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Authors Posts by Jeffrey Sanzel

Jeffrey Sanzel

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Zoë Kravitz and Robert Pattinson in a scene from the film. Photo courtesy of Warner Bros. Pictures

By Jeffrey Sanzel

Batman first appeared on screen in the 1940s serials Batman and Batman and Robin. His next appearance was in the high camp television series, where Adam West fought a rogues’ gallery of villains played by beloved Hollywood character actors. In 1989, he resurfaced in the Tim Burton Batman, with Michael Keaton in the title role and Jack Nicholson as the Joker. Three sequels of descending quality followed. 

Robert Pattinson as Batman in a scene from the film. Photo courtesy of Warner Bros. Pictures

Director Christopher Nolan rebooted the franchise in 2005 with Batman Begins and Christian Bale donning cape and cowl. The Dark Knight and The Dark Knight Rises followed in 2008 and 2012. Ben Affleck became the most recent Batman, taking on Batman vs. Superman: Dawn of Justice (2016) and Justice League (2017). Throughout the Caped Crusader’s history, he was seen in various animated incarnations, ranging from the tame Saturday morning cartoons to the challenging Batman: The Killing Joke.

After several false starts with Affleck helming as actor, director, and co-author, The Batman has reached the screen with a different vision. Matt Reeves took an alternate approach, co-writing the screenplay with Peter Craig. Leaving behind Affleck’s action-driven script, Reeves explores Batman in a real-world environment. 

If it’s always sunny in Philadelphia, it’s always raining in Gotham. Undoubtedly, this cinematic Batman is the darkest. And while the Dark Knight rises, the sun does not. Gotham is a world of shadows, a city of chaos and utter corruption. A perpetual sense of disease permeates every corner of a world devoid of safety.

The plot centers around Edward Nashton (Paul DanPaul Dano, channeling the Zodiac Killer), a.k.a. The Riddler, who is eliminating people he feels have abused their power. The film opens with the murder of the mayor who was stepping out on his wife with a woman connected to the Iceberg Lounge, run by underworld mob boss Carmine Falcone (John Turturro). 

Falcone’s number two is thug Oswald “Oz” Cobblepot (unrecognizable Colin Farrell), nicknamed “the Penguin.” The missing woman’s roommate is lounge server Selina Kyle (a phenomenal Zoë Kravitz), a burglar and drug dealer, who is—or will become—Catwoman. Throughout the slightly bloated three hours of playing time, skeletons come to light, including an unsavory history of Bruce Wayne’s parents and a connection to an orphanage where Nashton was raised.

Zoë Kravitz and Robert Pattinson
in a scene from the film.
Photo courtesy of Warner Bros. Pictures

For the most part, Batman’s communication style has been a monotone growl. As played by Robert Pattinson, Batman maintains a gravelly, tight-lipped demeanor. But he introduces an underlying neurotic intensity, reflecting that he is only two years into his crime-fighting career. Pattinson’s Bruce Wayne is not the millionaire playboy living in splendor. Instead, he broods in a decaying Gothic manor worthy of Miss Havisham. 

In addition, Bruce is trapped in a codependent relationship with antagonistic butler Alfred (Andy Serkis, given not enough screen time). Alfred reminds him that he is ignoring his responsibilities. This original approach works, giving depth and insight into the struggle of maintaining two separate existences.

While Batman has often been on the perimeters of society, here he is a true outcast. The police—infested with crooked dealings—see him as a freak. His sole ally is Lieutenant James Gordon (Jeffrey Wright, in a first-rate, definitive interpretation), who truly understands his value.

“Fear is a tool,” states this Batman. “They think I’m hiding in the shadows, but I am the shadows.” His motto is straightforward: “I am vengeance.” Part of him believes Gotham is beyond saving—“maybe it’s eating itself.” With monomaniacal drive, he tries to eradicate the criminal element on all levels to exorcise his demons. He has not yet found a more altruistic drive.

The Batman draws on multiple sources from the comic book but eschews the whimsical villainy for true horror. The Riddler is ridding Gotham of those he feels have betrayed the people. He is “unmasking this cesspool of a city,” a distorted reflection of Batman’s mission. Gone are the green tights with a question mark emblem. Instead, he is a sadistic serial killer cut in the Seven vein, often enacting crimes that call to mind Saw’s Jigsaw. While never fully seen, the vicious murders are suggested clearly. He does not have henchman but instead online followers. This is a timely and more frightening proposition, especially in the film’s finale.

Farrell’s Penguin little resembles anything in the Batman canon. Absent are the traditional umbrella, top hat, monocle, and cigarette. Instead, buried under a fat suit and layers of prosthetics, Farrell’s hoodlum is a plotting opportunist. Perhaps closest to expectations is Kravitz’s conflicted and complicated Catwoman, generating heat and danger.

The Batman focuses on the idea that choices have consequences, and responsibility must go beyond vengeance. In the end, Reeves aims for nobility in the final message. Batman embraces survival to transform. He will endure not for payback but to make the world a better place. He acknowledges that there will be people who will take advantage of Gotham’s vulnerability. But, for him, it must be about not dwelling solely in darkness. Whether this is an earned, uplifting coda or just pulling punches from the film’s true grit is left to the individual viewer. Either way, a forthcoming sequel will find a Batman with a higher purpose, continuing those steps into the light.

Rated PG-13, The Batman is now playing in local theaters.

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Haley Bennett and Peter Dinklage in a scene from the film. Photo courtesy of Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer/ Peter Mountain © 2021 Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer Pictures Inc. All Rights Reserved.

By Jeffrey Sanzel

The works of prolific writer Edmond Rostand (1868-1918) included plays for legendary actor Sarah Bernhardt and Les Romanesques (1894), the inspiration for the musical The Fantasticks (1960). But his most enduring work is Cyrano de Bergerac (1897). Rostand based his drama on the life of French novelist, playwright, and duelist Savinien de Cyrano de Bergerac (1619-1655).

Haley Bennett as Roxanne and Kelvin Harrison Jr. as Christian in a scene from the film. Photo courtesy of Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer

In the play, nobleman Cyrano is a cadet in the French Army. Articulate and talented, bold and brash, Cyrano has an exceptionally large nose. His extraordinary proboscis prevents him from expressing his love for his beautiful cousin, Roxanne, fearing his ugliness would cause her to reject him. So instead, he aids the handsome Christian Neuvillette in his courtship of Roxanne.

The first production opened on December 27, 1897, and starred Benoît-Constant Coquelin, who went on to play the role over four hundred times. Subsequent productions were mounted across the globe.

The longest-running Broadway production starred Walter Hampden, in a translation by Brian Hooker; his adaptation became the standard until the 1980s. The best-known Cyrano was José Ferrer, who received a Tony and an Academy Award for his portrayal. Other stars and other translators have since put their enduring impression on the story. Anthony Burgess turned his 1970 adaptation into the libretto for the musical Cyrano (1973), for which Christopher Plummer won a Tony. Steve Martin’s modern screenplay Roxanne (1987) earned him accolades as a writer and actor. 

The story of the selfless soldier with the large nose and eloquent soul has touched audiences on stage and screen for over a century. The newest incarnation, the musical Cyrano, is directed by Joe Wright (Pride & Prejudice, Atonement, Anna Karenina, Darkest Hour, Pan) from a screenplay by Erica Schmidt, based on her 2018 stage adaptation for the off-Broadway production presented by The New Group. 

Haley Bennett stars as Roxanne and Peter Dinklage as Cyrano in Joe Wright’s
CYRANO
A Metro Goldwyn Mayer Pictures film
Photo credit: Peter Mountain
© 2021 Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer Pictures Inc. All Rights Reserved.

Starring Peter Dinklage, the production features music by Aaron Dessner and Bryce Dessner (of the band The National). Rather than focusing on an exceptionally large nose, it is Dinklage’s diminutive size that sets him apart.

The plot of the Rostand remains, with Cyrano in love with Roxanne, but, afraid of rejection, he pours his heart and words into writing and coaching another man to win her heart: “I will make you eloquent while you make me handsome.” 

But the tone is dark and raw, set in a gritty world. The sense of unrest, of a country at war, permeates the entire film. From the opening scene to the last moments, the unease reflects the restlessness of the story’s protagonist. Instead of the Cyrano beloved of his fellow soldiers and connected in the community, Dinklage is a figure of isolation. 

With the absence of comradery, the loneliness creates a deeper poignancy. He says wryly, “I am living proof that God has a sick sense of humor.” But the depth of his pain is present. His yearning and struggle with unrequited love are heartbreaking, never too far from the surface. “My fate is to love her from afar.” Dinklage’s performance is nuanced, subtle, and honest.

However, taken as a whole, the film is uneven. The dialogue is a mix of occasional rhyming (that seems to disappear), genuinely eloquent free verse, and jarring anachronisms. Many classic speeches are gone, often feeling like Hamlet without “To be or not to be ….” The absence of Rostand’s whimsy and warmth are replaced with a harsher edge that serves some but not all the film. 

Humor is rare. Oddly, one of the first lines, delivered by Roxanne’s duenna Monica Dolan), is one of the lone quips: “Children need love; adults need money.” But these flashes are rare.

Haley Bennett’s Roxanne is not a fluttering ingenue but as self-actualized as a woman of the era could be. She is best when paired with Dinklage, especially in the pastry shop that neatly bookends their final encounter. Wright directed the first scene in sharp cuts emphasizing the dynamic relationship. 

Kelvin Harrison, Jr., makes for a likable, if too aware, Christian. Christian and Cyrano should be a study in contrast, with the former tongue-tied and awkward; he is never allowed to commit to the character’s social clumsiness. Ben Mendelsohn’s De Guiche is predatory, going from storybook villain to full-on monster. Bashir Salahuddin’s Le Bret is marginalized. Le Bret is meant to be Cyrano’s confidante and confessor; here, he is reduced to a few small scenes. 

Haley Bennett in a scene from ‘Cyrano’. Photo courtesy of MGM

But the largest flaw is the unnecessary and intrusive score. Sounding quasi-Broadway pop, it consistently detracts from the flow of both the action and the passion. Musical construction is designed to transition into song when the characters’ emotions become too large for dialogue. In Cyrano, it seems the opposite. The energy rises only to be arrested by generic tunes and painfully prosaic lyrics. 

Vocally, Harrison, Jr., has the strongest voice. Dinklage has a pleasant rumble, reminiscent of Leonard Cohen and Bennett is pleasant if unremarkable. An entire song is given over to the soldiers before battle. For some reason, the composers have opted for a Country-and-Western sound.

The designs are lavish, with a well-deserved costume Oscar nomination (Massimo Cantini Parrini and Jacqueline Durran). Jeff and Rick Kuperman’s choreography is intriguing if puzzling. The film is violent, with brutal sword fighting ending in death. Cyrano even sets fire to one of his attackers.

But ultimately, Cyrano belongs to Dinklage, and he shines. He says of Roxanne: “Even her imperfections are perfect.” The same could be said of Dinklage.

Rated PG-13, Cyrano is now playing in local theaters.

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'Hands of Gold'

By Jeffrey Sanzel

Author Roni Robbins

At the suggestion of his daughter, nursing home resident Sam Fox records his life story. “Now where to being with this taping for Eliza? I was a decent man, I suppose.” In that “I suppose,” author/journalist Roni Robbins sets in motion the engaging but unreliable narrator in Hands of Gold, subtitled One Man’s Quest to the Find the Silver Lining in Misfortune (Amsterdam Publishers). Sam refers to some of his dormant experiences as “a ravaging tapeworm” that he wanted to purge. What follows is a textured, first-person narrative reflecting turn-of-the-century European life and North American immigration, as well as struggles with money, family, and health. 

 

Robbins’ novel is based on cassette tapes left by her maternal grandfather. In a decade-spanning journey, Hands of Gold’s sweeping nature never loses its intimacy. 

Sam Fox was born in Jacovo, Hungary, in 1905, the ninth child of a poor Jewish family that would eventually grow to thirteen (with his widowed father marrying his wife’s sister to produce the additional offspring). It is a life of farming and prayer for the family. 

Robbins provides a vivid depiction of poverty, threatened by violence and unrest, both in the form of anti-Semitism and the threat of war. She creates the cramped, cold conditions of the shtetl, a large family where servings of food were almost rations. As Sam’s mother would tell them, “That’s what you have and that’s what you eat.” 

Robbins wisely eschews the easy, idyllic family life for one of constant challenges, exacerbated by Sam’s father’s passing and his elder brother’s return. Always in the background is the hope of America—the land where the streets are paved with gold. At age eighteen, Sam escapes the family (as well as dodge army service), ending up destitute in Prague, only to return home. With his second attempt at liberation, he spends time in Germany before crossing the Atlantic and jumping ship in Montreal. The book is a Brave New World adventure story, a unique take on “Go West, young man.”

In Canada, he falls in love with Hannah Stein. The seamstress-Yiddish theatres’ singer is dynamic, self-assured, and strong with an annulled marriage. From the first date to marriage and beyond, the courtship is beautifully chronicled.

At age twenty-one, Sam snuck over the Canadian border. His first impression is not the idealized United States. “As I stepped off the platform, I noted how closely packed the buildings, how shmutzy the streets were with blackened snow and fetid water …” Four of his brothers and four of his sisters had already made homes in America. But even then, it is not a joyous reunion; his sister, Sophie, greets him with a mixed reception.

He witnesses the conflict between immigrants who have forged uneasy assimilation and those who still cling to their old-world Jewish traditions. Robbins never evokes anything less than an honest picture.

Sam finds work and starts a family. Central to his story is tuberculosis developed at age twenty-six. The repercussions and medical setbacks coupled with the separations from his family plague him for years to come. He is in and out of employment, often spending weeks in the hospital or rest facilities, trying to work his way back to Hannah and his children. As in Europe, his existence was marred by poverty. The book chronicles the organizations that supported people like Sam—both government bureaus and Jewish agencies. The services aided but did not fully alleviate the burdens faced by poor and sick people. 

No book on this subject can avoid the effects of the Holocaust. Much of Sam’s family is lost in Europe. Sam’s oldest son served in the post-World War II army, and his experience going through the Displaced Persons camps is poignant and powerful.

Sam ponders generational gaps and muses on the contrast of his childhood with his children. “My children, like most, didn’t comprehend how good they had it. When I grew up, I didn’t always have shoes to wear […] Only on Friday nights did we have to wear shoes. They didn’t necessarily fit properly, but luckily, we only had to wear them for a few hours […] Children learn more when they have their own families to support …” 

Robbins captures Sam’s voice, with its European cadence and liberal use of Yiddish. (The words are easily understood in context or using the book’s glossary.) Sam questions many of his choices but accepts their eventual outcomes. 

“If there’s something I’ve learned, it’s that some days start out badly and don’t get any better. Other days are quite momentous and you have to hold tight to those. Be thankful for every day you experienced love and blessings because you never know when your faith will be tested again.” 

Hands of Gold explores and celebrates the gratitude of one man’s soul. Pick up a copy online Amazon.com or BarnesandNoble.com. For more information on the author, visit www.ronirobbins.com.

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Jennifer Lopez and Owen Wilson in a scene from the film. Photo courtesy of Universal Pictures

By Jeffrey Sanzel

Romantic comedies cover a broad spectrum. Whether classics, such as It Happened One Night, The Philadelphia Story, or The Shop Around the Corner or contemporary favorites, like When Harry Met Sally, Four Weddings and a Funeral, and Love Actually, most viewers have their personal favorites. 

On the low end are unwatchable travesties, usually humorless and coarse (thank you, Holidates, for ruining an entire year’s worth of celebrations). The majority play somewhere between, floating in that B-/C+ range on the bell curve. They are watchable but by-the-numbers predictable or just fail to reach their potential. Marry Me, now playing in theatres and streaming on Peacock, is guilty of both. 

Singing superstar Katalina “Kat” Valdez (Jennifer Lopez) is poised to marry the younger Bastian (Maluma) in a spectacular event. The combination concert and ceremony will play to five thousand “guests” and twenty million watching from around the world. It will also unveil the titular duet. Just before she is about to enter and take her vows, an online news source posts video of Bastian carrying on with Kat’s assistant. After a speech about “love is a lie,” Kat selects an unwitting audience member to be her husband. He is math teacher Charlie Gilbert (Owen Wilson), who happens to be holding his daughter Lou’s (Chloe Coleman) “Marry Me” sign. He comes onstage, marries her, and the story begins. 

The premise is ridiculous, but there is an opportunity for both humor and insight if one embraces the idea. The opening shows preparations for a celebrity wedding in all its excess, both the over-the-top production and the media coverage. How much more interesting would the film have been to continue this path, emphasizing the misplaced values and the constant internet hype? Instead, the story becomes painfully predictable. 

Kat’s people convince Gilbert to continue in the faux marriage so she can “change the narrative.” Because he is such a good guy—the windbreaker is a dead giveaway—he agrees. But, of course, they fall in love. She takes him to openings; she teaches his mathalon students to dance. It is all precious and precocious. 

The supporting cast is reduced to ciphers, with Sarah Silverman playing Gilbert’s best friend, a school guidance counselor, who is the “kooky sidekick.” John Bradley (interesting in the execrable Moonfall) and Michelle Buteau play Kat’s considerate handlers. But they are given so little character, they function more to move things along, reminding Kat that she has a photoshoot or a plane to catch. The banality of their performances is no fault of theirs. Maluma, a gifted singer, is given the caricature Latin lothario. Coleman does well enough as Gilbert’s daughter, caught between divorced parents and trying to fit in her new school.

But the film’s sole reason is Lopez and Wilson, and, unfortunately, they seem uncomfortable much of the time. Lopez is saddled with the worst of it; she is the star who is lonely in the crowd. Lopez is a charismatic performer, which shines through when she is allowed to sing. Here, she engages fully, and these are the brighter spots. Wilson is trying to channel an everyman but just comes across as clueless (projected through his use of a flip phone). 

There is not so much a lack of chemistry as no fusion. Kat and Gilbert are quickly too comfortable yet remain distant, mouthing speeches that are a patchwork of cliches. It is as if someone has cut up Hallmark cards and pasted them together as a script. In this case, the someones are John Rogers, Tami Sagher, and Harper Dill, who penned the pedestrian screenplay (based on a graphic novel by Bobby Crosby). Director Kat Coiro fails to bring any originality or point of view.

Many obvious moments will either satisfy expectations or just annoy. The whimsical challenge: Kat will attempt to function without assistants; Gilbert will go on social media. (The arc lasts all of three minutes and then is forgotten.) The requisite surprise birthday gift:  A visit to a childhood amusement park. The romantic date:  They chaperone the school dance. The build-up to consummation: It might be the first time in fifty years that anyone has been inspired by Robert Goulet’s “If Ever I Would Leave You.” The final obstacles involve the Grammy Awards and the big math event, lacking stakes and tension. So much for conflict, contrast, and texture.

One of the major missed opportunities is mentioned in passing. Kat is “north of thirty-five.” Far more interesting would have been incorporating the fears of a not-young-star in a youth-centric culture. Lopez would have brought both depth and dimension to this element.

Ultimately, it comes down to what you want. If you hope for wit and originality, Marry Me does not deliver. But, if you can accept a bland if not unpleasant movie, there are worse ways to spend a couple of hours.

Rated PG-13, Marry Me is playing in local theaters and streaming on Peacock.

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Hallie Berry and Patrick Wilson in a scene from the film. Photo courtesy of Lionsgate

By Jeffrey Sanzel

Did you ever stop to think that the “disaster” in “disaster movie” could have two meanings? You’ll have plenty of time to contemplate this during the two-hour running time (one hundred and twenty minutes (twelve thousand seconds)) that Moonfall takes to grind through its machinations.

Roland Emmerich directed, co-wrote, and produced Moonfall. His other science-fiction films include Stargate (1994), Independence Day (1996), Godzilla (1998), The Day After Tomorrow (2004), and Independence Day: Resurgence (2016). So, Emmerich is the guilty party.

On a 2011 Space Shuttle mission, a mysterious black swarm kills an astronaut. A fellow crewmember, Brian Harper (Patrick Wilson), is accused of negligence, blamed for the death, and fired. The other crewmember, Jo Fowler (Halle Berry), was unconscious when the attack occurred. 

Fast forward ten years. Harper, now divorced, is on the verge of eviction from his seedy apartment. Fowler (also divorced) holds the position of NASA’s Deputy Director. Conspiracy theorist K.C. Houseman (John Bradley) discovers that the moon’s orbit has shifted, bringing it closer to the earth. Failing to get Harper to listen, he goes public on social media. “Moon panic” and looting ensue. A failed attempt to investigate the moon situation leads to the exposure of the black swarms that attacked ten years earlier.

A scene from ‘Moonfall.’ Photo courtesy of Lionsgate

An hour into the film, Harper, Fowler, and Houseman venture out on a space shuttle taken from a museum; they are off to save the world. Spoiler Alert. In a convoluted explanation, everything comes back to rogue Artificial Intelligence destroying a civilization that colonized earth. The moon is a megastructure built by the aliens. (A fun drinking game would involve imbibing on this oft-repeated word. If you don’t want to wait for the myriad recurrences, say it to yourself ten times before going to the movie and take a nap instead.)

Meanwhile, on earth, a subplot involves Harper’s semi-delinquent son, Sonny (Charlie Plummer), rescuing his mother (Carolina Bartczak) and her new family, as well as Fowler’s son. They are trying to get to a Colorado bunker where Fowler’s ex-husband (Eme Ikwuakor), an Air Force four-star general, is holed up with the keys to the about-to-be-released nuclear weapons. Sonny outdrives a tsunami in an amazing feat of auto-heroics, possibly the greatest plug in Lexus history. He is also involved with a preposterous rescue involving the moon’s gravity saving the day.

Science fiction movies have been built on less but have triumphed in style, special effects, and an appeal to a sense of wonder. Moonfall manages to tick no boxes. What is not CGI looks like cardboard models. The same is true for most of the performances. 

Academy Award-winner Halle Berry is truly an exceptional actor and rarely disappoints; here, the headline should be “Halle Berry Cashes a Paycheck.” Patrick Wilson usually does not lack charm, but he comes across as a low-rent Captain Kirk meets Hans Solo. 

John Bradley (best known for his role as Samwell Tarly in Game of Thrones)gives the most interesting performance as the backward Houseman (attached to his mother and his cat Fuzz Aldrin). But, today, something is disturbing in the conspiracy theorist as the voice of reason. Donald Sutherland’s minute-and-a-half of screen time is a minute-and-a-half of screen time. (Beneath Berry’s headline should be “So does Donald Sutherland.”) Often, the performances seem one beat away from Airplane. We wait for Wilson to turn to the other two and say, “And don’t call me Shirley.” Alas, he does not.

Movies like this can be entertaining. Unfortunately, Moonfall is not so much fun as unintentionally funny. With lines as painful as “I work for the American people,” “The sand on the hourglass is dropping quickly for all of us,” “I hope the moon holds together at least for a little while,” “I didn’t come this far to fail,” “I hate to tell you this, but we’re running out of time,” and (multiple times) “I’ve got a plan,” the script is cobbled together from The Big Book of Movie Cliches. A personal favorite is “If the earth gets a second chance, I think we deserve one too.” The pseudo-scientific jargon does not help the situation. 

Moonfall makes us yearn for the integrity of Georges Méliès’ A Trip to the Moon (1902), in which a cannon propelled capsule lands in the eye of an annoyed moon. 

No words can truly describe the Moonfall’s final moments. They must be seen to be believed. Or better, not. Among the film’s promotional taglines is “Earth … We have a problem.” Yup. With deep gravitas, Harper says, “Save the moon. Save the earth.” Perhaps it should have been, “Save your money.”

Rated PG-13, Moonfall is now playing in local theaters.

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From left, Matt McGorry, Mamoudou Athie and Dina Shihabi star in Archive 81. Photo from Netflix

By Jeffrey Sanzel

One of Netflix’s top ten most popular shows is the first season of the supernatural Archive 81. The twisty thriller runs parallel timelines that eventually entangle. Smart and well-plotted, the eight one-hour episodes deliver intriguing concepts in a literate, engaging storyline.

Based on the podcast of the same name, Archive 81 focuses on Daniel Turner (Mamoudou Athie, understated and riveting), an expert archivist for the Museum of the Moving Image in New York City, who is hired to restore fire-damaged twenty-five-year-old videos. The head of the shadowy LMG corporation, Virgil Davenport (folksy malevolence as played by Martin Donovan), ensconces Daniel in a remote compound to do the work. 

Mamoudou Athie as Daniel Turner in a scene from the series. Photo from Netflix

The found-footage video belonged to documentarian Melody Pendras (Dina Shihabi), who was writing her Ph.D. dissertation about an apartment building, The Visser. However, Melody’s prime goal was locating her birth mother, who had left her in a church as an infant. 

While Melody lived in the building and investigated, The Visser burned down, leaving thirteen people missing. As Daniel watches the tapes, he becomes obsessed with Melody. Additionally, he is suspicious of the coincidence of his own tragic childhood loss of his entire family in a fire. 

The expansive construction of Archive 81 allows for full portraits of the isolated Daniel and the determined Melody. Their pain and struggles are palpable and are a study in contrast. Melody ferociously seeks the truth, even if it puts her in danger. On the other hand, the damaged Daniel spends his life on the sidelines, not as a creator. Asked if he is a filmmaker, he responds, “No, I restore … films, tapes, photographs … things that have been damaged, lost, or forgotten … I bring them back.”

When Melody begins speaking to him in the tapes and then appearing in person, he questions his sanity. But gradually, both realize they are connecting across time and space, with the lines not so much dissolved as tangled. Time is out of joint in both minutes and years, conceptually playing into the commentary of lost spirits who do not know where to go. Ultimately, this poses the question: “Can the present haunt the past?”

Creator Rebecca Sonnenshine (with four other writers and four directors) has crafted inventive mythology, well-developed characters, and clear and differing styles for 1994 and 2019. The driving force is the building and its occupants. 

Harkening to Rosemary’s Baby, the denizens of the Visser are a strange bunch, harboring secrets and holding clandestine meetings in the community room. But this is to be expected in a story that deals with covens, satanic cults, human sacrifices, and a god-demon named Kalego. 

Add to this spirit receivers, lost television tapes, a Hollywood connection, and drug addiction, Archive 81 boasts a complicated but not convoluted plot. The emotional investment is appropriately life-and-death, with the revelations smartly unveiled. 

The acting is solid, with Athie and Shihabi anchoring the narrative. Matt McGorry is excellent as Daniel’s friend and confidant Mark who runs the paranormal podcast Mystery Signals. McGorry mines the role for dimension, raising it above the stereotypical sidekick. Julia Chan just avoids caricature as Melody’s aggressive artist roommate, Anabelle. Ariana Neal’s Jessica is a likable, off-beat teen groomed for darker purposes. Evan Jonigkeit is wholly believable as Samuel, the most welcoming of The Visser’s residents. If Kristin Griffith and Kate Eastman are two of the more over-the-top tenants, Sol Miranda’s fortuneteller/medium makes a difficult scene soar.

There is little gore, and the handful of jump-out scares are well-earned. Unfortunately, the special effects are not as high-end as the series warrants, landing more functional than impressive.

Oddly, in the penultimate episode, Archive 81 loses tension as it is filled predominantly with straightforward flashbacks of the 1924 origin of the cult. The explanations deflate the existential dread, and its linear style is far less interesting than the early, more peripatetic entries. Clarification seems to diffuse the energy. The final moment sets up for at least a future season, if not seasons.

Archive 81 is an enigmatic fast-paced story grounded in riddles and played for high stakes. And what more could you ask for in a binge-watch? The series is now streaming on Netflix.

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Left, the author with her birth mother, Mireille Comtois, in 2011.

Reviewed by Jeffrey Sanzel

I’ll Wait for You, subtitled An Adoption Memoir (Red Penguin Books), is Eileen Mary Coyne Resta’s honest and open account of her search for and discovery of her birth mother. Born Marie Monique Comtois, the author presents an account that is both a quest for information and an exploration of the power of family—and families. While many works on the topic focus on “nature vs. nurture,” Resta spotlights her tale’s human aspects and interpersonal events.

Author Eileen Mary Coyne Resta

Resta was born in Montreal on June 6, 1949. She was adopted three months later and brought home to Brooklyn on September 9. The family eventually moved to Long Island, settling in Greenlawn. She grew up in a happy family, along with an adopted brother, Brian. She was surrounded by love and acceptance. However, the siblings were told not to share their origins, as there was often a stigma associated with adoption.

The book traces her childhood through marriage and, eventually, her own children. Her narrative is a well-crafted and informative portrait of life in the 1950s and 60s: bike rides and dancing school, secretarial college, and the Manhattan commute on the 7:07. She describes meeting her husband, Claude, their subsequent courtship, and the life they built together. Resta has lived with an appreciation of every moment, relishing gifts both large and small. At age thirty-seven, she returned to school and embarked on a career as an elementary school teacher and then a reading specialist. 

The matter of her birth family followed her—as it does all children in the same situation. So much comes from a sense of being different: “I think most adoptees miss looking at a family member and seeing a little of themselves looking back.” She is not bitter but ruminative. She found that reflection with the birth of her daughter: “When my daughter was born, it was a new experience.”

But still, questions always lingered:

As I reflect on my life as an adopted child, and its part in my growing up, I remember wondering who my birth parents might have been but then quickly putting it out of my mind. Why dwell on what you cannot know and especially on something that could upset your parents? Adoptees often fantasize about who their birth parents are. I read that most adoptees think they are descended from either royalty or criminals.

It was not until 2010 that she sought her birth mother. By then, both her parents and her brother had passed away. The book thoroughly details her search. Starting with the orphanage where she stayed briefly, she explains each step in the odyssey to being reunited with her birth mother, Mireille Comtois, who had looked for her several times over the years. The fear of rejection is one that haunted Resta. “I think my adoptees may feel as if they didn’t count, knowing the occasion of their birth was not one for celebration.”

‘I’ll Wait for You’

The day of their first meeting was April 14, 2011; Resta was sixty-one, and her birth mother was eighty-one, living in a nursing home, suffering from mild dementia. However, their bond was immediate and beautiful in Resta’s moving description. They were able to share a short but rich relationship. In addition, Resta gained three brothers and their families, developing a lasting connection. 

Family is the overriding theme in I’ll Wait for You. Throughout her life, Resta has put family center. Whether it is the one in which she grew up, her husband’s family, or her newfound Canadian clan, the power of belonging is one that she clearly celebrates with a full heart, finding new pieces of herself. She shares both her idyllic moments as well as her struggles. She does not shy away from doubts. But ultimately, her positivity permeates the entire story. She has lived in gratitude, from the family that chose her to finding the woman who gave her life.

In one of the final chapters, “Reflections,” Resta opens up about many of the more introspective thoughts that arose from her adoption, contrasting her personality with that of her adoptive mother, touching on their “ups and downs.” This led to speculation on the similarities between her and Mireille. Having met Mireille towards the end of her life, many questions remained unanswered. “Reflections” is followed by “Peace,” an appropriate coda and a tribute to a certain amount of acceptance and emotional closure. While she ponders some of the lost opportunities, she embraces her achievement: “The peace I was able to bring to her and the peace she gave to me.”

The book’s dedication best sums up Resta’s goal: “This memoir is dedicated to my two mothers. The one who gave me life and the one who raised me. One from afar and one close and constant. I’m forever grateful to both.”

I’ll Wait For You: An Adoption Memoir is available online at Amazon.com and BarnesandNoble.com.

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Pierce Brosnan and Kaya Scodelario in a scene from the film. Photo courtesy of Gravitas Ventures
Fan Bingbing and Kaya Scodelario in a scene from the film. Photo courtesy of Gravitas Ventures
William Hurt in the role of Père La Chaise. Photo courtesy of Gravitas Ventures

By Jeffrey Sanzel

Vonda N. McIntyre’s The Moon and the Sun (1997) blended science fiction and historical romance. The novel won the Nebula Award for Best Novel, besting George R. R. Martin’s A Game of Thrones. Among the book’s other accolades were a Publishers Weekly Best Book Award, Locus Recommended Book, and Intergalactic Award for Best Novel. Set in the seventeenth-century French court of King Louis XIV, the story follows the longest-reigning monarch’s search for immortality by ingesting an endangered sea monster’s flesh.

Talk of a movie version can be traced back to 2002, with Natalie Portman attached as the lead. But the film failed to be greenlit. Eventually, The Moon and the Sun was filmed in 2014, set for a 2015 release date, but the film remained on the shelf for nearly seven years. Various reasons have been proffered, including test audiences’ less than positive reaction to the visual effects and a tax evasion scandal involving the film’s mermaid, Fan Bingbing, China’s highest-paid female star. The film has finally been released under the title The King’s Daughter.

It has taken a quarter of a century for The Moon and the Sun to land on the big screen. But sadly, one suspects that this is not what McIntyre had in mind.

Choosing Julie Andrews as narrator probably seemed like a good idea on paper, but the once-upon-a-time illustrated prologue along with Andrews’ unique warmth and whimsy point towards Disney’s Beauty and the Beast. Unfortunately, the child-friendly prologue presents the wrong signals for what is—or at least should be—a darker tale.

The opening convent scene features Rachel Griffiths as the Mother Abbess channeling The Sound of Music as she disciplines Marie-Josèphe (Kaya Scodelario) for being too … well, too Maria von Trapp. The Abbess’ departing shot to the girl is that she is going “to a lavish, glimmering hell … where you no doubt will thrive.” If only. 

The court seems to be short on courtiers. Outside of a scene of the king (Pierce Brosnan) addressing what looks like the peasants from a road company operetta, the population of Versailles seems to be on holiday. Perhaps they are off buying some of the strangely non-period dresses that occasionally pop up in the oddest places.

Quickly, with very little explanation other than a gift for music, she is whisked away to the court by the king’s personal confessor, Père La Chaise (William Hurt). Louis quickly elevates the feisty lass to court composer. 

Meanwhile, sailor Yves De La Croix (Benjamin Walker) has found the sea creature (Bingbing). The villainous court doctor (Pablo Schreiber) has promised the monster’s heart and life force will grant the king eternal life. The mermaid must be sacrificed during the upcoming solar eclipse. 

Louis shows particular interest in Marie-Josèphe, as she is his illegitimate daughter, spawning some of the most uncomfortable parent-child scenes ever found outside of the plays of Eugene O’Neill. 

The mermaid’s singing draws Marie-Josèphe to the pool in which the creature is imprisoned. The musician uses the siren’s pinging vocalizations to inspire her composition, meeting the king’s immediate approval. In addition, the girl falls for the sailor. However, as the court is in dire financial straits, Louis wants Marie-Josèphe to marry the wealthy merchant-heir Jean-Michel Lintillac (Ben-Lloyd Hughes).

Barry Berman and James Schamus have taken a range of liberties with the source in fashioning their clumsy screenplay. Director Sean McNamara’s lack of nuance does nothing to enhance the performances. Teeth-grinding earnestness fills every line; emotion is replaced by slow motion. Brosnan is always charming and could have excelled in the role, but the writers could not commit to what they wanted their Sun King to be. His relationship with Hurt’s priest seems like lifted from a buddy movie. Scodelario alternates between pleasantly upbeat (though occasionally a bit rom-com) and crying.

Films of this ilk can be saved by style-over-substance. Lady-in-waiting Magali (Crystal Clarke) tells Marie-Josèphe that “color and bravado are the order of the day.” Again, if only. The filmmakers were granted access to shoot at Versailles. Somehow, they made the spectacular palace look cheap—as if shot in the producers’ Hampton’s backyard.

 The royal ball in the Hall of Mirrors is a missed opportunity to showcase excess and opulence, further ruined by an excruciating father-daughter dance. The underground cave where they keep the mermaid is quasi-Pirates of the Caribbean (not the film—the ride). The special effects seem generated on an ancient laptop, with the final sequence particularly appalling. 

After dithering about souls and morality, the final platitude is “only love is immortal.” Yes. But clear storytelling and character development can be nice, too.

Rated PG, The King’s Daughter is now playing in local theaters.

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Jenna Ortega in a scene from 'Scream.' Photo from Paramount Pictures

By Jeffrey Sanzel

The horror and comedy genres have always been an uneasy mixture. Early examples show a clumsy and ultimately juvenile mix, fodder for the preteen matinee crowd. The most obvious examples include the Abbott and Costello/Universal outings where the duo clashed with a rogue’s gallery of baddies from Frankenstein’s monster to Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.

Jenna Ortega with Ghostface
in a scene from ‘Scream.’ Photo by Brownie Harris/Paramount Pictures

Horror films shifted with the aggressively cold Hammer films and then found a reemergence in the late 60s into the 70s. Rosemary’s Baby (1968) ushered in an era of grudging respect for cinematic terror. The genre reached its peak with John Carpenter’s near-perfect Halloween (1978). Any humor found in these works was incidental and subtle. Wes Craven’s A Nightmare on Elm Street (1984) introduced elements of dark comedy. (As the series deteriorated, serial killer Freddy Krueger descended to the level of a quippy late-night TV host, rather than the rooted evil in which he was forged.) 

Kevin Williamson’s screenplay for Scream (1996), directed by Craven, successfully blended horror and humor. Scream and its franchise are rooted in a meta-view of the clichés acknowledging the classic tropes. The first Scream movie was clever, brilliantly tense, and genuinely funny; its opening scene (featuring Drew Barrymore) is horrifyingly smart. The characters’ awareness of the rules of the slasher film informed their perceptions.

Three sequels followed with the cleverest element: the introduction of the film-within-a-film, Stab (and its sequels), taking self-awareness to another degree. While not completely deteriorating like most films followed by a number, the quality, insight, and thrills were less.

The newest incarnation, returning to the original title, Scream, continues where Scream 4 ended. Matt Bettinelli-Olpin and Tyler Gillett have taken the directorial reigns (Craven having passed away in 2015), working from a script by James Vanderbilt and Guy Busick. Though attempting to dodge a numerical appellation, this is Scream 5 and a standard slasher:

Group of teenagers in various generic relationships. Check.

Some connection to past storylines. Check.

Cameos of expendable characters from earlier films. Check.

Excessive violence and blood. Check.

People being brutalized but managing to not be in too much pain. Check.

Legacy characters appearing as Deus ex machina. Check.

At one point, the writers have given the “expert” a speech about “requels.” These are the films that are neither sequels nor reboots but some hybrid. Whether this is clever or justifying the new Scream is hard to say.

The story occurs twenty-five years after the Loomis-Macher murder spree in Woodboro. The first scene shares DNA with the opening of the original. While on the phone with the killer, terrified high school student Tara Carpenter (Jenna Ortega) must answer questions about the Stab franchise, or her friend will be murdered. Ghostface is actually in the Carpenter home and stabs Tara seven times (though the girl survives).

Ghostface
in a scene from ‘Scream.’
Photo from Paramount Pictures

The attack is a ploy to get Tara’s estranged sister, Sam (Melissa Barrera), to return. Joined by her attentive if slightly uniformed boyfriend, Richie (Jack Quaid), Sam quickly reveals her connection to one of the original killers. She and Richie recruit the dissipated former sheriff Dewey Riley (David Arquette). Ghostface continues his attacks, and the teenagers spout quips, referencing the horror movie rules. Running in the background is the release of a much-maligned Stab 8.

The jump scares are plentiful, predictable, and pedestrian, lacking a sense of danger, either on-screen (or in the audience). Even though there is a sadistic killer in their midst, the town strangely takes it as business-as-usual.

Just before the halfway mark, Sydney Prescott (Never Campbell) and Gale Weathers (Courtney Cox) show up to join the hunt for the killer. The old gang is back together. The most painful, excruciating moment has nothing to do with knives: The reunion of the now divorced Dewy and Gale manages to be both under- and over-written simultaneously. 

Throughout, nods to other horror films include the dangerous hospital (Halloween 2) and the shower scene (Psycho). A character named Wes and an Elm Street memorialize Craven. A vague analysis of toxic fandom is important but not fully realized. A lack of texture and a plethora of stiff dialogue keep the film at a distance.

Even with the return of Arquette, Campbell, and Cox, the film fails to ignite. The new cast members do their best, each suspecting the other of being the killer. Even saddled with excessive exposition, Barrera and Ortega make for self-actualized Scream Queens.

There are definite flashes of wit and enormous meta potential. But clichés are sometimes just that: clichés. And, with all the blood, Scream is the hardest to watch when trying to be noble and sincere.

Whether a sequel, a reboot, or a “requel,” Scream is more of a whimper. And just as in the movie’s world where there will be a Stab 9, we can expect a Scream 2. Or 6. Number it as you will.

Rated R, Scream is now playing in local theaters.

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Tanaquil Le Clercq, backstage at City Center, ca. 1954, © Anton Alterman/Harold Roth Photography

Reviewed by Jeffrey Sanzel

“Ballet is an ephemeral art, embedded in the mortal human body.”

Author Orel Protopopescu

Principal ballerina Tanaquil Le Clercq (1929-2000) was the fourth and final wife of choreographer and founder of the New York City Ballet, George Balanchine. Tanaquil—known as “Tanny”—was a muse to Balanchine as well as the genre-crossing Jerome Robbins. Both legendary artists created immortal works for Le Clercq. At twenty-seven, she contracted polio, ending her career as a dancer but not her connection to the art of dance. 

Illustrated by 100 photos, Dancing Past the Light (University Press of Florida) is a fascinating account of Le Clercq—her vocation, her challenges, and the underlying strength and humanity that allowed her to triumph in the face of a devastating illness. Author Orel Protopopescu provides almost a dual biography of Le Clercq and Balanchine, two lives that remained inseparable even after their divorce. 

Le Clercq descended from affluent, educated people: “On both sides, Tammy’s immediate ancestors were adventurous, artistic, worldly, and liberal-minded for their times.” However, her parent’s fiscal situation was tenuous. Her St. Louis debutante mother, Edith, was the driving force behind her early dancing, enrolling her at New York City’s King-Coit School. As a scholarship student in theatre and art, she performed for the first time at five years old. By age seven, she was studying at Mikhail Mordkin’s ballet school. She entered Balanchine’s School of American Ballet at age eleven, awarded one of the school’s first full scholarships. 

Her acceptance to the school coincided with the final dissolution of her parent’s marriage, strained by her father’s excessive drinking. The couple separated in 1946. Her father would remarry; her mother would remain single and a constant if sometimes unwanted presence in Le Clercq’s life. “The umbilical cord had stretched a bit further over the years but was never severed.”

The author provides detailed accounts of the demanding training, the rehearsals, and especially the performances. She conveys Le Clercq as an artist-in-motion, and the descriptions are exceptional. Additionally, Protopopescu traces her rise in the company, balancing the personal and professional particulars with dozens of interviews with friends and colleagues. 

Tanaquil Le Clercq, backstage at City Center, ca. 1954, © Anton Alterman/Harold Roth Photography

At the center is her connection with Balanchine whom she saw as “an old fogey” until she began receiving more personal instruction. Balanchine was a demanding director, influencing every area of his dancers’ lives, particularly the female dancers. 

Balanchine preferred “thin, tall female dancers with long necks and limbs.” Le Clercq epitomized this. While there were hints of Balanchine’s interest, by the time she was twenty, he was no longer hiding it. There were strong possibilities that he sabotaged or at least manipulated elements of her personal and romantic life.

The Le Clercq-Balanchine courtship and marriage are explored with great insight, including the complications rooted in the age difference and Balanchine’s need to seek a younger muse. Balanchine proposed Christmas 1952. She was twenty-three to his forty-eight. Without hesitation, she excepted, and they were married on New Year’s Eve. But, true to form, the work came first. They premiered the ballet Concertino the night before.

Le Clercq worked well and often with the mercurial and demanding Jerome Robbins. As with Balanchine, the complicated professional-personal relationship is surveyed with respect and candor and the complex triangle that existed between the three.

Protopopescu provides a visceral report of the European tour of 1956, during which Le Clercq contracted polio. At that time, her marriage to Balanchine was waning, and she had no desire to go. Following her contraction of the disease, Le Clercq faced a long recovery and the harsh reality of knowing that she would never dance again. “I’m not a dancer anymore. Who am I?” This was the question she faced after over two decades of dancing. 

A brutal, vivid picture of a polio victim follows, showing both the physical and psychological pains and the life limitations. But it also shows Le Clercq transforming by fearlessly facing the problems. As her friend Pat McBride explained: “Her wit and strength never left her nor did she indulge in self-pity. It was always a treat to be in her vivacious company.”

Eventually, she coached and taught at Arthur Mitchell’s Dance Theatre of Harlem using hand gestures—“a sort of balletic sign language”—to convey the choreography while seated in her wheelchair. The author touches upon the issue of race in the dance world and the lack of diversity and underrepresentation of African-Americans in Balanchine’s company. While not an activist, Le Clercq’s work with the DTH spoke volumes.

Dancing Past the Light will be of particular interest to ballet fans; it is an extraordinary celebration of a life in dance, with its highs and lows, challenges and rewards. It is an honest study of the people with whom one makes art. It is also a beautiful, authentic portrait of an exceptionally strong individual who faced a cataclysmic shift and rose above it.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: 

A resident of Miller Place, Orel Protopopescu is an award-winning author, poet, and translator. Dancing Past the Light: The Life of Tanaquil Le Clercq is her first biography. Pick up a copy of the book at Amazon.com, or BarnesandNoble.com. For more information on the author, visit www.orelprotopopescu.com.

 

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