I watched this month. It’s a fairy tale like Labyrinth (in that it draws upon old and familiar archetypes), but also high fantasy like Willow (in that the fate of the world is at stake). In both cases, little people are heavily involved. Much like Princess Buttercup in The Princess Bride, the script recognizes that the innocence Princess Lili exemplifies doesn’t just mean naivety, but also a fair amount of entitled self-centred brattiness. And hey, both princesses are named after a flower!
It shares actor Billy Barty with Willow, and the presence of a child actor who must play a character far older than they appear with The NeverEnding Story. There, it’s the Childlike Empress, here it’s Honeythorn Gump (performed with aplomb by David Bennett, with a dubbed voice by Alice Playton, who also played Blix the goblin). They also each have a female character that’s performed by a male actor: Morla the Ancient One and Meg Mucklebones (that’s Robert Picardo, best known as the holographic doctor in Star Trek Voyager, under all those prosthetics). And for some reason, the eighties seemed to really like single-word titles beginning with L: Legend, Labyrinth, Ladyhawke...
But if its plot is the most simplistic, the images it conjures are the most memorable. Not always in a good way – we may never know why bubbles fill the air when Jack meets the Fair Folk, or why glitter is on absolutely every available surface, from Tom Cruise’s cheeks to the evil throne of Darkness, but other shots are incredibly striking: the unicorn getting his horn severed in a swirl of blossom petals, the massive petrified tree which serves as Darkness’s evil fortress, and the unforgettable visual corruption of Lili, in which she’s approached by a faceless dancing dress who slowly but surely draws her into its dance, followed by the arrival of Darkness in all his Satanic magnificence.
There are other bizarre touches: that the unicorns sound like whales (and that their horns are a bit wobbly), that daylight encroaching on Darkness’s lair somehow has enough force to burst through massive locked doors, that one of the goblins has the line: “adieus, amigos” as an undead mummy rises from the grave and throws them both into a crevasse... the list goes on.
It's filled with potent symbolism and imagery from myths and fairy tales. In many ways the forest is the Garden of Eden, but one that’s already been infected by evil (the goblins). Lili must pass through the shadow of death and her own corruption before returning to her true self, while Jack goes through a typical hero’s journey – from proving himself mentally and physically, to taking a leap of faith as the final hurdle. The screenwriter did their homework on fairy tales, with the inclusion of riddles, glamour, the difficulties posed by iron, the sanctity of unicorns and so on – it plugs in nicely to the wider world of folklore and legends.
Obviously Tom Cruise went on to become one of the greatest A-listers in Hollywood, but it’s really Mia Sara who forms the emotional centre of the story, and for my money, she’s the one carrying the film. As mentioned, she manages to embody youth and naivete in her dainty, nymph-like physical performance, but also the mischief and wilfulness that go hand-in-hand with any honest depiction of “innocence”. It’s she that commits the story’s inciting incident, and her transgression that must be atoned for, like all the best fairy tale heroines since Psyche.
It's undeniable that although more time is spent on Jack, Lili has the far more interesting story. Like, it’s not even a competition. As Jack gathers his allies and weapons before making his way to Darkness’s fortress in a straightforward quest narrative, Lili goes through a corruption arc when she’s captured and forced into a Battle of Wits with Darkness himself, who is drawn to her purity (yeah, along with Labyrinth, this movie probably kickstarted a lot of “I want a villain to be obsessed with me!” fantasies in women my age).
Thankfully, the film has Lili reject his offer of marriage, trick him into believing she wants to sacrifice the remaining unicorn herself, and then free it at the first available opportunity. Even more surprising, Jack is placed in the position in which he’s urged to kill her for the greater good – like Jean Grey, Vanessa Ives, Daenerys Targaryen – all those women who had to be murdered by the men who supposedly loved them for the sake of the world... and refuses to do so. Instead he trusts her, and it’s the right call.
Unfortunately, we’re well over halfway through the movie when Lili’s dark transformation happens, and the banter between her and Darkness is limited. Come on, they could have had some juicy conversations about the nature of good and evil! Instead, there’s just some yelling at each other, and Darkness being oddly insistent on her sitting down in a creepy-looking chair. What would have happened if she’d sat? We never find out. Nothing good obviously, but I would have liked a little more clarification.
For the record, Tom Cruise isn’t bad. He commits fully to what is essentially a rather silly role, and adds details to his performance like sitting back on his haunches and constantly tilting his head to give Jack a wild, animal-like quality. Tim Curry naturally provides the film’s most iconic character as Darkness, complete with red skin, massive horns and hooved feet – naturally a person has to overact in order to push a performance through these layers of prosthetics, but some of that Tim Curry cheese-and-ham soaks through.
The most exciting thing about this rewatch is that I finally had a chance to watch the Director’s Cut. This film is rather notorious for the differences between its American and European releases, with the latter being considerably longer than the former – though that doesn’t mean the American version simply removed some scenes. To make things even more complicated, there are whole sequences in the American version (such as a fight between Jack, Gump and some of Darkness’s minions, a different introduction to Darkness, more emphasis on the Jack/Lili romance, and a scene of Gump returning the horn to the unicorn) that aren’t in the European cut.
But the biggest difference was the score. The European cut had soft, dreamy, fairy tale music by Jerry Goldsmith, while the American one was scored by German New Age electronic group Tangerine Dream, which provided a harder, darker, more synthesized tone for the film. Debate continues to this day as to which score is better suited to the material, though I have yet to see the American version in its entirety.
But what I have seen now is the Director’s Cut, released in 2002, which adds almost twenty-five minutes of new footage to the film. There are no new characters or subplots, just a number of little snippets that all contribute to the increased runtime, lending the story more details and a better sense of continuity.
Still, that added depth is most welcome. Notable additions include giving Lili a bit more background (she mentions the existence of a father) and a strange premonition when she sees the clock in Nell’s house turn white with frost. This cut makes it very clear that her decision to approach the unicorns was not an innocent mistake, but a real transgression, as she ignores Jack’s overt warning not to go after them with a covetous gleam in her eye, and gives a petulant “I don’t care” afterwards.
There’s an explanation to the strange bauble Gump displays when he tells Jack they’re running out of time (it’s actually a timepiece, as established when he and Screwball synchronize their watches) and more detail to the final fight between Jack and Darkness, including the latter being thrown out into the void of space. Finally, there’s an alternate ending, in which Jack and Lili actually part ways at the conclusion of the film, with only Jack seeing the Fair Folk and the two restored unicorns from a distance.
And yet even here, not everything that was filmed made it into the Director’s Cut. The original scenes shot for the American cut aren’t included, and neither are deleted scenes such as the stealing/restoration of the unicorn horn, Gump forcing Jack to dance by playing the fiddle he’s carrying in his first scene (which explains why Jack is covered in sweat while trying to answer the riddle and why Gump later refers to him as “dancing fool”) and the story behind why Blunder has a chicken hand. I think it’s also safe to assume there was originally a reason why Blix and Pox disappear halfway through the film, but this is never explained in any of the cuts.
Whew. All that, and there’s still no definitive version of the film. Personally I’m fascinated by this sort of thing, so if you want a more in-depth look at the history of these three cuts and what they’re comprised of, here’s an informative YouTube video on the subject.
Anyway, I find this movie and its oddities captivating; there’s something so immersing and intoxicating about it. Every time I watch it I’m completely drawn in, and now I have a Director’s Cut to obsess over! It’s a movie that’s more of a feeling than a movie, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Labyrinth (1986)
This movie is another box-office failure that turned into a cult-classic, which for my money, is a far better option than making millions of dollars and having no lasting impact on anyone’s imagination or inner worlds (*cough* Avatar *cough*)
As with Legend, the plot is profoundly simple, and also involves a young girl’s transgression and her attempts to atone for it. Sarah is a whiny, spoiled pre-teen, who in a fit of pique, wishes her stepbrother Toby would be stolen away by the goblins. Unfortunately, the goblins are listening, and immediately oblige.
Instantly regretting her wish, Sarah comes to a deal with Jareth the Goblin King: that she has thirteen hours to traverse the Labyrinth to rescue her brother, or Jareth gets to keep him forever. As her adventure unfolds, she naturally comes across creatures who both help and hinder her, though ultimately the key to Jareth’s defeat lies within herself.
In all honesty, the plot is a bit garbled. For instance – what is the underlying theme here? That Sarah has to grow up, or that she should cling to her childhood? That life isn’t fair and there’s nothing anyone can do about it? Is it a cautionary tale about predatory men? About being careful what you wish for? The final confrontation of between Sarah and Jareth, in which she repeats the final phrase of her favourite book “you have no power over me”, feels like it’s borrowing the realization in The Wizard of Oz that Dorothy had the power to return home at any point – she only had to learn it for herself. But despite being more kindly deposed toward her little brother by the end of the film, what exactly has Sarah learned from her adventure?
Fairy tales can be many things, but straightforward in their meaning and purpose is usually a prerequisite. For most of the film’s runtime, I’m onboard with the arc of Sarah growing out of her immaturity: that she’s first seen running around in public in a costume is a bit cringe, as is her petulant and whiny manner toward her stepmother and brother. Jareth mockingly invites her to “play with your toys and your costumes,” and when the Labyrinth tries to entice her into giving up by showing her a vision of her bedroom, she escapes by identifying her belongings as “all junk!”
By the end of the film, she’s bequeathing her teddy to Toby and “putting away childish things”... only to glimpse her friends in the mirror and join them for a dance party. It kinda undermines the whole point.
At other times, the theme seems to be “life ain’t fair.” Sarah constantly bemoans the lack of fairness in her life, from being forced to babysit her brother, to Jareth speeding up the clock, to realizing the markers she’s been leaving in the labyrinth are being tampered with. Later, when she hears a similar refrain from Hoggle, she has an epiphany and acknowledges that yeah – “that’s the way it is sometimes.”
Okay... but then how does this fit with her being the “babe with the power” who eventually defeats Jareth by telling him: “you have no power over me”? Is it meant to be not fair that she secretly holds all the cards and can effortlessly triumph over Jareth at any point, even if she wasn’t aware of it at the time? Doesn’t the fact that he kidnapped her brother and transported her to another world indicate that he does, in reality, have a lot of power over her?
Or does her power come from her understanding of the fairy tales she’s so obsessed with, which guide her behaviour and decision-making throughout the labyrinth? (Trying to outwit the lying/truth-telling doors, telling the others she must go on alone since “that’s the way it is”, etc). But oftentimes, the film seems to be making fun of these fairy tale tropes, and her foreknowledge often fails her more than it assists.
The idea of the labyrinth representing the passage from childhood to adulthood works great, as does the fact it literally looks like a brain. In this, it represents Sarah’s own mind, suggested by the variety of toys, games and posters in her room that eventually make a “real life” appearance in the labyrinth itself (such as the Escher poster, the music box figurine, a bookend of Hoggle and soft toys of the Firey creatures – not to mention her Old English Sheepdog Merlin, who becomes Sir Didymus’s steed Ambrosius – another name for Merlin).
That makes for a great metaphor – that she’s traversing the convolutions of her own thoughts and imaginative yearnings, which also ties in well with the ultimate reveal that she, and not Jareth, has the power. After all, he’s just another component of her own subconscious.
But Jareth’s role in that subconscious needed a bit more meat to it. There’s a backstory for Sarah that came to me through fandom osmosis which establishes that her missing mother ran off with a rock star prior to the events of the film. I think this is ascertained in the film’s novelization, though you can see glimpses of the story in the newspaper clippings and photographs on Sarah’s vanity mirror.
In choosing to reject Jareth and take care of her brother, Sarah is therefore rejecting the glamorized fantasy she nurtured of her mother, who – in actuality – selfishly abandoned her. Again, Sarah must put away childish things, including the rose-coloured fantasy of her mother and the boyfriend that stole her away. That’s a great basis for a character’s psychological core, but it’s only the barest wisp of subtext in the film itself.
Maybe the moral of the story is that we should assert power over our own fantasies, though this seems to have been lost on vast swathes of the audience, who instead think that being stalked and harassed by David Bowie as the goblin king is actually a dream come true. That’s the nature of fantasies, I suppose.
In short, the film is about so many things that it fails to really do justice to any single idea or theme.
Terry Jones of Monty Python fame is credited with the script, though it went through a lot of rewrites at the hands of many screenwriters before reaching its final form – that may account for the cluttered nature of its content, and the feeling that at some point everyone simply bit off more than they could chew in terms of what this story was actually about.
I know I take my life into my hands when it comes to criticizing a beloved cult-classic, so let me assure you: I love this movie. Like The NeverEnding Story, it was a staple part of my childhood, and its creativity and innovation far outweighs my issues with its jumbled storyline. So to make up for my complaints, here’s a list of elements I love about this film and the interesting things I learned from listening to conceptual designer Brian Froud’s commentary on the latest DVD release:
In a stroke of Fridge Brilliance, it turns out the reason Sarah’s dog was specifically an Old English Sheepdog was because this would make the transition to a puppet version of the animal much easier to portray on-screen – all that hair!
The scene in which Sarah makes her fateful wish is masterful: the sharp transition to the goblins waking up and listening in, the immediate ceasing of Toby’s crying as Sarah leaves the room, the goblins being glimpsed out the corner of her eye... masterfully done.
I deeply appreciate Sarah’s outfit in this film. The jeans place her in a contemporary setting, but the white blouse and the old-fashioned waistcoat give her a timeless look that’s also in keeping with the fairy tale vibe of the film.
Froud’s commentary provides all sorts of namedrops and connotations that had never occurred to me before: for example, when Jareth first appears in the French windows. Froud references Dracula and Peter Pan, who similarly make their iconic entrances through French windows.
According to Froud, Jareth – as a component of Sarah’s inner life – was meant to be both adversary and hero; a romantic figure that combined elements of Heathcliff and Rochester, a Japanese kabuki performer, a knight from a Grimms fairy tale, a ballet dancer, and (of course) a rock star. Later he compares him to an English “lord of the manor,” with the goblins as his dogs and his spectre as a riding crop – but (in keeping with the rock star theme) also a microphone!
It all reminds me of that quote from 2003’s Peter Pan (the best adaptation) in which Wendy first lays eyes on Captain Hook and the narrator tells us: “she was not frightened, but fascinated”.
Among other credited inspirations are the passageways of Venice, which provided the look of the labyrinth as we first see it – that straight corridor Sarah grows frustrated with. It’s an aesthetic Froud returned to when it came to the illusion that Jareth weaves around Sarah after she eats the peach, what with the Venetian masks and costumes of what are apparently the goblins disguising themselves as humans, who are in turn disguised with goblin masks. Mindscrew.
In the deeper parts of the labyrinth, Froud cites the visuals of an English garden or a toy town, what with all the trimmed hedges, while the underground areas surrounding the oubliette were more in keeping with Victorian sewers. And yes, the giant goblin corkscrew was a tribute to Raiders of the Lost Ark.
The worm (my favourite character) was deliberately meant to evoke a Dickensian character, and was designed with as many bright primary colours as possible to compensate for its size.
The reason why Hoggle makes so may “argh” noises, is because the actress inside the costume was constantly peering through his mouth – her only way of actually seeing where she was going. To cover for the sight of Hoggle wandering around with his mouth open, Brian Henson (who provided the characters voice) dubbed in a lot of grumpy noises.
Froud is at pains to point out that Toby (who was his real-life son, Toby Froud) wasn’t actually upset because he was afraid of the goblins, but rather because the music in Jareth’s throne room was a bit too loud. Likewise, his tears at the start of the movie when he’s put to bed by Sarah weren’t because she was being dismissive, but because he thought they were putting him to bed in the afternoon, and he wanted to get up and play! Apparently, he also had a great time playing on the stairs in the film’s climax.
Toby’s onesie was inspired by Alice in Wonderland’s stripy stockings, and designed to make him stand out among the goblins. It also caused some continuity errors when they bought the onesie in bulk, only to realize that the stripes didn’t match up from one outfit to the next – so ultimately they all had to be handmade. (Also, his diaper was too big so they had to put him in a smaller one, and sure enough, he ended up peeing all over David Bowie).
Other Alice in Wonderland inspirations were the lying/truth-telling guards that look like playing cards, and the giant hole Sarah falls down on her way to the oubliette – though the hands that form faces in the walls was Terry Jones’s idea, and he says in the making of documentary that he was delighted at how fantastic they looked on-screen, far surpassing how he imagined them.
That urn Sarah and Hoggle emerge from after escaping the oubliette is now in Brian Froud’s back garden.
The Wise Man sits in a throne that’s actually shaped like a book, and his cloak is made from pages, though it’s also meant to evoke the papery bark peeling off a birch tree. (This character also drives home my criticism that the film is confused about the point it’s trying to make – you’d expect a Wise Man character to impart some words that feed into the themes of the story, or hint at the way in which Sarah might ultimately defeat Jareth... but he doesn’t. I honestly can’t remember what he does tell her, because there’s no point to this interlude whatsoever).
Ludo was meant to look like a cross between a yeti and a troll, though his right hand was almost always limp thanks to the limitations of the puppet. The man working the costume from inside had one hand in Ludo’s left arm, and the other working his facial expressions. That left the right to dangle free.
Froud talks a little about the challenge of making the Fireys all look like they belonged to the same species, but which were still individuals. Honestly, this segment is my least-favourite part of the film. The effects have aged horrifically, and they add nothing to the actual story.
There’s a funny moment in which the companions are leaving the Bog of Eternal Stench and Sir Didymus implores Hoggle to get out of the way as Ambrosius overtakes him – this was unscripted because the dog just charged through the scene, and you can see the surprise in Hoggle’s body language.
Brian’s wife Wendy, a respected sculptor in her own right, who designed Yoda and provided the illustrations for books such as Terri Windling’s A Midsummer Night’s Faery Tale, made the tiny figurine on Sarah’s music box.
There’s a surprising inspiration for the goblin foot solders in the Goblin City: Thomas the Tank Engine. It sounds bizarre, but I can see it: the rust, the rivets, the numbers on the armour – it’s all like stream engines, right down to the colour-coding.
Apparently Kenny Baker played one of the goblins, and he accidentally got set on fire. Froud didn’t find this out until years later. Oh, and guess who did the choreography for this sequence. Cheryl McFadden, who played Beverly Crusher in Star Trek! Mind blown.
Froud also namedrops Arthur Rackham, Maurice Sendak and The Wizard of Oz – and when it comes to that last one, I wonder if the peach Hoggle gives Sarah is meant to evoke the field of poppies that puts Dorothy into a somewhat drug-related slumber.
I’ve always found the dream sequence and the creepy faux-bedroom scene that follows to be the most evocative part of the film. As mentioned, I was fascinated to hear that Froud conceptualized the dancers at the ball to the be the goblins in disguise, and that it was (more than any other sequence in the film) an overt representation of Sarah entering the adult world. Naturally, it’s not entirely to her liking, as she’s awkward and out-of-place... though it provides an interesting contrast when she does return to her childhood bedroom (or something that looks like it) and ends up rejecting that too.
According to Froud, this is the labyrinth itself conspiring her to give up; to make her believe she’s home and that it was all a dream. She’s soon relieved of this delusion when the old Junk Woman barges through the door, and begins to pile her belongings around her, jabbering on about how precious and needful they are.
There’s a lot to unpack with this one. First of all, there’s a rumour that Jareth himself is the Junk Woman, desperately trying to distract Sarah from her quest by bombarding her with toys and games. As Froud points out in his commentary, she’s being given comforting things, elements of her childhood, only for her to realize that they’re trapping her and preventing her from any psychological growth. She’s not safe in her childhood any more than she’s safe in impending adulthood. Okay, that’s a pretty sound interpretation of events.
But I’m intrigued by the glimpse we get of the junkyard, in which you can see several other Junk Women hobbling around in the background, laden with their own burdens. I rather like the theory that these Junk Woman are other girls, just like Sarah, who have made their way into the labyrinth and lost themselves in the process. You’ll note that when the Junk Woman is plying Sarah with her toys, she starts heaping them around her shoulders, as though starting her very own junk-load.
It's a chilling possibility to ponder, and very much like Catherynne Valente’s Deathless, in which the heroine is eventually confronted with the fact that she’s only one of many Maryas, each living out the same circular narrative and getting embroiled with the same “sexy dark lord” in exactly the same way. Damn, I gotta read that book again soon.
David Bowie’s final costume was meant to suggest either a ghost or the white feathers of the owl he can shapeshift into, denoting the fact he doesn’t have as much power as we’ve been led to believe. As Froud says: “Sarah’s always known the solution. She has won already.”
And like me, he’s not keen on the dance party ending. Like Wendy, Sarah has chosen to return to the real world, and though Froud concedes that he likes the fact Sarah can call upon the aspects of herself that got her through the labyrinth, the physical appearance of the creatures in Sarah’s room, complete with streamers and party hats, is a bit cringe. I have to agree – this film needed a more sombre, thoughtful note to finish on.
***
I know that David Bowie is the huge drawcard for most women my age who were raised on this film, but for me, the most important dynamic of the story is the one between Hoggle and Sarah. The movie crafts a sort-of love triangle between the three of them, which isn’t overtly romantic in nature, though there are a few interesting nuances here and there. Jareth’s manipulation of Hoggle very much relies on ridiculing his name and stature, and he’s clearly threatened by the bond Hoggle and Sarah are forming, to the point where he deliberately uses a kiss that Sarah bestows on Hoggle as the trigger for yet another disaster.
Fandom completely ignores all this, but there’s a Beauty and the Beast vibe between Hoggle and Sarah, and he remains the only one of Sarah’s companions to get an arc of his own: he’s initially self-serving and plans to sabotage Sarah’s efforts to get through the labyrinth, culminating in his betrayal of her when he gives her the mind-altering peach on Jareth’s orders. He eventually comes to her rescue and Sarah forgives him, though the whole thing deserved a bit more emotional closure.
The story of a quasi-love interest that betrays our heroine and eventually redeems himself was played to much better effect in 2005’s Mirrormask (produced by the Jim Henson Company and described as a Spiritual Successor to Labyrinth). Shit, now I have to go and rewatch that one too!
Most YA love triangles involve a young girl torn between two distinct types: the dark and dangerous bad boy and the less glamourous, down-to-earth ordinary guy, and I feel that they (perhaps unconsciously) replicated that here.
One last thing – I’ve always been powerfully curious about the book that Sarah reads and quotes from throughout the film. The introduction establishes that it’s a real book titled Labyrinth, and the famous quote that she repeats twice over (“Through dangers untold and hardships unnumbered, I have fought my way here to the castle beyond the Goblin City to take back the child that you have stolen. For my will is as strong as yours, and my kingdom is as great... you have no power over me”) matches her experiences directly. So who wrote this book? What’s it actually about? Does she project herself into it? Did she write it herself? I’ve always wanted to know...
The Princess Bride (1987)
What can possibly be said about The Princess Bride that hasn’t been said a million times before? Well, I can tell you that one of my earliest memories is watching this film, in a house that wasn’t my own, with a little girl (identity unknown) who was very fixated on the old hag who booed Buttercup in her dream and warned me well in advance as to her appearance. I was so young that I had difficulty parsing through some of the basic plot-points. Like, was the Man in Black really Westley? Why was he so kind and gentle as a farm boy, and then so cross and mean as the pirate? That’s confusing when you’re in single digits.
Here's a more controversial take: this movie is completely front-loaded. All the good stuff happens in the first half, up to the point when Count Rugen knocks Westley out with the butt of his sword. It’s all downhill from there. The torture session, Miracle Max, the siege of the castle... none of it compares with the Fire Swamp, the Shrieking Eels, the swordfight with Inigo, the battle of wits with Vizzini. You know I’m right – all the good stuff is at the start. In fact, with the exception of Inigo’s confrontation with Rugen, the ending is rather anticlimactic. I like that Westley bluffs his way out of a difficult situation, but it’s still anticlimactic.
Likewise, the Miracle Max sequence feels like it comes from a completely different film (and is a real Deus Ex Machina if ever there was one). Bringing Westley back to life with a miracle pill feels like such a cheat – if there was a true miracle that feels more in keeping with the film’s ambiance, it was Inigo finding the door to the torture chamber by asking his father to guide his sword.
Despite being the titular character, Buttercup is almost astonishingly passive (she gets a few moments of proactivity: jumping from the ship, pushing the Man in Black off the cliff, agreeing to marry Humperdink to save Westley’s life) and her plan to escape her wedding is explicitly to wait for Westley to turn up or kill herself if he doesn’t. Look, I know it’s a satirical fairy tale, but every other main female character in these eighties flicks – Lili, Sorsha, Sarah, Ysabeau, even the Childlike Empress with her Batman Gambit – has more agency than Buttercup.
Okay, before everyone attacks me in the comments, I do love this film. It makes a promise to the viewer: “fencing, fighting, torture, revenge, giants, monsters, chases, escapes, true love, miracles” and keeps that promise. The framing device is as lovely as ever, and only gains more resonance as you get older (for the first time, I realized that the Grandfather saying “as you wish” before he leaves is his way of saying “I love you” to his Grandson. I mean, duh – but you don’t pick up on that as a kid).
Watching it on the heels of reading Cary Elwes’s memoirs on the making of the film was a treat, and gave me plenty of added insight into the making of the whole thing, and watching is like easing oneself into a warm bath.
Willow (1988)
Now to close things off, Willow. Rewatching this was especially sad on the heels of the show’s cancellation, and I wish they’d gotten to a sequel series sooner, before half the cast become unavailable due to health problems or... um... death.
Willow was apparently George Lucas’s attempt to build another franchise. As Star Wars was to sci-fi and Indiana Jones was to action-adventure, Willow would be to fantasy. It didn’t work, and even as someone who holds the film dear to my heart, it’s easy to see why. Willow is a mash-up of Star Wars and The Lord of the Rings, to the point where you can draw a straight line between all of the main characters and their counterparts: Willow is Frodo Baggins, the halfling/Nelwyn sent on a quest against his will, Madmartigan is the amoral Han Solo who eventually reveals a heart of gold, Sorsha is a bad girl Eowyn/Leia who defies an evil Darth-like parent, Raziel is Gandalf, Meegosh is Sam, the Brownies are the C3-PO/R2D2 comic relief, and Airk is Lando, right down to the initial betrayal of his former best friend and eventual reaffirmation of their friendship.
There’s Belligerent Sexual Tension between Madmartigan and Sorsha that mimics the similar vibe between Han and Leia, and a Chosen One Prophesy that ends up subverting itself in a weird way (the prophesy of Elora Danan as the Chosen One doesn’t make any more sense than Anakin Skywalker’s similar position in the Star Wars prequels). And in keeping with Star Wars aesthetics, there are quite a few ponchos. The main detail that sets it apart from its predecessors is that its protagonist is already a husband and father at the start of the story.
In a fantasy world taken over by the evil queen Bavmorda, the hunt is on for an infant prophesied to one day be her downfall. Identified by a mark on her arm, the child is born to an imprisoned (and swiftly executed) woman and spirited away from the dungeons by a brave midwife. Hunted down by Bavmorda’s forces, the midwife just manages to place the baby on a floating tuft of land and push her downstream.
She’s found by two children of a Nelwyn village, whose father Willow is given the task of safely delivering the baby back to the Daikini (or big people). This is where the adventure starts for real, as Willow gathers an array of allies and attempts to smuggle the baby (soon identified as Elora Danan) to safety.
I mean, it’s a perfectly serviceable fantasy story. The oddest component is the fact that after establishing that Elora is a Very Special Baby, who is Destined for Greatness and the Empress of the Known World, it turns out that she really could have been any old baby with a fake prophecy applied to it. She’s completely incidental to the defeat of Bavmorda. I suppose in a way it’s also strange that she’s an infant for the entire duration of the film considering that babies, even one as photogenic as this one, aren’t particularly interesting. The likes of Angel and Xena Warrior Princess both introduced babies as part of their stories, and then wasted very little time in magically aging them up so they could play actual characters.
Perhaps George Lucas envisioned sequels in which Elora would appear as a child or young adult (as the sequel series did) but in isolation, it’s a little odd that they didn’t utilize a time-jump. So many questions remain concerning her character: who was her father? Where did she get the name Elora? Was she the reincarnation of someone? What exactly makes her so special? And how long did it take director Ron Howard to get all those adorable reaction shots?
The film has some real problems with its tone: too dark for children, but at times too slapstick and silly for adults. Madmartigan cross-dressing and the Brownie duo aren’t particularly funny, and things grind to a halt whenever there’s a comedic interlude. But James Horner provides a memorably epic score, and Howard manages some pretty good shots – the High Alwyn throwing his future-telling bones at Elora’s tiny feet, or Sorsha’s serrated sword creeping across Madmartigan’s face as he hides behind a corner. Even the special-effects aren’t that bad, as the size difference of the Brownies holds up surprisingly well.
Madmartigan and Sorsha’s love story is carried entirely by their chemistry (which makes sense, as the actors later married) and it’s a rare thing to see a bad girl/good guy dynamic instead of the usual “good girl redeems bad man” narrative. More than that, it’s a surprisingly woman-centred story. The film’s heavy hitters are Bavmorda, Raziel and Cherlindrea, and Sorsha gets the film’s most pronounced character arc.
This was also the rewatch that introduced me to the film’s deleted scenes. I knew about their existence, but turns out they’ve been released on YouTube, and help cover some inconsistencies in the final cut (there’s a whole sequence in which Willow gets to successfully use the magic acorns the High Aldwyn gave him) as well as provide some extra characterization (there’s a whole subplot about Sorsha’s father). You can watch them here. Now where’s the cut that restores them to the film’s runtime?
Whew, that’s it. Those are the five eighties fantasy films I watched over Easter. As you might have guessed, they made up a huge part of my childhood and I love talking about them. Just to finish, here’s an anecdote that demonstrates how weird I was as a kid: I was absolutely convinced that the midwife at the beginning of Willow was also Raziel, who (somehow!) managed to escape the killer pack-hounds. Likewise, on the basis of both characters uttering the line “as you wish”, I believed that the Grandfather in The Princess Bride was an aged Westley.
This from the same girl who thought the Inspector in An Inspector Calls was Eva Smith in disguise. I have no idea why, but I seemed to have been mildly obsessed with the idea of characters coming back under an assumed identity.
The Wonder (2022)
A moody period drama based on a religious mystery starring Florence Pugh? Hell yeah. I was spoiled for the solution going in, though it didn’t mess with my enjoyment of the film itself – even if it ends a bit too neatly, and has a framing device that’s so pointless it veers heavily into pretentiousness.
In 1863, English nurse Elizabeth Wright is sent to Ireland to attend a young Irish girl who claims not to have eaten in four months, being sustained instead by “manna from heaven”. Elizabeth is a skeptic, but prepared to do her duty, even after meeting the grim council of village men who waste no time in pouring their patriarchal condescension over her. As they make very clear at their first meeting, Elizabeth and a local nun (called in to share the shift-work) are there simply to watch, not form opinions.
The world-weary Elizabeth has clearly dealt with these sorts of men in the past, and so gets down to business with minimal fuss. She gives young Anna O’Donnell a brisk physical, checks the attic room for hidden caches of food, watches as she interacts with her family members (mother, father, older sister) and gradually learns more about the family dynamic, which includes a recently-deceased older brother.
There’s good stuff and bad stuff strewn throughout the story. As ever, Pugh dominates every frame she’s in, and the subtle battle of wits between herself and Anna makes for some compelling material. Even after the staunchly cynical Elizabeth begins to grasp how a trick like this might be pulled off, she can’t figure out why – the family don’t seem to be benefiting in any way from pulling such an elaborate con, and Anna herself is nothing but genuine in her faith.
So it’s the why rather than the how of Anna’s miracle that the film unravels more successfully, as the motivation and cultural context is right there from the start, hidden in plain sight. Unfortunately, it’s the how that might make the viewer slap their forehead.
SPOILERS
Out of nowhere, without any sort of coherent Eureka Moment, Elizabeth realizes that Anna is being sustained by her mother secretly transferring food to her mouth via motherly kisses, “like a bird.” Just try to visualize that for a second. No, really visualize it. A woman is transferring chewed up food into the mouth of her child under the guise of a morning/night kiss, and no one notices the necessary tongue/lip/throat movement that this would require? That what usually constitutes a brief gesture is actually taking a suspiciously long time, since it would take more than a few seconds to manoeuvre food to the front of your mouth and push it into someone else’s?
Even the film thinks it’s idiotic, because on the two occasions we do see Anna’s mother attempt this sleight of hand (or mouth) it’s obscured by either deep shadow or someone else’s body. It’s never actually dramatized on screen, because how could it be? It would look profoundly stupid.
In any case, Elizabeth finding the solution doesn’t solve the problem, for the family (including Anna) deny it, the nun has seen nothing, and the council of patriarchs prefer their version of events: that their village is home to a living saint. People ignoring the medical needs of a child because they can’t bear for their belief systems to be proved wrong? Yeah, this film has some modern-day connotations that can’t be denied.
The third act involves Elizabeth desperately trying to deliver Anna to safety, going up against the stubbornness of the family, the religious beliefs of the community, and Anna’s personal understanding of what’s at stake – all formidable odds.
Tom Burke is on hand as a local reporter to lend Elizabeth some support, though the attempt to craft a love story between them is so bad I wish they hadn’t bothered. Elizabeth scorns him until she learns about his sad backstory™ at which point she doesn’t waste a second in shoving him up against the nearest wall, at complete odds with how she’s been characterized up until that point. (I mean, if she had broken bird syndrome, we would have seen that in her interactions with Anna, who she takes a while to warm up to).
There’s also a minor subplot involving her own dead child and a laudanum addiction that could have easily been cut. Filmmakers, it’s okay for a character to just help a child in need out of the mere goodness of their hearts and/or sense of social responsibility – they don’t need tragic backstories in order to do the right thing. I promise!
And then there’s the framing device, which is downright awful. The story starts in the studio of the film itself, in which a narrator tells us exactly what we’re about to watch and that the characters involved “believe in their stories utterly” before zooming in on a set of the ship carrying Elizabeth to Ireland. Halfway through, it’s revealed that this narrator is Anna’s older sister Kitty, who has no impact on the plot whatsoever when she breaks the fourth wall and addresses the audience directly.
It all ends with the inverse of the opening scene, in which the camera emerges from the ship-set to behind-the-scenes, where the actress playing Kitty (now dressed in modern clothes) says some more naval-gazing nonsense. I’ve honestly never seen a more pointless addition to a film in my life. Its presumed purpose in commenting on the story’s theme of belief in one’s own narrative is tenuous at best, and you could snip out all three scenes and lose nothing of value.
But I enjoyed the film overall, it’s deliberately shot and slowly paced, and it opens up all kinds of questions about belief, fanaticism, faith and so on. Plus, the cast is stacked. In some ways, it’s a bit TOO stacked, as the council of overbearing patriarchs is comprised partly of Toby Jones and Ciarán Hinds, who get maybe three lines each? I think casting less recognizable actors would have been more effective, to better capture the mundane ubiquitousness of the patriarchal systems Elizabeth is up against.
I’ve already effusively praised Florence Pugh, who reminded me of a more benevolent version of the character she played in Lady Macbeth (though that might be because they’re wearing a distinctive blue dress in virtually the same environment) but Tom Burke is always solid, and the little girl playing Anna is very good.
I recognized Elaine Cassidy as Anna’s mother, who I honestly don’t think I’ve seen since she was in 2001’s The Others, one of my favourite movies. The physical resemblance between herself and Anna was so pronounced that I wondered if they were actually related – and sure enough, they’re mother and daughter in real life. Despite some pitfalls, I’d recommend.
The Woman King (2022)
Around the time of this film’s release, The New Yorker published an interesting article on the documentary Warrior Women hosted by Lupita Nyong'o about the real-life Agojie and her upcoming role as Izogie in the film. During her research into the women and their role in Dahomey society, Nyong’o became increasingly disillusioned about the nature of the Agojie, and eventually chose to leave the project. A sisterhood of warrior women may sound empowering and exciting on paper, but the reality of the situation was that the Agojie were trained because of high casualties among the male soldiers, and whose ranks were filled with captives and children.
This leaked into the promotion of the film, with many (bad faith) pundits trying to launch a boycott based on the fact the Kingdom of Dahomey was heavily involved in the slave trade – ignoring that the film is very much aware of this ugly truth, and much of the politically-based tension between the characters revolves around whether or not the kingdom can sustain itself by relying on other exports.
It is a little sugar-coated: though we see the Dahomey take captives, we never see any on-screen buying or selling of these captives at the slave markets, and the film’s conclusion has King Ghezo renounce the practice (which is true to history, but ignores the fact that he went back to dealing in slavery when the palm oil business didn’t prove lucrative enough). Likewise, the Agojie are depicted as a brave and proud sisterhood, with a strong cultural history and a deeply respected position within their society, where opinions are heard and freedom is granted for anyone not willing to stay – not a militia born out of grim necessity, whose recruits lived short, violent, indoctrinated lives.
And yet, how many times have we seen other films take dramatic liberties with history in order to tell a decent story? It’s certainly very suspect that things such as Braveheart or Gladiator get little more than an eyeroll when it comes to their historical accuracy, while The Woman King is the subject of outrage and boycotts.
The Agojie is used as an entry point to a wider portraiture of this particular time and place, and the Dahomey aren’t noble savages living in a utopian paradise that’s being indiscriminately destroyed by the white man. Instead, they are complex human beings, with their own strengths and foibles, on both a micro and macro level. The story is as much about how the Agojie relate to the wider world as they do to each other within their small insulated community, and both perspectives are given equal screentime by the film itself.
The film naturally stars Viola Davis as General Nanisca, the leader of the Agojie who fights to free captured women from the rival Oyo Empire, though in truth the story is really about Nawi, a new recruit who is given to the Agojie by her father after one too many rejected marriage proposals. Nawi takes to her new life like fish to water, though she’s a trouble-maker at heart and butts heads frequently with Nanisca.
Lashanna Lynch’s Izogie takes Nawi under her wing, while Nanisca’s confidant Amenza (Sheila Atim) provides emotional support (and subtle comic relief) to her general. About halfway through the film we’re introduced to Malik, a mixed-race man who has arrived with his Portuguese friend – and slave trader – to his mother’s homeland, curious about his heritage. Sparks fly when he meets Nawi, though the film thankfully does not lean too heavily into the “star-crossed lovers” angle. There is some discussion about the sacrifice the Agojie must make in foregoing marriage and children, but Malik remains in a supporting role.
It ends in a cathartic battle against European slave-traders, though is fraught with bittersweetness considering the ongoing history of Benin and the African continent. But it’s an epic movie in the truest sense of the word: big emotions, big set-pieces, big fight scenes, big characters, big consequences. We’ve seen many stories of the new recruit before, but certainly not one in this context, and although I’m led to understand that not all the cultural details are correct, it’s also just so refreshing to see a film like this – filled with human emotions and stakes – take place outside the usual European/American milieu.
You can tell this was a passion project for everyone involved, and it’s simply a beautiful film to behold. The costumes, the colours, the culture, the landscapes, the fight choreography... I was afraid it would be too violent to be truly enjoyable (especially since there is a narratively-important rape at one point) but it’s not at all graphic. For my money, it’s up there with Gladiator as a sweeping historical drama driven by human emotion. I’ll definitely be watching it again someday.
Sailor Moon: Season 4 (1992)
The fourth season of Sailor Moon has a better setup this time around, even if it’s still hopelessly formulaic (once again, flamboyant villains target talented individuals for their unspecified inner power). Still, I preferred it to season three. The “creepy circus” theme is fun and the initial trio of villains – Hawk’s Eye, Tiger’s Eye and Fish Eye – are amusing, though their method of attack is surprisingly dark. Once a human is targeted, they transform into their true selves and count to three. At each number, a board appears behind the victim, manacles shackle them to its length, and a mirror emerges from their body that their assailant can stick their heads into in order to examine their inner dream worlds. It’s invasive and quite disturbing.
But I’m getting ahead of myself. This season is largely about the search for Pegasus, who appears to Chibiusa in her dreams, and is being hunted by the members of the Dead Moon Circus. A magical winged horse certainly fits into the show’s aesthetic (certainly more than the Holy Grail did) and the show has some fun with the circus theme of the villains.
The annoying thing about this season is that it’s now the Usagi and Chibiusa show, and since both of them spend most of their time screeching at each other, it’s pretty awful. If you don’t believe me, Chibiusa now has a joint-transformation sequence with Sailor Moon, and stills of her are all over the end credits. Plus, she seems to be having a weird love affair going on with Pegasus, though I suppose that’s a step-up from having a crush on her dad.
The Sailor Scouts have largely been reduced to bit-parts, and one solid example of how they’re misused this season is the episode in which they end up tramping through the forest in search of a villain, only for the whole thing to turn into a gag when Usagi and Chibiusa deal with him in a completely separate location. The action then flits back to the Scouts, who are completely lost. I mean, come on. Doesn’t Ami have a computer to prevent this sort of thing?
Also, Luna and Artemis’s daughter Diana turns up from the future. Why? How? Unclear. She just arrives, and nothing else really happens with that development.
If you can stomach all the focus on Chibiusa, there’s some fun stuff here. The villains are an improvement on season three, what with Queen Nehelenia having a link to the Moon Kingdom and her lackey Zirconia being an abusive grandmother figure to the young Amazon quartet, who in turn end up posing a reasonable threat to the Sailor Scouts (relatively speaking).
Everyone gets an upgrade in powers, complete with new transformation sequences, though the DVD cover art lied to me in its depiction of Sailors Uranus and Neptune. They do turn up, but it’s only in a limited role in one of the special bonus episodes, in which they fight an evil puppet at a hotel. It’s a little weird, though not as weird as one of the other specials, in which Chibiusa befriends (and then fights) a vampire.
But I’m nearly there. Only one more season to go.
Spooks: Season 4 (2005)
The transition is complete, it’s now full-speed ahead with the new cast: Rupert Penry-Jones as Adam Carter (the new Tom), Raza Jaffrey as Zafar Younis (the new Danny) and Olga Sosnovska as Fiona Carter (the new Zoe). Er no, scratch that – it’s actually Miranda Raisin as Jo Portman who ends up being the new Zoe.
And okay, it’s not that simple. Whereas Tom struggled with his love-life, Adam is happily married to Fiona, also a spy, which surprisingly enhances rather than strains their marriage (at least to start with). And Jo’s entry into MI-5 comes about due to her tenacity as a wannabe reporter, whose instincts and quick-thinking catch Adam’s attention. She’s recruited as the “newbie”, though there’s a sad lack of insight into her training – she just turns up at the office after an unspecified amount of prep-work and dives straight in.
In the first episode, Danny’s funeral is interrupted by a bomb going off in central London (which coincided with the London bombing in 2005, leading to a disclaimer being placed in front of the episode) in a two-part opening. The MI-5 team also sabotage a far-right political party inciting violence, infiltrate a people-smuggling operation, attempt to track down a murder victim’s memoirs containing government secrets, and grapple with the release of a convinced terrorist who turns out to have been innocent (a case of mistaken identity). They save the best for last though, in which a well-respected former agent takes the MI-5 team hostage at Thames House, demanding evidence that they’re responsible for the assassination of Princess Diana. It’s a twisty-turny plot in which not everything is as it seems.
As ever, what I appreciate most about the show is that (almost) every episode is standalone. There are no long-running arcs or attempts at character development – just the mission of the day. You can jump in at any point, grasp what’s going on, and get a solid story with a beginning, middle and end. It’s SO refreshing.
The familiar guest-stars of this season include Anna Chancellor, Rupert Graves, Martine McCutcheon, Stanley Townsend, Douglas Hodge, Ralph Brown, Ben Daniels, Phyllis Logan and Lindsay Duncan – and that last one really delivers a chilling performance. I have the feeling that this particular dynamic (Adam, Zafar, Jo, plus Harry and Ruth of course) became the “faces” of Spooks for the duration of its run – that is, the cast that most people remember when they think of this show. I may be wrong, and I know they’re all replaced eventually, but there’s the sense that this is our core team for a while at least.
1883 (2021 – 2022)
Over Christmas, absolutely everyone in my extended family was talking about Yellowstone, and because I’m anal retentive about these things, I decided to watch the whole saga in chronological order. I’m aware that this was designed as a prequel to the modern-day drama starring Kevin Costner, so a couple of the call-forwards were probably lost on me, but this managed to be a fairly compelling drama on its own terms (though I still find myself not particularly interested in American history).
The Dutton family – patriarch James Dutton, wife Margaret, sister Claire, daughter Elsa, son Jon and niece Mary – are leaving Tennessee to head west, joining up with a wagon train of German immigrants on the Oregon trail. Most of the story is taken up with the dwindling party as they face the dangers of the wild: thieves, snakes, rivers, dysentery – you name it, someone will probably die of it at some point.
Yeah, it’s a pretty grim story, largely told through the eyes of eldest daughter Elsa, who is a difficult character to get my head around. From what I can tell, writer/director/creator Taylor Sheridan writes reasonably well for female characters... up to a point. They’re certainly never distressed damsels or wilting violets, but occasionally he can veer too far in the opposite direction. Elsa, for example, is wilful and beautiful and effortlessly good at everything she sets her mind to. She gets not one but two epic, whirlwind romances. Everyone who sets eyes on her immediately falls in love with her, and (with one massive exception, which admittedly is the first scene of the entire series) the world itself seems to bend in order to accommodate her.
However, I’ve seen enough glimpses of Sheridan’s other work (Emily Blunt in Sicario, Jane in Wind River, Beth in the parent show) to know that he’s capable of writing three-dimensional women, who make mistakes and get in their own way and bite off more than they can chew. It’s a delicate balancing act, between his romantic sense of reverence toward women and a commitment to realism.
For the most part he toes that line here. On the one hand, I appreciate that Elsa gets her period and has unshaved armpits. On the other, her hair is always straightened and shiny, and her teeth as white as snow. Her narrative voiceovers are pretentious more often than they’re insightful – but then, isn’t that what you’d expect from a teenage girl experiencing the world for the first time? And it all ends with her beautiful, tragic, long-before-her-time death. It’s not a fridging – she dies as a result of her own choices, and her prolonged fading is an essential part of her story, as well as a mediation on death itself.
I can’t say I was hugely interested in Sam Elliot’s Shea Brennan, the leader of the wagon trail who fails utterly in getting anyone where they need to go safely. Of the huge number of immigrants that he promises to lead into Oregan, only four of them make it. FOUR. Most of the time he’s picking fights with them or abandoning them to certain death, and most of the time I couldn’t even understand what he was saying. No, it wasn’t the accent, it was that Elliot felt the need to mumble every line. It was like he had marbles in his mouth the whole time.
Faith Hill does surprisingly well as Margaret Dutton, though she feels rather underused at certain points, and I think I read somewhere that Sheridan is committed to giving the First Nation people decent representation in his projects. It certainly provides a fascinating showcase of their culture, though as with his women characters, there’s the sense that he’s torn between his writerly instincts to show them in a realistic multifaceted light, and a sense of personal veneration.
As a prequel, the whole thing exists in order to establish when and how the Duttons settled in Montana, which probably would have had more resonance if I’d seen any of the original Yellowstone. How it fits in with that show remains to be seen. I can’t say I enjoyed this exactly, as if given the choice between uplifting or depressing, it always went with the latter option, but it was interesting enough to hold my attention. I’m about to embark on this franchise, and it may take me a while to pick my way through it all, but I’m already looking forward to Harrison Ford and Helen Mirren in the sequel series.
Oh, and Tom Hanks turns up for a cameo that lasts about three seconds. It’s a bit weird.
The Crown: Season 5 (2022)
After four solid high-gloss seasons of British monarchy-adjacent drama, I’m afraid this came as a bit of a disappointment. It took a while to figure out what went wrong – the marginalization of the Queen, yet another round of “Margaret is bitter about her life/Phillip feels the constraints of his marriage and purpose”, the ludicrously generous casting of Olivia Williams as Camilla and Dominic West as Charles (who definitely get the “winner’s edit” after being depicted as a couple of whiny sad-sacks taking advantage of Diana’s youth last season). Honestly, it’s like Peter Morgan is deliberately sucking up to the new king, and that’s kinda gross.
Even little things, like how Elizabeth Debicki’s Diana towers above everyone, or the bonkers notion that a. the British people were ready for the Queen to abdicate so a more “modern” prince could take over, and b. that everyone in the family would try to keep this news from her, rings false.
No one really disappears into their characters this time around. Dominic West is far too confident and forceful to pass off the weird blend of self-pity, arrogance and insecurity that is the entirety of Charles’s persona, and although Elizabeth Debicki nails the mannerisms and speech patterns of Diana, there’s nothing of her warmth or the genuine sense that she loved being around people. There are a few flashes of her disarming charisma, but most of the time she’s moaning about her marriage to anyone that will listen. And am I REALLY supposed to believe she would remark on her attraction to a doctor to a friend when said doctor has just operated on said friend’s husband? I don’t doubt the woman was a bit self-absorbed, but she demonstrably was not a narcissist.
So much of the writing is just repetitive or too on the nose. Heck, Morgan even lampshades this when the Queen remarks: “even the televisions are metaphors around here.”
It was a point of interest, as the show creeps ever-closer to that dreadful night in August 1997, that events are not being depicted as they were in 2006’s The Queen. I’m talking specifically about Tony Blair’s first meeting with Queen Elizabeth, which plays out very differently than it did in The Queen, not least because Cherie Blair isn’t present. I have to admit I’m interested at how this creative choice will affect what we see of Diana’s death and the aftermath in the sixth and final season – which of course, Morgan has already covered extensively in his movie.
The production values are still sky-high, but I suppose that now the show’s timeline has caught up to events in my living memory, I’m not particularly interested anymore. Everything was just so sordid and unpleasant (and still is), making me wonder for the umpteenth time why this entire pointless institution, one that has destroyed so many lives and wasted so much money, still exists. As ever, I’m convinced all over again that Prince Harry did the right thing in getting the hell out of there.
Magpie Murders (2022)
There’s a comment made in this six-part miniseries, in which the main character ponders the oddly comforting nature of the murder-mystery. How can such a thing be true of a murder? But of course, it’s not the murder that’s comforting, it’s that a person can come along and solve it, restoring order to chaos, turning horror to justice.
Susan Ryeland (played by Leslie Manville, who is everywhere at the moment) is a successful editor for a publishing company, eager to get her hands on the latest novel by Alan Conway. Though she has no love for the author himself (who is a massive jerk) she loves his detective stories, which have been the company’s biggest asset for years. Her relationship with boyfriend Andreas is also in a good place, though he’s wanting to leave his teaching job and go open a hotel in Greece – an upheaval Susan isn’t sure she’s ready for.
But then tragedy strikes: Alan Conway is found dead at the bottom his mansion’s tower. Was it suicide or murder? The plot thickens when Susan discovers that the final chapter of his last manuscript is missing. Could it be that it holds a clue to his death?
The gimmick of the story then, is that there is not one but two mysteries to solve: the real one of Alan Conway’s death, and the fictional one that plays out on the page, in which Conway’s detective, Atticus Pünd, is called in to investigate the murder of Magnus Pye, a wealthy landowner who’s been decapitated in his own home.
Something that translates nicely from page to screen is that many of the actors are playing more than one role: themselves in the real world, and the characters that they inspired in Conway’s book (that said, this duality doesn’t figure into the solution to either mystery, making it a little confusing when you start watching and have yet to separate the two story-strands). But once the story gets into it, you end up with two mysteries for the price of one.
Penned by Anthony Horowitz and based on his book of the same name, it’s a love letter to Agatha Christie, with plenty of wordplay, red herrings, and last minute twists – heck, even a direct shoutout to the woman herself. There’s nothing hugely mind-blowing about either of the mysteries, and Susan ends up doing the stupid thing of not only confronting the killer when they’re alone together, but turning her back on him while she picks up her purse, but the whole thing is so fun and inoffensive that there’s simply nothing to complain about. Great for a rainy day.
I recommend you read Magpie Murders (the novel) hot on the heels of the TV series (assuming you haven't already!), because it's really interesting how Horowitz had to change things around to do it on screen - the novel is the entirety of Conway's fictional novel in the first half, then the second half is Susan trying to find the last chapter. And you could still do it like that on TV, but it probably wouldn't work as well. (It's an interesting difference from the other times Horowitz has adapted his own work for film/TV - there's a film adapting one of his own novels that has a lot of long stretches that are almost word-for-word exactly the same as the book it's based on!)
ReplyDeleteMeta-fiction is also something Horowitz does really, *really* well - apart from one of his very first novels basically being a child-friendly version of The Maltese Falcon, I think the Hawthorne & Horowitz novels would be right up your street.
I am curious about the novel, but unfortunately I don't think I'll be getting to it any time soon. That's interesting what you said about the way it's structured though - I can see why that would have to fundamentally change for the television medium.
DeleteIt's interesting that Ann M Martin (and ghostwriters) seemed to have made a good faith effort at diversity in her characters (at least for the 90's) and yet presented a very whitewashed view of California.
ReplyDeleteI rewatched The Neverending Story not too long ago myself, and I agree that it absolutely holds up (Tami Stronach was so good, and I'm very intrigued by her return in the upcoming Man & Witch film), although I do think it is the one property that could justify a new adaptation incorporating more of the book. I do admit to having a fondness for the sequel (I mean it's terrible, but I'm fond of it), but it would be nice to see the second half adapted properly.
Huh, as a kid I also thought the Grandfather in The Princess Bride was Westley! Both Legend and Willow passed me by in childhood, I've always been meaning to watch them both at some stage but have never really gotten around to it.
Sailor Moon SuperS was always the worst season for me, the rainbow crystals/star seeds/dream mirror concept was wearing thin by that stage and I share your distaste for Chibiusa - thankfully she's much less of a presence in Stars.
Ooh, I didn't know Tami Stronach was returning to an acting role. I did a little digging on her career in the immediate wake of TNS, and it's a little sad - apparently she got all sorts of creepy letters and marriage proposals after playing TCE, and her parents pulled her WAY back from the spotlight.
DeleteI think you would like Legend, so long as you go into it with the awareness that it's fundamentally a very weird film. Watch for the vibes, not the plot or characters.