Disappointing 19th Century Gothic Dramas

 

Disappointing 19th Century Gothic Dramas

by Kristin Battestella

These two throwback productions have a lot to offer in period piece morose. Unfortunately, the crowded storytelling makes for disappointing, mixed bag viewing that deserved more.

The Black Velvet Gown – Janet McTeer (Albert Nobbs) leads this 1991 award winning ITV adaption of the Catherine Cookson novel complete with 1830s impoverished patchwork and dirty coal downtrodden mood. The dated, flat print actually helps the humble, hardworking candles and quills as our widow Mariah and her children come to work at a dilapidated manor for four shillings plus room and board. Bitter spinster sisters give the disapproving once over and gossip about what trouble she is because Mariah can read and write, but chores and montages with upbeat music and ye olde town square bustle imply circumstances are otherwise happy. The master sets up a school in his library for the children and offers our housekeeper his mother's titular gown. However, suggested love triangles with the woodsman move quickly, nobody seems to brood or like each other that much yet there's talk of marriage and Mariah disrobes to wait for the master – who says she doesn't look that much older than her little daughter. Though struggling financially, he promises the children puppies and ponies, crossing fatherly boundaries and creepily manhandling them before the enraged twelve year old boy slices up the master with a sickle. The master admits he had to give up teaching because of his “weakness” but his threat to have the boy jailed for attacking him carries more weight then his implied abuse? The family is blackmailed into staying, forcing Mariah to rip up that gorgeous dress before the time jumps to eight years later. Our daughter is now quite the scholar, feeling sorry for the deathbed master that taught her and screwed over her family. This moves fast, almost too fast – as if the important elements have been glossed over and we're supposed to sympathize with the master for making the daughter his heiress. The male lawyers think Mariah should be grateful for inheriting this strapped property, speculating that she slept with her master to get it. Unfortunately, any potential behind closed doors meaty is at best tame and largely absent. A letter seemingly confirming the master abused the son is ignored by the daughter he educated, and her being smart is made the worse crime. Servants must know their place and never talk back as we move from mother to daughter in the second half. Young Biddy remains determined at the new downstairs, defiant despite being whipped while her brother is said to be smart enough to keep quite. The abusive undercurrent is confusing, for sex was seemingly traded to the previous master yet it's this tough laundress work that must be endured and overcome. What filth she's spreading by quoting poetry in public and learning letters in the servant quarters! Although the nothing new statements are weak, the high up idiots not wanting anyone else to gain knowledge reeks of today. Once elevated to chambermaid, our daughter learns how to behave and marries up before using her inheritance to open an equal opportunity school. The morose atmosphere, dramatic performances, and attention to class detail are here, however the last half hour rushes with no focus on how our smart girls cause trouble and all the men want them nonetheless. The twofold storytelling feels pointless with no time to tell either properly – leaving viewers to read the book to get the whole tale. I mean, the dress never even had to do with anything? Great frock, though. Would wear!

The Doctor and the Devils – The Burke and Hare names are changed for this long gestating 1985 Freddie Francis (Dracula Has Risen from the Grave) directed and Mel Brooks (Dracula: Dead and Loving It) produced horror yarn with a surprisingly elite cast. Well dressed doctor Timothy Dalton's (Penny Dreadful) sophisticated justification of what must be done in the name of anatomy and male only lecture hall contrast the gory body on the exam table – the grim product of grave diggers Stephen Rea (The End of the Affair) and Jonathan Pryce (Tomorrow Never Dies) who circumvent medical law for three guineas a body to impress working girl Twiggy (Brand New World). Dirty streets, ruined clothes, and congested pubs don't mix with the top hats and brightly lit upscale, reiterating the classism between working girls and well to do praying doctor's sister Sian Phillips (I, Claudius). The dialogue is intriguing and the performances well done. However this is slow to start with to and from coming and going carriages and romps in the back alleys. Drawn out scenes and idle busy moments delay the graveside thefts, creepy cadaver cuttings, bleeding arteries, and blood splatter marring the fine shirts and ties. At only ninety-two minutes, this should know whether it's focus is the murderous men or the medial horror. Pretty medical assistant Julian Sands (Gothic) gets his hands dirty in buying the bodies, but seeing his girl in the shady brothel, well that's too much! Humor and hooker jokes are apparently meant to have us laugh at the downtrodden who have resorted to killing, but the realistic gore and muffled smotherings in the dark are a better warped. After all, our desperate snatchers are putting bedridden victims out of their misery. The dirty pain, black teeth, and pox sallow waste of the living is made new, fresh, and useful as a dead body. New messy science has no time for red tape impeding a surgeon who makes scary sense when he objects to his talents being shackled by outdated ideology. Rival professor Patrick Stewart (Star Trek) is suspicious of our flippant doctor at the medical inquest. Yes that is his kidney in the jar but it's not his kidney! Healing a grateful cripple offering a meager payment conflicts with the necessary dehumanizing of the cadaver. Our doctor can't worry that they used to be people when it's his duty to do what needs to be done in the name of science. The provocative ideas are crowded with the body snatching comic relief, unnecessary scenes, back alley cockfights, and long gaps with seemingly important characters absent onscreen. The last half hour rushes with dinner parties shocked to hear of homelessness, doomed women, and the city squalor beneath the high society galleries. More victims and moralistic questions split hairs on if paying for bodies is murder for hire. Poor lodgers who suspect foul play and a tough old lady that just won't die are oddly played for laughs amid fiery dreams, butchers, and bodies in the sewer. Recognizing a victim is inconsequential when our doctor demands that he is right and the medical establishment is wrong. The Hammer throwback vibes and gothic atmosphere are welcome with working girls in peril, betrayals, and fingers left in the fireplace. However the period drama and humorous attempts don't quite come together with the best horror moments. This wraps up quickly with who's arrested or gets away unbothered becoming lost – probably thanks to the decades of delay and too many hands on the script.

Legacy (1998)

 

What Went Wrong with Legacy

by Kristin Battestella

I never expected to see the blink and you missed it 1998 UPN series Legacy again! The 1880s Kentucky horse family scandalous was preposterous then, and it remains tough to re-watch with guest of the week plots once barely passable for sporadic weekly television now glaring binge viewing problematic. Legacy shoots itself in the foot with modern intrusions, weak characterizations, and fly by night storytelling – rushing itself right off the air at only eighteen episodes.

Rather than period piece Americana wholesome like Little House on the Prairie or Dr. Quinn Medicine Woman; cool music, hip horse racing, sassy daughters, and pretty sons immediately set Legacy's erroneous attempt at style over substance in a very busy pilot with broken engagements, attempted steamy, and supposed interracial romance. Cutthroat racing rivals, leg breaking riding risks, pickpocket accusations, fires in the barn, and a little girl in peril deserving their own episodes instead happen in one scene each because every episode has to have a slow motion dressage event. Do gooder patriarch Brett Cullen (Falcon Crest) expects his farm to be the best yet his entire family are apparently embarrassing misfits with blighted crops, ranch rebuilds, and admonishing sibling rivalries resetting per hour. The rebel daughter contemplating art school and rejecting her debutante debut one day is teaching etiquette and protocol the next while the illiterate learning to read is mentioned twice amid gambling lessons that aren't learned between repeated horse scams. Legacy's lack of writing cohesion is a fascinating mix of disjointed filler, nothing burgers, and everything thrown at the screen. Bad investments and ill advised farm loans made so dire every week leave viewers wondering how the post-war Logan family has survived this long.

Debates with an estranged spinster aunt wishing to have the daughters educated in Boston are resolved immediately when Legacy could have used such meddling all season. Notions of those well to do Boston in-laws looking down on Kentucky horse breeders before and after the Civil War are never brought up again as Legacy burns through storylines with all forgiven quickness and going through the motions exposition. The loser in the back and forth elections is still somehow made a political deputy with an office where he solves people's farm problems a few times, and dad Ned is in a coma for a very special episode with Meatloaf music video flashbacks of his late wife. Not even a guest spot from Melissa Leo (Homicide: Life on the Street) can slow down the rapid fire dilemmas amid new hire housekeeper mistakes, riding lessons, school sessions, colts in training, and petitions for women to enter the all male jockey club. If you've seen one episode of Legacy, you've seen them all, and the poorly written double talk dialogue feigning sophistication, shirtless washing montages, and interracial love triangles so chaste they can't possibly be scandalous are terribly banal to binge today.

Legacy's lookalike, generic ensemble is glaringly superficial – brimming with chiseled chins, furrowed brows, squinting scowls, and pursed lips. Should be the star Cullen yells at the kids in contrived conflicts as high and mighty Ned chastises anyone who isn't. Hot head son Jeremy Garrett (Sweet Valley High) circles the drain in repeated horse strife and Grayson McCouch (As the World Turns) as eldest Sean fails at every business venture. Any awkward tomboy in a corset start for older daughter Lea Moreno (DAG) is dropped for multiple romances, and her kissing the adopted bad boy Ron Melendez (Children of the Corn III: Urban Harvest) is weird even if he isn't really her brother. Precocious youngest Sarah Rayne (Quest for Camelot) talks back far too much, and their mother dying in her childbirth is mentioned constantly like it's character development. Ten year old Lexi's mature horse exposition implies the character was intended to be an older tween, and Legacy's characters are perpetually underwritten with no growth, only stereotypes and faux sophistication. Instead of focusing on potential familial pairings like our dad teaching the adoptee to ride or sisters working together, Legacy relies on the rival boys with chips on their shoulders having blonde babes dalliances. The wealthy neighbor/his whiskey corrupt son/nasty farm manager caricatures vary as needed in an unnecessary revolving door of villains. Hammy carpet bagger-styled Lane Smith (My Cousin Vinny) disappears early, yet Lisa Sheridan (Invasion) is strung along all season with nothing to do but switch between brothers.

Sadly, recurring Steven Williams (21 Jump Street) as former slave Isaac is reduced to the Magical Negro trope – providing evidence or advice as needed with the safest, precious few mentions of his time during the Civil War with Ned. Sharon Leal (Boston Public) as Isaac's daughter Marita is likewise the sage listener to our poor little rich white girls' problems when not waiting with longing, pick me glances at the forbidden white son. A late episode finally gives these Black characters a separate storyline when a respectable Black lawyer woos Marita, yet somehow it's all about Sean – who got his kicks elsewhere all season despite professing Marita his undying love – being a jealous jerk in a drunk driving carriage accident! He says she is the only one he can talk to while she has to silently take the whispers of this barely there courtship ruining her reputation. Legacy probably had too many characters, and if a Black family's experiences in post-war Kentucky were not only not going to be treated equally with the titular family and are in fact never going to be addressed, then they shouldn't have been token shoehorned into a show that today is totally tone deaf.

Although the horses are always pretty, the slow motion racing montages featured almost every episode are heavy handed and over-edited with cutaways, up close hoof beats, and rearing making for poor, cut corners action. The bustles, bonnets, and costumes are Victorian basic, no one really looks like they belong in the nineteenth century, and the ladies hairstyles are far too modern. The masquerade ball in Legacy's hanging finale is also laughable with contemporary Halloween expensive medieval costumes perfect with their 1880s quickness. This is also the first time I've used FreeVee's skip credits option, tiring of the shirtless shots and a billing order that makes little sense compared to the familial relationships and actual screen time in the forty-five minute episodes. Modern pace and slang likewise take over in jarring conversations where no one has the same put on generic Southern accent. The uncomfortable, fake, old speaketh gentility romanticizes their mighty plantations before the war; smooth talking thank you kind sirs wax on those who haven't been land owners for three generations as lesser Kentuckians. By time they have Black people singing negro spirituals at the end of the season, it feels like appropriation, and the overplayed, intrusive contemporary New Age Celtic music makes one wonder why Legacy wasn't just about a farm family in modern Ireland. “Spirited Jig” is the caption every time the music swells – be it for slow motion who burned the barn ominous, boys will be boys rowdy slow motion, or longing glances slow motion slow motion. Thanks to all the playing dress up contemporary styling and said unnecessary slow motion, Legacy looks and sounds like exactly how not to do a period drama.

Ironically, Legacy realizes that the family sticking together isn't as good a drama as the family divided in the second half of the season – dropping the lame teen steamy attempts and even most of the slow motion montages in favor of the older cast, killer widows, duels, and assault accusations. None of the kids have their own jobs and always run to dad for a loan, but Ned finally has something to do thanks to duplicitous women coming between father and sons and Gabrielle Fitzpatrick (Snowy River: The McGregor Saga) as a mysterious damsel in distress who looks like the late Mrs. Logan. Although the arguments, riding accidents, and deceit are still rushing toward the inevitably abrupt finale; schemers scheming together, doctored books, and foalings gone wrong make for what could have been potential. Rival horses enter the race, veterinarian conflicts arise, and sour tobacco company investments have consequences as the third to the last episode finally gets Legacy's tone right. Poison drinks, suspicion, blackmail saucy, and behind closed doors threats escalate once the ill-intentioned are in the house, and even the horses suffer amid rigged events, burned telegrams, and impostors. I don't think I bothered watching all of Legacy when it originally aired – if all the episodes were even shown. However, had the series hit the ground running with the intertwined heaviness of its last five episodes, Legacy may have survived another season. Instead, Legacy wasted most of its lone season on self-righteous plots, contemporary abs, contrived montages, and short sighted writing that understandably saw the series' cancellation.

Contemporary Werewolf Romps 🐺

 

Contemporary Werewolf Romps! 🐺

by Kristin Battestella

These recent lycanthrope lessons offer much good, but some bad and a bit of ugly to the understandably hairy genre.

Howl – No one wants to be on this rainy red eye train, but apathetic passengers and passed over employees must unite when werewolves invade the cabin cars in this 2015 parable directed by Paul Hyett (Dog Soldiers). Late night stress and double shift monotony are well done as the full moon, isolated forest, ticket checks, and cranky introductions set the scene with who's rude on her phone, snotty old couples, frazzled businesswomen, and the jerk with two sets of house keys. Rattling rails, screeching brakes, and flickering lights escalate to unseen attacks, thuds, squishes, and gore as the assertive adults and inexperienced staff argue over who's in charge. Patchy emergency contacts lead to a vote to walk to the next station before disemboweled evidence, the race back to the train, and limb perils at the plug door. Banging to be let in, scraping claws along the cabin car, and the titular what you don't see but hear acerbate the meager first aid, bloody wounds, and overnight delirium. Compartment damage, no fuel, and no food add to the innate unease. Cramped bathroom terrors provide whimpering, growls, and blood in shrewd near-revelations as the camera cuts away from blurred assaults and glowing eyes. The final claustrophobic entrance is realistically scary thanks to poor defenses like fire extinguishers and an emergency ax, and debates about what to do with the injured provide a bitter social commentary about our dog eat dog alpha males who survive at the expense of others. They are running out of cars to retreat to and secure, and the carefully paced transformations mirror the trapped ticktock and wait for daylight. This does feel slightly long with repair attempts and inside attacks that seem out of order. Unnecessary point of view breaks and shoddy CGI show the pack in full, and the slow burn unravels amid under the train perils, internal standoffs, and unfair deaths. The disturbing violence rushes toward a weak confrontation, however overall this is an entertaining late night entry to the werewolf genre.

I Am Lisa – Pulsing chases, growls, gunshots, and moonlit nights open this 2020 werewolf embrace, but the law enforcement fix should have been held back and the drive to the inherited bookstore wastes time. Starting with a customer ordering a lycanthrope volume and condolences on the deceased is enough to introduce our eponymous small town nonconformist. Local mean girls bully, steal, and threaten Lisa, but the ringleader's mom is the sheriff so nothing is done. Self love jokes about not needing a man, waitress flirtations, and BFF intimacy, however, feel baity, for Lisa is straight and rejects a kiss from said mean girl. The rotten sheriff insists it's not an assault if no one gets hurt and it's Lisa's attitude problem that's disturbing the peace, so she endorses the mean girls beating Lisa. The pliers, gagging, and blood in this sanctioned violence is disturbing enough, and a further implied sexual assault is unnecessary as Lisa is dumped in the woods and left to the wolves. Choice jump cut camerawork accents the tears, echoes, and fragmented experience as the bite wounds heal quickly and the police revelations escalate. Lisa is shocked at her own behavior when she first attacks the weakest of the mean girl pack, but she needs to learn to control what's happening, embrace it, and make them pay. Slow, realistic eye, teeth, heightened senses, and vocal changes match the swift neck snapping, throat slicings, and moments of remorse while old books provide silver, calendar, and crossbreed information. More time is unfortunately spent on cliches than who knows about the werewolves, who has been hunting them, branding them with silver, and why. It's also unrealistic how her whereabouts are terribly obvious yet Lisa goes uncaught until the script says so. You can tell this was written and directed by men thanks to every woman coming off as a tough angry lesbian with an attitude. Structural flaws fall back on stereotypical montages with bad ass hoodies, cool music, raw steaks, dog treats, and The Werewolf of Washington. Nonsensical explanations don't fully reiterate the transformative mythos and silver ax potential, and the taking ownership metaphors run out of steam in the overlong, contrived final confrontation. Though in need of a trim or polish thanks to unnecessary scene transitions and poor dialogue, this largely charming piece stays with a character who's just trying to be true to herself.

Skip It!

A Werewolf in England – Speeding carriages, top hats, throwback music, and candlelight invoke a Hammer mood as our bondsman and his shackled prisoner stop at the Three Claws Inn for this 2020 horror comedy. Unfortunately, the super tight camera angles are clearly cutting corners, the acting is amateur, and the exaggerated voices are too hammy. Every single person is trying on funny quips and combined with the kooky weird brother and sister innkeepers, it's all just too much. The obviously fake full moon above the manor is enough to set a sardonic wink, however there's no time to chuckle over the two dollar lady of the evening available or the hear tell of a previous guest dying of perforated bowels in the bed, and the rattling sex scene while the prisoner is chained to the action goes on far too long before a cheap chamber pot gag. We shouldn't know about the werewolves up front, but our writer/producer/director/cinematographer/editor gives away that the proprietors are in on serving their clientele to the local lycanthropes when we shouldn't suspect their killer plans until guests spot blood dripping on the furniture. The beheadings, dismemberment, and pleas for mercy before a claw slice at the throat are fine. Intense crescendos and chorales with over the top slow motion are appropriate satire, but the drawn out battle scenes with over-editing and nothing burger pawing undo the gore and eerie lighting. It's tough to tell what's scary or the hoot because the constant cackling is falling flat trying to be both. Some territorial foul is reasonable, but the unnecessarily long werewolf diarrhea scene removes any horror even if the conspicuous people in wolf suits is deliberate. Subtle humor – such as breaking and entering wolves that make surprisingly little noise or using a lot of little things to block the door when a sturdy piece of furniture is right there – is all the viewer needs, yet one too many crotch jokes and montages of cleaning guns but not washing off the wolfy poo become an overlong exercise in what not to do. Contrived endings play into all the cliches, and I'm going to go ahead and pass on the medieval prequel/sequel Werewolf Castle.

Problematic 90s Women in Horror

 

Problematic 90s Women in Horror

by Kristin Battestella

The classy ladies in this suspenseful trio of nineties horror suffer from dated problems, scary disservice, and shit men. Quelle surprise.

Angel of Death – Ominous windmill blades, rattlesnakes, and perilous farm equipment lead to creepy Rumpelstiltskin sketches and 4 a.m. phone calls from Attica as ever lovely mom Jane Seymour (Live and Let Die) is terrorized by an escaped convict in this 1990 TV movie. She's frazzled before the call – over protective, fighting with neighbors, late for work. The car won't start, money's tight, her son wants a bike for his birthday, and our art professor is passed over for a promotion thanks to her competition moving in on the department chair and her ex-husband. Rather than build this story, the action goes back and forth to an obviously small scale prison riot, terribly over the top thugs, and beatings punctuated with crescendos meant to be more shocking then they really are. The obsessed escapee read her children's book and fell in love with her author photo, but a vengeful prison guard is in pursuit in a dreadful tangent when none of the prison elements need to be shown. The convict moves in next door, watches them from a shady van, and signs up to be the nude model in her art class before beating a man with a hammer while the annoyingly friendly kid knocks on his door. He's just misunderstood mixed signals negate any too good to be true suspicious as family picnics and bedtime stories lead to romantic rooftop steamy. Our pathological liar tearfully tells her his family is dead – while leaving out how he murdered them! The expedited relationship is paced for commercial television breaks and the logistical leaps are preposterous, but it's uncomfortable how it all happens so fast and that today's tech makes such stalking even easier. It's also sad that she's so desperately stupid to let a stranger so close and wonders how he appeared right when she needed someone. We should have not known he's the killer until he bludgeons the slutty rival professor with her own sculpture amid campy feigned seduction, opera music, and blowtorches. Of course misogynistic detectives suspect our innocent mom thanks to frustratingly banal contrivances, and the dated paint by numbers padded with conflicting characterizations to meet the ninety minute movie of the week format does a disservice to Seymour. Supposedly romantic red flags moved toot suite however gunshots, confessions, and kids in peril turn laughable – dragging on alongside predictable car chases, fake deaths, pitchforks, and a fiery farm finale. Those Rumpelstiltskin passages he recites back to her? LOL.

Fear – Sirens, police chatter, and pulsing Henry Mancini music (Romeo and Juliet) jump right to the chase as psychic Ally Sheedy (The Breakfast Club) remotely traces a serial killer and detectives come to the rescue thanks to her vivid details in this 1990 thriller from writer and director Rockne S. O'Bannon (Farscape). She feels the disturbing killer urges and the terror of the bound victim in the backseat, doubling the discomfort despite the success on high profile cases, book tours, and talk show appearances. Although the VHS quality print is poor, old fashioned news bulletins, big televisions, and retro phones invoke nostalgia. The onscreen interviews let the aptly named Cayce explain her telepathy, but she wants to move on from true crime and strenuous killer manuscripts in favor of her own fiction. However, when another murderer strikes she offers police her services by revealing the hitherto unknown titular calling card written in blood. Paranormal eerie, choice gore in the refrigerator, and body shocks that don't dally like today's in your face aesthetics pepper the realistic crime scenes and straightforward procedural. Solitary moments in a new house with plastic still on the furniture lull viewers into a lonely routine before the mental connections strike again. We feel her strained, overwhelmed recounting of the crime because he wants his victims to be afraid. He knows what will scare them most, realizes Cayce can see him, and telepathically croaks out her name. The restaurant ambiance at the fancy publisher's dinner fades as the unseen killer intrudes on Cayce – taking her along for a fly on the wall view as he selects his next victim. He taunts her and uses “we” amid heavy breathing, mirrored actions, screams, and terror. She is unable to break his impression, and the mind's eye seeing herself from his perspective is meta provocative. The killer is one step ahead, the camera is behind, and the victim is our point of view thanks to blue lighting, zooms, and gauze focus that lets the performances carry the pain, fear, and violence. This is an abusive relationship and he won't let her leave as decoys and airport consequences raise the suspense. The so-called Shadow Man sends her perfume, shoes, and lingerie, but rather than take control of the fearful head games herself, Cayce falls back on a neighbor cum potential boyfriend to take action. Diverse Black and Asian detectives disappear from the pursuit even after their families are threatened, and power suit but kind and seemingly in love with Cayce book agent Lauren Hutton (Once Bitten) is underutilized. Chilling who's chasing whom realizations degrade into Hall of Mirrors hackneyed and a poor physical confrontation as the last half hour loses steam. What started so well if Eyes of Laura Mars backs into a corner with anticlimactic Strangers on a Train copycatting – unable to resolve the cat and mouse with psychic strength and sophistication.

Mary Reilly – Titular maid Julia Roberts (Pretty Woman) and Jekyll and Hyde John Malkovich (Dangerous Liaisons) lead this 1996 Stevenson inspired adaptation with rain, thunder, cobblestones, and nighttime dreary setting the gothic mood. Moonlit rooftops and sharp, from the window skylines provide a whiff of German Expressionism as the master of the house stays up all night in his laboratory across the courtyard. The cramped, shabby downstairs is busy with aprons and vintage cookery while above shines with polished woodwork and silver trays. Footsteps on the staircase and screams in the night, however, suggest something afoot. Mary is squeamish over anatomy books, bloody linens, and bashing eels for dinner yet this is the safest, kindest place she has been since entering service at twelve. She lets Jekyll examine her scars and recounts an unemployed father turned drunkard who locked her in the pantry with a rat. This delicate touching and faint caressing is iffy not romantic, and we don't need to see the abusive flashbacks to realize the violent, changed man, Hyde parallels either. Implications of how nasty Mary's father was are better suggested when she cries in her sleep, but her anguish and candor with Jekyll is downplayed in favor of her characterization as a nosy, talkative maid who doesn't want the other servants to think she goes above her station. Of course, she repeatedly breaks their tedious protocols and wastes time planting a garden when there's no sunshine – a foolish girl fixating on her flaky master. Bloody brothel bed chambers after the unseen lusty Hyde nights and over the top blackmailing madame Glenn Close (Albert Nobbs) brighten the drab back and forth as Mary becomes the go between repeating the hear tell while both men toy and manipulate her in a predatory, but ultimately nothing burger love triangle. Jekyll tells her to go the Hyde, Hyde talks as if Jekyll is also present, even ordering tea for two that Jekyll cancels when Mary brings it. Despite a sympathetic score accompanying the foggy kisses with Hyde, he verbally harasses Mary complete with a “Look what you made me do” non-apology. Roberts is miscast with a poor accent and period piece plain that doesn't suit her, yet the frustrating framework must remain in her point of view even as the Clark Kent/Superman lack of recognition becomes unbelievable. She lies to the police to protect Hyde, but Mary never learns or investigates, remaining a reactive character in overlong, uncomfortable relationships leading to knife play and an anti-climatic revelation with an almost comical transformation. Laboratory jars, creepy chains, and screams as Mary is nearly caught snooping aren't suspenseful because we're always aware the real story is elsewhere. This would have been better as an original gothic piece, but the crux as is isn't enjoyable for romance audiences or horror fans.

Dead Man's Gun Season Two

 

Dead Man's Gun Season 2 Falls Apart

by Kristin Battestella

The twenty-two episode 1998-99 Second Season of the Showtime western anthology Dead Man's Gun puts meek farmer Bruce Davison (X-Men) among the bank robbers and shootouts of “Ties That Bind” before chain gangs, deadly prison conditions, and pleas to the governor. Snake bites, bodily clues, rural chases, and set up escape attempts escalate to violence and corruption before revenge and one on one justice. Multiple people possess our titular evil gun, adding to its deadly mystique as some fall prey to its lure while others can resist its bad luck. A boy's school teacher with a fatal diagnosis can't handle his rowdy classroom in “Sheep's Clothing” until our gun in his hand improves his confidence, command, even his ailments. Perhaps more provocative now, this chilling parable on how a weapon creates obsession and threatens the lives in the classroom shows that a gun in the wrong hands is not empowerment to the innocents it harms. It's so easy to pull the trigger once you start, and this Third Episode should have been the season premiere. Irish Catholics and English Protestants likewise bend God's law as they see fit in “Sisters of Mercy.” Our nuns are both angry at blasphemy and the saloon being open on Sunday – not because it is the Lord's day, but it's when they planned to rob the bank next door. They bide their time helping the poor and broken women, pistol whipping the man who beats a working girl. The humor mixed with intrigue, however, is somewhat hollow despite the religious subject matter, and early in the season Dead Man's Gun has several decent, but not quite perfect episodes. Fortunately series producer Henry Winkler's titular “Hangman” calculates weight, scaffold height, and neck snap speed for a quick and easy death as decreed. It would have been intriguing if Dead Man's Gun had a regular character like this traveling in the gun's wake. Mercy is not his to give when an accused minister professes innocence, and the haunting voices and eerie mirrors standout as deeper introspection than “Sisters of Mercy” because the roulette is played serious sans humor. Our gun interferes in giving and taking life amid fear of the noose, perceived miracles, and those once hung who survived and get away with it. Statements about this gun not being for killing versus “all guns are meant for killing” are again provocative to hear now, and this episode would have made a fine series finale.

“The Judgment Of Joe Dean Bonner” premiere would seem to have it all, including a creepy storekeeper who also runs the hotel named “Final Hour” and becomes the judge presenting the eponymous victims and flashbacks. The judge isn't the devil, but says he knows him well. Despite chilling moments and more supernatural aspects than the rest of the season, this contrived trial plays at both justice for the deceased as well as sympathy for their killer. The man versus the devil comeuppance could have been stronger, and it all comes off too modern. Rather than focusing on the evil aspects, Dead Man's Gun often becomes less about the gun and is more often straight western stories. Vintage boxing photographs and bare knuckle fights in “Winner Takes All” lead to shady promoters, rival showman, and the gun as the prize. The period sports had potential, but the training montages and positive orphan inspirations are so wholesome they're on the wrong show. “The Trapper” tries to tackle respectful Native American revenge, but the stereotypical racist white men are cruel and unnecessary. The shape-shifting justice is great – Dead Man's Gun needed more supernatural horror not less – but the gun temptation was there for the taking and this story is all from the wrong perspective. The tribe or location is never stated, and too many episodes are just generic “The” entries playing it safe and the back end of the season suffers most. The murderous but unaware cobbler in “Sleepwalker” could have been fascinating as point of view horror for a psychosis brought out by the gun, however, the silly saucy, jealousy, and motives end up a total snooze. Rather than use the gun, a woman leaves aces calling cards after her elaborate kills in “Four of a Kind” amid precocious little girls, interchangeable thugs and lawman, meek storekeepers, and laughable derivatives. When you put explosives in somebody's walnuts, don't leave the bottle clearly labeled nitroglycerin out for all to see. The new unpopular female doctor in “The Oath” is also overwrought with modern statements complete with snake oil salesmen, Old West anti-vaxxers, and frustrating Dr. Quinn copycats again on the wrong show. An Italian immigrant heading West in “The Vine” also makes for stereotypical characterizations, cliché accents, and sentimental strings laid on thick as Dead Man's Gun inexplicably turns from sinister to sweet and tender. Hopes? Dreams? Religious chorales and miraculous plants? “Bad Boys” offers more nameless sheriffs and hollow standoffs before a trio of kids uses the gun to do good against nasty dads. I was ready to turn this off in first five minutes but ended up watching on 1.5 speed. Quicksand, haberdashers, and the eponymous study of “The Phrenologist” fall flat amid rival suitors, baddies looking for loot, and some kid who grows up to be Thomas Edison. The fancy fast talking performance is obnoxious and laughable for all the wrong reasons.

Season Two does best mid-season with the long haired and vain Michael York (Romeo and Juliet) as “The Collector.” His unique pieces include the gun and he's seeking a fellow professor of fine taste. The supposed civility and elitism add layers to the bumbling Old West archaeology rivalry as these so-called appreciators of Native American artifacts plunder nonetheless. They shoot buffalo because of their rarity and follow a treasure map to gold, scalps, bullets, and betrayals. Haughty British crook on the lamb Lysette Anthony (Dracula: Dead and Loving It) puts on the fake jolly good and hopes to make a crabby ex-Confederate general her next stool pigeon in “The Mimesers.” Again humor over suspense hurts the sinister household menace– the Southern generic crazy is over the top and the steamy attempts to get the loot would have been better with her alone instead of via a demented husband encouraging his wife. Fortunately, suspicious stock certificates, burying money in the backyard, and the key to the safe around his neck escalate to killer double crosses and for love or money twists. Seeing Michael Dorn (Star Trek) out of his Worf makeup in “The Pinkerton” is only the beginning of this noir styled Dashiell Hammett yarn. The racist, territorial sheriff resents this Pinkerton assigned to a local kidnapping case, but our man has succeeded in all his previous cases and admits a colored man has to be twice as good to get the job. Multifaceted performances and punchlines like “I'm a detective not a magician” accent the ransoms, suspect family, and procedural but in the Old West tone. He's warned to arm himself with our gun, but distrusts it's fine workmanship before ordering coffee at the saloon and talking down angry miners with high brow insults. Friendly barmaids versus femme fatales, motives, and clues are obvious to the wise viewer, but town lynch mobs, bullets, and deduction lead to respect. Our Pinkerton lost his family in a robbery shootout and killed the outlaws responsible, but it didn't bring his family back, and this remains one of Dead Man's Gun's best episodes. It almost feels like a backdoor pilot, and again, having a character like this recur could have given the series another season. In “Seven Deadly Sins,” Daniel Baldwin (Homicide: Life on the Street) is ready to take charge of his late father's bank but is forced to work under his brother. He happily screws customers on collateral, loans, and policy loopholes while drinking gambling, stealing, and blaming shortages on another clerk. He blackmails a farmer's wife for sex and uses our gun to achieve his corrupt goals, indulging in all the gluttonous vices before his fitting comeuppance.

Full moons and wolf howls lead to knives, splatter, and murdered prostitutes in “The Ripper,” which almost feels like a fun Halloween episode in what's supposed to be a horror series. Scotland Yard's Peter Firth (MI-5) is on the trail of Jack the Ripper – an American who has fled home and continued killing. Of course we immediately suspect a culprit, but the killing for satisfaction psychology makes for an entertaining what if before newspaper clippings, telegram evidence, working girl dalliances, and winking twists. A feisty writer coming West wants to write the life story of amoral gunslinger Billy Campbell (The 4400) for “The Regulator“ but his exploits aren't exactly legal and their tête-à-tête is tame today. It's disturbing, however, when he talks about the allure of our gun, what it takes to pull the trigger, and how to cull the herd. Any man will use a weapon if given the chance – it's a fairy tale to think otherwise – and it's eerie to see the tables turn on our likable scoundrel who says the terrible things we do now. Kate Jackson (Dark Shadows) directs the sermons, raunchy rides, and husbands chasing after wandering swindler Patrick Duffy (Dallas) in “The Womanizer.” He knows how to play the guitar as well as women, and the tone is sincere or humorous and cavalier depending on his honesty or triumph – save for an incriminating birthmark, that is. Again, the avenging church assassin in pursuit of his gun would have been a neat repeat character, and eventually the ultimate punishment catches our Lothario: marriage. Chez Emil Haute Cuisine also brings class to the West in “The Good Chef” even if the crowd can't pronounce the French names. The home cooking restaurant next door can't compete with the connoisseur who insists food is to dine not merely ingest, and any uncouth customers asking for ketchup, poor table manners, and quitting staff meet our gun. Although the tasty subject been done better on Tales from the Crypt and the temperamental chef feels too silly and modern, this is one of the better latter episodes culminating in the expected secret recipes. Sadly, the hasty series finale “A Just Reward” is a clip show cop out reusing weak moments from Season One and inexplicably the terrible “Bad Boys” from Year Two. This supposedly ominous Mr. Smith looks like a modern man in a black suit amid padding horseback chases, plodding camera panoramas, and mystical double talk suddenly concerned with the gun's effect on all who touch it when most of this lighthearted season the gun had no mind of its own. Mr. Smith says he's the gun's original owner before a laughable grim reaper transformation. It's camp and hokey like a bad Halloween costume, and the devilish judge from the faulty premiere would have been a better bookend to the series.

Thankfully, the outdoor photography is bright and barren or dusty and muddy as needed. Some interiors are slightly plain or dark, but the period clutter does a lot with little – oil lamps, nib pens, pocket watches, wallpaper, and wash basins. Vintage medical equipment or school house ephemera vary per episode as does the saloon piano and shadow schemes. Up close photography clearly cuts corners, but old fashioned gauze on the lens creates eerie overlays in camera as needed. Holsters, horses, and stagecoaches provide action while hats, spectacles, leather, and dusters provide a somewhat eighties meets 1880s style. Though fitting, the stock western facades on Dead Man's Gun all look the same. The town's not meant to be the same locale – it would be better if it were – but the set savings are clear despite careful shooting of specific buildings per episode. Slow motion shots feel dated and production quality varies from hour to hour. Bonnets, corsets and combinations look the part, but the women's dresses are costume modern and the ladies' hair is often terribly straggly – as if Old West look simply means unwashed. Elder actors make for better rustic than the out of place too nineties younger guests, but the repeating familiar faces become as noticeable as the bad generic, incorrect Southern accents. Unlike Year One with creators Howard and Ed Spielman writing, over half the episodes here have more than two credited writers, often as many as four. Combined with numerous directors, it's easy to see where Dead Man's Gun lost its cohesion, and the dragging forty-four minute episodes should have been a taut half hour instead. Dead Man's Gun DVDs are now also elusive and streaming options come and go, but the series works best as aired when you catch a one off weird western. Today this kind of show would be so violent it wouldn't be entertaining, yet dated filler episodes disappointingly stray from the paranormal gun aspects. Despite provocative stories, name stars, and intriguing characterizations, it's not surprising Dead Man's Gun was canceled once it forgoes its own chilling weapon and devilish premise, leaving the series as an awkward transition between the wholesome western television standard and today's serious bleak. Fortunately, skipping a clunker when marathoning Dead Man's Gun now solves any problems.

A Christmas Carol (2019)

 

Thought Provoking and Mature A Christmas Carol (2019)

by Kristin Battestella

To allow himself rest in the afterlife, the deceased Jacob Marley (Stephen Graham) aides The Ghosts of Christmas Past (Andy Serkis), Present (Charlotte Reily), and Future (Jason Flemyng) in orchestrated a change for good in his soulless, corrupt business partner Ebenezer Scrooge (Guy Pearce). Scrooge's bitter ways effect the health, happiness, and welfare of his clerk Bob Cratchit (Joe Alwyn) and his wife Mary (Vinette Robinson), but confronting Scrooge's horrible life may not be enough to redeem the miser...

The 2019 BBC miniseries A Christmas Carol produced by Ridley Scott (Prometheus) and Tom Hardy (Venom) is a darker imagining of the perennial Charles Dickens tale with episodic chapters originally called “The Human Beast,” “The Human Heart,” and “A Bag of Gravel” airing stateside on FX as one three hour event. Director Nick Murphy (The Last Kingdom) and writer Stephen Knight (Peaky Blinders) obviously have more time to fill than the more traditional, idyllic, paired down tellings. Rather than the same old saccharin “God bless us, everyone!” these days viewers expect television to bring on the relatable Victorian bitterness. We often glorify the past, but this A Christmas Carol doesn't underestimate an audience intimately familiar with weighing every action by gain mentalities and who you know and how much money you have getting you anywhere in life uphill struggles, abuses, and humiliation. Urination, grave desecration, bastards and F bombs immediately set this adult tone before ominous winds, crows, eerie graveyards, and a frosty ethereal London 1843. Church bells, purgatory supernatural, and almost Shakespearean asides accent the six feet under coins on the eyes and no rest in peace as hellish forges, chains, and swinging coffins invoke a much more grim penance. Phantom sleighs dragging the chained behind lead to echoes between the counting house and the spirit realm. Rattling in the fireplace and cutaways to the point of view from an empty chair realistically lay the forthcoming between worlds – embracing the Victorian off kilter faerie parallel rather than just a sudden, mere holiday intervention as is often portrayed. Time is taken in A Christmas Carol with hand washing a la Lady Macbeth and ghostly versus guilt ticking clocks. Hypocritical analysis digs deeper than humbug archetypes, and great horror imagery sets off the familiar but transposed text delivered deftly and naturally without any try hard ye oldeth. Villainous silhouettes grow darker when we get the famous workhouses, prisons, and let them die disturbing. Shadows and black horses take the place of the locomotive on the stairs as other animal kindnesses born out of cruelty and hopeful lantern flashes contrast the creaking gate and ghostly door knocker. While most adaptations have a quick start or only run eighty minutes themselves, here it takes an hour before we even get to the Scrooge and Marley encounter. This A Christmas Carol simmers and broods, for these apparitions have been a long time coming with thumps in the night, groaning houses, clicking locks, and guilty consequences. Chilling reasons for that scarf usually around Marley's jaw become macabre shocks as A Christmas Carol takes the hallmarks of a story that's tough to do wrong and runs with the one on one encounters, twofer deliveries, and fiery flashbacks. Faulty subcontracts and bribing officials led to bloody workhouse disasters, gas explosions, and coal mine collapses while Scrooge passed the blame and forged those symbolic chains.

The refreshing script simplifies the Dickensian wordiness yet we do get some of the sardonic undigested beef quips amid self-aware glances at the camera and eternity spent in a forest of abandoned Christmas trees and forgotten childhood memories. An act of kindness said to be given to someone in pain is rejected as the abused perpetuate abuse, dealing in greed and people as commodities. Those scarred mentally and physically by the cruel, cost cutting overseers rightfully call upon revenge like a reverse It's A Wonderful Life orchestrating this spiritual comeuppance. Snowfall and ash in the air mix as other realms and childhood fears merge with violent canes, creepy singsongs, and pets caught in the chilling crossfire in a house that can't afford another mouth to feed. Hiding behind the bed curtains is used to frightful effect as A Christmas Carol shows what the book implies yet leaves nasty suggestions to the shadows. Hope, however, can be found small as a mouse, big as a camel, or even in fanciful book illustrations come to life to save a boy's mind from his torturous reality. Unfortunately, people are only worried about themselves. Gifts are just unwritten debts and unprofitable affections. These spirits force us to relive the darkest moments of the picture we paint so we may unlearn the ills that have shaped who we are. Here A Christmas Carol feels timely and modern, layering the past with disturbing familiar faces and real world terrors that harden a boy's heart and break our Christmas spirit. Magical deflections, pleas to go home, and facing the horrors combine for superb duality and visualizations as children may or may not see spirits and two of the same character appear in the same place at once. Loom factories become massive calculators in an industrial fantasy hitting home the cold hard numbers. Tragedy for many is opportunity for the few, and that's just good business to see pounds instead of people and exploit their weaknesses accordingly. Shameful humiliations done on Christmas Day are born not out of desire, but agonizing experiments testing the solemn limits of what good people will do for money. Viewers contemplate how far A Christmas Carol will go in examining the the value of human virtue, and Merry Christmas greetings are said for all the wrong reasons – justifying the prayers, warnings, and curses that one day the truth will look us in the mirror. Mining survivors unite in memorial choirs, and the poor make up the difference with happiness and love instead of itemizing priceless intangibles. Halos at the altar suggest salvation, but admitting regret or that love came too late to stop hatred isn't enough against chilling figures in the dark, haunting drownings, cracking ice, and death shrouds. Tolling bells and heartbeats announce the fatal consequences as we accept our deserved fate. For all the spirited meddling, it is up to us to change and act for the benefit of others without expectation of reward as A Christmas Carol concludes in full Dickensian compassion.

The First Chapter of A Christmas Carol is excellent as is the second. However, when expanding such a short novella, the balance is bound to be uneven. Here Christmas Past is featured for almost an hour and a half – leaving twenty minutes for The Ghost of Christmas Present and only ten minutes for The Future. After such depth with The Past, viewers wonder why Andy Serkis just didn't play one composite spirit? Upon moving on from him with only forty-five minutes left, suddenly this A Christmas Carol is rushed, running out of time, and on the same pace as any other adaptation. Onscreen Christmas Eve 1843 openings don't match Marley's 1842 grave marker and the supposed seven years since his passing, but nor do the 1851 death dates. The melancholy focus will tire some audiences, yet the quick finale feels like this should have been longer – a four hour, two night event. All that Past just opened Scrooge up so The Present can show warmth by making him wear a scarf and tinge his heart in a third of the time? The often excised Ali Babi brings a dash of childhood wonder into such grim, but making The Ghost of Christmas Present a woman to soften up Scrooge negates the progressive gender change and defeats the purpose of ditching young Scrooge's for love or money choice. While losing the seemingly essential festive Fezziwig works wonders, the exclusion of eavesdropping on Nephew Fred's is a missed opportunity when you've made his mother The Ghost of Christmas Present. The Past repeatedly tells Scrooge this is not a game – long after Scrooge stops making passive aggressive asides – but Fred's mocking his uncle and Scrooge's family resentment would have fit in well with this bitter A Christmas Carol. Viewers begin to notice famous wording and elements missing. Did we skip an episode? Did the editor loose a reel? My favorite moment with Ignorance and Want is also excised when the decrepit child motifs would have fit these acerbic themes, and the casting lots on the bed clothes bargaining is another profiting on death horror that is surprisingly absent as if the writers simply didn't finish adapting the fourth stave of the book or the production plum ran out of time and money. At times A Christmas Carol doesn't seem to trust what it has in these exceptional performances and the timeless source material, adding in extra dialogue when looking at the camera directly implies the fourth wall is already broken and the spiritual work is coming for us next. Some truly good or innocent and in tune characters are said to see the usually invisible Scrooge and company – a haunting provocation wonderfully bringing this seeming radical A Christmas Carol right back to Dickens, for “I am standing in the spirit at your elbow.”

Occasionally Guy Pearce (Brimstone) looks top hat debonair as Ebenezer Scrooge, but the greased hair, liver spots, curled lip, and scratchy voice are look foul decrepit to match the black ink said to run through his veins. According to Scrooge, gifts are falsely sought and dressed in ribbons to create artificial happiness and fake grins. No one really means their tidings of joy, and the December 25 dates, wise men, and snow in Palestine “facts” are just more perpetuated lies revealing who we presume to be and who we really are on Christmas or any other day. If such yule transformations were true, then why aren't we such lambs every day with one day of misery to say what we really mean? Scrooge remains isolated in his office, looking out his window on the noisy world as time is taken for his extrapolated soliloquies on pretense and humbug. However, even the camera pulls back when he approaches, recoiling at his despicable holiday honesty. Scrooge is obsessed with counting, an OCD itemizing when he's frustrated by poor fools and pesky specters. After talking to himself and almost missing Marley, Scrooge is angry at the deceased's appearance, defiant, and regrets nothing. Although put in his place early with scary past confrontations, he uses his history to justify why he is this way but not that he needs to change. Shrewd Scrooge buys liquidating business under price before selling them at true value and smiles at the wheeling and dealing done in his prime. He even tells The Ghost of Christmas Past to write off a new coat as a business expense if subjects keep clawing and crying on his robe. Repeatedly rationalizing every profit over human cost and exploiting all opportunities despite any anguish, Scrooge revels in dangling the keys to his safe before the desperate. Once defensive and refusing to look, he grows ashamed of his actively cruel behavior in an excellent dual performance contrasting past and present Scrooge side by side. Scrooge practices positive greetings in the mirror but looks more creepy doing so. He doesn't know how to change even if he admits he may do things differently if given the chance, for it was his own innocence sold that spurred this solidarity with money. Scrooge regrets and apologizes, trying to break the spirit rules and interfere yet he refuses redemption. He accepts he was wrong and deserves to not be forgiven as softer hair and nicer skin suggest his revitalization. Scrooge runs through the street like George Bailey, closing his business and giving away money. Payoffs won't make everything right but he has to start being a better person somewhere. Don't we all? Although I wish we heard some of the traditional wording from him – and I want to make his long dress coat – once again I ask where the awards are for Guy Pearce. Sometimes, he also looks like Sean Bean here. I hadn't noticed this before and now I demand they play brothers in future yearly gothic holiday adaptations. Van Helsing, Jekyll and Hyde, yes please. Pleasepleaseplease please!

Instead of just saying he sat beside Scrooge and tried to reach him, Stephen Graham's (This is England) restless Jacob Marley has much more to do. Marley anchors the transitions between counting house and underworld as the realms bleed through like a double negative. He wants his own absolution and needs Scrooge to get him such Clarence-esque wings, deepening the potential penance via his own encounters with the Ghost of Christmas Past. Anguished Marley thinks he'll be stuck in purgatory forever if his redemption hinges on Scrooge. He believes their reality was a choice, also appearing after the spirits to admit how wrong they were in life, and it's fascinating to see his realization as the culmination rather than the impetus of A Christmas Carol. Andy Serkis (Lord of the Rings) looks like an undead, ancient Santa as the Ghost of Christmas Past – a cranky minder of souls perpetually burning forgotten holiday hopes. The character also appears as the evil Scrooge Senior in pure horror torment as well as the literary friend Ali Baba in bittersweet moments. His eerie hood is not the sentimental sprite we expect, and the dried wreath on his head carries a crown of thorns, Christ-like innocence lost. Instead of the distinguishing cap, a zoetrope hat casts past shadows on the wall in an excellent visualization of the then-new to see the old. Weary over Scrooge's excuses, The Past sends progressive Ghost of Christmas Present Charlotte Riley (The Take) in the guise of sister Lottie Scrooge in a lovely change again deserving of much more than repetitive family exposition and narrating already seen actions from characters that could have said everything themselves. Logical Lottie understands Scrooge's past pain, combining the scientific and sensitive to confront Scrooge before the mouth sewn shut, grave digger-esque Jason Flemyng (X-Men: First Class) as The Ghost of Christmas Future enters tolling a broken bell. He's said to be the most terrifying of the spirits and the one who ultimately decides Scrooge's fate, but unfortunately, he doesn't really appear to do anything but provide the disturbing Tiny Tim fate. The Past had equally frightening moments, and The Future merely disappears as Scrooge ultimately amends on his own.

Joe Alwyn (also in Mary Queen of Scots with Pearce) doesn't really stand out for me among the numerous lookalike blonde boy band type actors abound these days. His Bob Cratchit seems somewhat young, weak, and ineffectual, but that is fitting for an overworked father trying to keep his meager family together. Scrooge thinks four lumps of coal is more than reasonable despite his clerk's frozen ink and continues to rag on him for a word misspelled once five years ago. Exasperated Bob insists he doesn't get angry and do his work perfectly to spite Scrooge. He doesn't hate his employer and remains kinds to Scrooge, asking if he is himself when they have such surprisingly frank conversations on this peculiar Christmas Eve. Bob has to toe the line between passive aggressive asides and really talking back or standing up to his boss. He tells Scrooge he knows indeed how precarious his situation is, making us wonder why “situation” as synonymous for “job” fell out of terminology when the family to feed or ill health reasons why one toils should be paramount. Vinette Robinson's (Sherlock) Mary Cratchit is frazzled and snippy, making excuses to her husband and sketching stories for Tiny Tim because they have no money for books. Only having two little Cratchits and a relative aptly named Martha tightens the familial focus, and Mary resorts to terrible secrets and forgoes her pride in a desperate need to save her son. She prays to be forgiven for what she has to do and asks Jesus to turn his head over such blackmail and lies. The holiday means Mary has to revisit one terrible Christmas every year, repeatedly going outdoors rather than face the congested weight and manifested guilt as the spiritual influences come full circle. Rather than then the usual poor but happy brevity, A Christmas Carol develops The Cratchits as conflicted people, embodying how the one who has to power to alleviate their suffering can cause more oppression without having to lay a creepy hand on anyone.

The titular icicle script ekes out the ghostly etching with a cold nib to match the frosted windows and meager candle flame frigid. Snow abounds alongside carriages, street lamps, sleighs, ice skating, and crowded streets. However, there are precious little signs of Christmas in A Christmas Carol. No holly, few wreaths or plain garlands, no old fashioned merry, and the only jolly comes in brief carol notes and fiddle melodies cut short. While the night time blue tint is easier to see, the over saturation may be intentionally noticeable and otherworldly. There are also some unnecessary swooping pans over the cobblestone streets but fortunately these are only used early on to set the Londontown bustle versus the paranormal underbelly. Stage-like blocking, lighting schemes, and careful attention to detail visualize characterizations with gleams of light shining through the windows as natural, hopeful rays or framing dark silhouettes as needed. The counting house office is divided between a brighter front and a darker back office with a wall of ledgers between rooms that the clerk must repeatedly go around to talk to Scrooge. Intercut foreshadowing between worlds leaves onscreen space for characters on another plane, subtly establishing Scrooge and Marley's partnership even if the men are technically not together in the same scene. Echoing footsteps, bells, chimes, and creaking invoke period as well as horror amid hellish red fireplaces and disturbing imagery. Pox marks and sullen pallors match the tattered gloves and shabby bonnets on the poor while slightly more refined styles set the wealthy apart with top hats, ascots, waistcoats, pocket watches, and frock coats. A Christmas Carol looks the early Victorian part without relying on the expected women's silhouette thanks to fantastical cloaks, steampunk touches, and choice special effects. Dark upon dark schemes set off the horror visuals and cave ins as the fog and frigid grow inside as well as out in the largely empty interiors. Groaning walls and a growing bed are ominous without being overbearing. The optical tricks are simple with slow zooms or camera cuts to where a spirit might be, leaving the chill up the spine carried by one's looking over his shoulder and frightful reaction shots – as the scares should be.

Certainly there are more genteel family friendly adaptations of A Christmas Carol, and this decidedly darker spin won't be for those seeking any lighthearted Dickensian comforts. It also takes planning to settle in for the whole three hour block stateside. Although the chapter title cards are retained and once we're on this retrospective journey it's tough to stop, having had the original UK episodic format would solve the dreary, dragging complaints. I watched this multiple times to pause and take notes, and there are more insights the more you watch. Despite an uneven weakness rushed in the latter half, the redemption arc fits this darker tone. Here there's no overnight exuberance, and it makes the viewer consider how fast and superficial other interpretations now seem when the longer television format allows for such grim, thought provoking extrapolation. It leaves one wanting more of this A Christmas Carol, and it's unabashed look in the mirror is watchable beyond the holiday season – paralleling the words herein to be the best person we can be daily rather than just faking it at Christmas.